Freezing Point

From behind, a hand clamped her shoulder.

Her heart ricocheted. Casey jerked around to see a man with piercing blue eyes staring back. Though the look on his face was anything but friendly, relief swept through her. This man didn’t have the look of a crazed killer. She should know. For a fleeting moment, she had feared Will Tannin had caught up with her. Her breathing slowed, if only a little.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Taken aback at his guarded tone, Casey struggled for words, something that didn’t happen often to her as a journalist.

“You shouldn’t be here. Let’s go.” He glanced over her shoulder at something behind her, a sense of urgency in his eyes, and grabbed her arm. “The loading dock is off-limits. It isn’t safe. You could get hurt.”

Casey sensed that this story had just got a lot more interesting.

Dear Reader,

Often we find ourselves in a difficult situation and we wonder why. Many times, the answer to that is a simple one—our own choices have taken us on the course to unhappy circumstances. That’s exactly what happened to both Casey Wilkes and Jesse Mitchell in Freezing Point. Although their choices and the resulting circumstances are different, their paths cross, and they are each given an opportunity to do something different this time, to make better choices.

Casey realizes that digging too deep for a story sent her into hiding. Jesse knows he can’t stand by again and watch others be hurt because he’s working undercover. We can’t change the past, but we can always make different choices for the future.

Thank goodness our God is a God of second chances, or we’d all be in trouble. I love writing stories about characters who learn from their mistakes and grow. After all, if we’re not learning and growing, then we’re not living. I pray that you look to God to direct your path in all your ways.

I enjoy hearing from my readers. You can contact me through my website at www.ElizabethGoddard.com and sign up for my newsletter to receive updates.

Elizabeth Goddard

About the Author

ELIZABETH GODDARD is a seventh-generation Texan who grew up in a small oil town in East Texas, surrounded by Christian family and friends. Becoming a writer of Christian fiction was a natural outcome of her love of reading, fueled by a strong faith.

Elizabeth attended the University of North Texas where she received her degree in computer science. She spent the next seven years working in high-level sales for a software company located in Dallas, and traveling throughout the United States and Canada as part of the job. At twenty-five, she finally met the man of her dreams and married him a few short weeks later. When she had her first child, she moved back to East Texas with her husband and daughter and worked for a pharmaceutical company. But then, more children came along and it was time to focus on family. Elizabeth loves that she gets to do her favorite things every day—read, write novels, stay at home with her four precious children, and work with her adoring husband in ministry.

Freezing Point

Elizabeth Goddard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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As always, my stories are dedicated to my loving husband and my four beautiful children.

I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and

my fortress; My God, in Him will I trust.

—Psalms 91:2

Acknowledgments

I couldn’t have written this without help from

Mindi Smith, a twenty-year veteran with the FBI.

Thanks, Mindi, for your invaluable assistance

and sticking with me on this project.

Thanks to Ken Ackerman of Dryiceinfo.com

for explaining how to make dry ice work

for my story, and to Dale Pierce of Creative Ice

for answering questions about ice sculpting.

To my critique partners (you know who you are),

and to Ellen Tarver, thank you for making my

stories shine. A special thank you to my agent,

Steve Laube, for believing in me, and to my editor,

Emily Rodmell, for believing in this story!

ONE

Beautiful … but dangerous.

Jesse finished shoving the last block of dry ice into the back of the specially designed truck—well insulated, yet ventilated to allow for sublimation—the melting that would give off deadly CO2 gas.

The solid form of carbon dioxide would be used to create the snow effect around the ice sculptures along with fog—a mysterious yet stunning display.

He tugged off the gloves used to protect his hands from ice burns or, worse, frostbite. Because his father was a chef and master ice sculptor, Jesse had learned a few techniques of his own, even entering competitions during his college days.

That’s what made him the perfect candidate for this covert operation, and the only reason Robert McCoffey, his superior, had pulled Jesse from the desk job and visits to the psychiatrist and put him back into the action. Working as an undercover agent for Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Jesse had nearly blown his last assignment and thought he’d never get the chance to restore his reputation and career.

But ICE’s bulk cash and smuggling division decided Helms Ice and Trucking Company was hot—laundering money for the Mexican cartel—and they wanted someone on the inside. Since the trucking company also had a catering side business specializing in ice sculptures, Jesse was it.

He shoved his hand through his hair. God had some sense of humor.

Miguel grinned as he assisted Jesse in closing off the back of the truck. He signaled to the driver that the truck was ready to go, and it lumbered away from the loading dock.

“You okay today?” Miguel asked.

“Everything’s great,” Jesse lied. With his superiors breathing down his neck, he had to come up with something and soon. He’d already been working undercover too long for his own good.

“You’d better get back to your hole. You got another gig in a few days.” Miguel strode over to a counter and grabbed a pack of cigarettes.

Though Miguel referred to the ice-sculpture competition that Jesse needed to prepare for, Jesse was concerned about a far different gig, and that’s what had him on edge today. He was desperate to get in on what he believed would be the next transport of bulk cash. As the truck departed, Jesse fought the tensing in his gut. Could this truck be driving off with millions in cash tucked away behind or in the ice, and Jesse had somehow missed it?

Carlos returned from his break. “We expecting another truck in a few?”

“You’re not going anywhere. Jesse’s got his own work. You’re lucky he was here to cover for you,” Miguel said.

Carlos gave a halfhearted snarl. Jesse didn’t like the guy. After years spent working undercover assignments, Jesse had learned there were some people you met while undercover that you grew to care about and others you grew to hate. Carlos was someone to hate. He had no doubt that Carlos was capable of much worse than smuggling cash. He might have committed the murder on the loading dock that occurred several months ago, bringing the police down on this place and the cash smuggling operations to a complete halt for a few weeks.

Jesse had to remain and bide his time until things began moving again. Though he had proof of several small transactions, those crimes had already occurred. His goal was to gather intelligence, figure out all the players and be witness to the movement of a large amount of cash—catching them in the act. This would bring stiffer penalties under federal law.

When Carlos’s eyes slid toward him, Jesse turned his back on the man. “Later,” he said, and headed for the exit.

He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. Guys like Carlos were the reason Jesse had grown to loathe working undercover. Memories from his last assignment flooded his mind—a man struggling with the thugs of a drug ring Jesse had infiltrated. He’d lived with the nightmare day and night. Jesse could have stepped into the fray, but that would have been kicking his cover in the teeth. He’d almost cracked under the moral dilemma. If only Jesse had gone a little out of his way, he could have prevented the man from strolling around the corner at that precise moment—the exact wrong moment. He would never allow that to happen again.

He promised himself then that once he got out, he’d never go back. In the end, he’d almost blown the mission and been reprimanded before being returned to a desk job. After months living life undercover as a drug runner, learning to walk and talk like them, to avoid the cops, he’d struggled to fit in with his fellow agents again.

What had the psychiatrist told him? “You’re suffering from anxiety and extreme suspiciousness.” That he was near the breaking point.

A shiver swept over him when he passed the room-size freezer that took up a quarter of the loading dock. At the moment, he felt like he was near the freezing point—if he worked like this for much longer, his heart would turn stone-cold.

Right now, he knew one thing—if he wanted to transfer programs within the agency, he’d have to earn back the respect of his supervisors and the confidence of his fellow agents.

In order to do that he’d have to see this case through and make the bust of these so-called untouchables.

Nothing or no one would stand in his way this time. Nor would he allow anyone to stumble upon Carlos and Miguel on the loading dock. Not again. Not on his watch.

Casey Wilkes stood outside a door with a nameplate indicating it was the ice-sculpting studio, which she presumed was where she could find the ice sculptor. After knocking and receiving no response, she jiggled the doorknob.

Locked.

She forced her shoulders back, unwilling to give in to defeat. The receptionist probably lied to get rid of Casey, telling her the ice sculptor was here. The cute little brunette had been instructed not to allow visitors beyond the foyer, but Casey had pulled a trump card—she was the owner’s niece, and needed an interview.

Casey didn’t mention that until this week, she’d lived in a little town near Portland, Oregon—a far cry from Orange Crossings near San Diego—and had never been to the ice company before. Nor did she mention that John Helms had married her aunt three years ago, and Casey didn’t know him that well.

She had no idea if Uncle John would allow her to get an interview, but since he and Aunt Leann were out of the country, traveling in Europe somewhere, and everyone else was leaving for the day or had already gone, there wasn’t anyone around to question.

The receptionist didn’t want to get fired for denying the owner’s niece entry.

Casey looked down the hallway where she’d just walked. Helms Ice and Trucking Company conducted business from a large multifaceted warehouse, part of which had been converted into an office complex. Maybe the guy was around here somewhere.

Get the interview with the sculptor and you have a job.

The newspaper editor’s words emboldened her, propelling her through a door and down another hallway where a few people remained working in their offices. A couple of women chatted and laughed when they passed her in the corridor—probably heading home for the day since they both held their purses—only giving her a cursory glance.

“Excuse me,” Casey said.

The ladies paused and glanced back, as though uncertain Casey was talking to them.

“I’m looking for Jesse Dufour, the ice sculptor. He’s not in his studio. Any ideas where I can find him?”

“Can’t help you. Although …” The tall slender woman paused and stared at the ceiling for a moment as though gathering her thoughts. “His sculptures have to be delivered at some point, so try the loading dock.”

“Thanks.” Casey turned and walked in the opposite direction before it occurred to her she wasn’t sure where to find the loading dock.

An unmarked exit and dark corridor later, she heard a voice behind a door and decided to ask for help. This was getting ridiculous.

After a quick, light knock, she opened the door to a small dimly lit room cluttered with papers strewn on empty desks and rank with the smell of cigarette smoke. A man stood in a shadowed corner, talking on his cell.

Finally. Relieved, she waited for him to notice her. As soon as he did, he stopped talking and skewered her with his gaze.

She shivered and sensed the sudden chill had nothing to do with the cold room.

Casey offered an apologetic look for interrupting his private communication and began backing from the room. Wait. He could answer a simple question.

“I’m sorry to bother you. Can you point me to the loading dock?”

The man scowled and pointed at the door. Casey frowned. Maybe she should have asked a different question.

As she made her way down a long corridor devoid of life and through another doorway, she prayed she would run into friendlier natives who could help her find the loading dock, or at least tell her where to find the ice sculptor.

In the shadows between boxes stacked to the ceiling, the only light streamed from a small window in a thick door of—if she had to guess, she’d say a giant freezer. She dropped her bag onto a box to give her shoulder a brief reprieve and examined the digital thermometer next to the door. Fifteen degrees. Definitely, it was some sort of cold storage room. She trembled.

This place was a veritable maze, and though as a seasoned reporter she hated to admit it, now she was lost.

From behind, a hand clamped her shoulder.

Her heart ricocheted. She jerked around to find a man with piercing blue eyes staring back. Though the look on his face was anything but friendly, relief swept through her.

For a fleeting moment, she feared Will Tannin had caught up with her. In almost the same manner, Tannin had grabbed her from behind and detailed how he planned to torture then kill her. Her throat constricted at the memory.

She’d fled Oregon that night a week ago.

But this man didn’t have the look of a crazed killer. She should know. Her breathing slowed, if only a little.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Taken aback at his guarded tone, Casey struggled for words. “I’m sorry, I—”

“You shouldn’t be here. Let’s go.” He glanced over her shoulder at something behind her, a sense of urgency in his eyes, and grabbed her arm. “The loading dock is off-limits to visitors. It isn’t safe. You could get hurt.”

Ah, so she’d at least found the loading dock. A small comfort.

Maintaining his hold on her, he tried to lead her away.

Casey stood her ground, attempting to tug her arm free. “Hey, you don’t have to drag me.”

“You’ll follow me out?” He took his time slipping his hand away, looking into her eyes for assurance that she would obey.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?” This was weird. Could Tannin have sent him? Dread stalked through her.

No. This insane fear of Tannin had to stop right now.

Again, he glanced behind her, deep lines of concern creasing his brow. She followed the guy into the corridor and then into an empty office. She figured he was escorting her somewhere “safe” to talk.

Once inside, she turned around to face him. He was closing the door. “Wait a minute. What are you doing?”

He ran a hand down his face. “The question is who are you and what were you doing trespassing?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he had her there. “My name is Casey Wilkes. I’m a reporter here to do a story on the ice sculptor. That’s all.” She cringed inside. Since she was trying to fall off the grid, she’d have to remember to use her recently assumed pen name, Carson Williams.

While he appeared to contemplate her words, she studied him. If they’d met on different terms, she might have found him attractive. Scratch that. Regardless of the terms, he was good-looking. Thick dark hair, troubled but intense blue eyes and a strong clean-shaven jaw. She’d experienced firsthand that he was strong and muscular. Heat crawled up her neck.

Casey blew out a breath.

For a moment, she thought his expression might have softened but it hardened again. “A reporter, huh? That still gives you no right—”

“I’m sorry. I got lost and ended up on the loading dock. Why don’t you just ask me to leave?”

“All right. Would you please leave?”

Something about his actions weren’t tracking, but Casey didn’t want to leave. Not really. She’d come here for a reason. She stomped to the door and placed her hand on the knob.

He put his hand over hers, sending a warm shudder through her. She yanked it back.

“Not so fast,” he said.

“You can’t keep me here.” Her defiant words mocked her. He could, actually, and that scared her.

This time his gaze softened. “Look, if you want an interview with the ice sculptor, all you have to do is ask.”

Casey felt like an idiot. He was right, and she wanted to explain, to start over. “The receptionist sent me back to look for him. But he wasn’t in the studio, so …”

His mouth quirked in a grin and he crossed his arms, leaning against the door. She’d bet that was on purpose. “So, you thought you’d explore. What could it hurt, right? You might uncover the scoop of the century.”

She hadn’t gotten where she was today … Queasiness swirled inside. Where exactly was she today in her rising career as an investigative reporter?

Running for her life.

Still, his playful tone managed to bring a smile to the corner of her mouth. “Something like that.” She wanted to kick herself. Oh, I am not responding to his flirting! Nix this.

He thrust his hand out. “I’m Jesse Dufour, the ice sculptor.”

Casey stared for a full fifteen seconds, she was sure. “You’re the sculptor?”

“That’s right.”

Her hands flew to her hair, and she ran her fingers through, making sure it was in place. She hated herself for primping in front of him.

He smiled, revealing not one, but two dimples in each cheek. She needed a diversion and started to reach for her bag. “My purse. I must have left it …”

He frowned a little too much for Casey’s comfort. What was going on here?

“Promise me you’ll stay here, and I’ll give you that interview. I’m going to retrieve your bag.”

She opened her mouth to ask him what was so dangerous about the loading dock. Why did she get the feeling he was sneaking around? Then she thought better of it, offering him a soft smile. “I promise.”

That seemed to reassure him because he sent her a quick nod and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Mr. Jesse Dufour had just tangled with the wrong woman. The wrong reporter. Except, she couldn’t go there. Not now. Not after everything that had happened after writing that exposé about Will. At least not until the trouble she’d stirred up had died down.

She’d come here today to meet the company’s ice sculptor, arrange an interview, a simple story to fill newspaper space. Still, in her experience, simple stories weren’t always that easy and this one had already grown complicated. She’d proven herself good enough at stirring up trouble. Maybe she could be equally as good at staying out of it. One simple story and she’d have this job.

An interview with the ice sculptor and coverage of the upcoming competition. That’s all.

To that end, she’d have to ignore all the signals that there was something a little threatening going on here. Forget the look that could kill from the man on his cell. Forget that Jesse Dufour’s strange demeanor and worried frown only intensified the sense of suspicion in her gut. This could mean a much deeper story. Adrenaline coursed through her. This could be her chance to get her life back—under a different name.

Or, she could lose her life completely. Hadn’t she just driven over a thousand miles to escape a man who wanted her dead? Digging into his life for a story had been a mistake. But how could she have known?

Casey sighed and tugged the chair from the desk, plopping down.

It would be hard, but this time—if there was a story—Casey would let the truth lie buried. She had enough trouble already.

TWO

Jesse exited the room and stepped into the corridor, easing the door shut behind him. He prayed she would stay put but wasn’t sure God would listen to the likes of him.

Hopefully, the woman hadn’t just blown six months of work.

Because he’d had to stand idly by and watch people abused too many times at the hands of those he investigated, he reassured himself that he was justified in removing her, albeit a little brusquely. It could end up saving her life. But he’d created a new problem, because now he’d assured her an interview. What might she uncover about him? His real name, Jesse Mitchell?

He sighed and shoved open the door to the loading dock to retrieve her bag, hoping he’d find it before anyone else.

Carlos stood with Miguel, holding up a woman’s shiny black bag—big enough that it could have been a briefcase—and scowling. Jesse meandered toward them, forcing a lazy grin as he formulated a cover story plus a back-up plan in case they didn’t buy it.

Carlos dropped the bag to his side a little behind him and postured to block Jesse. “You know something about this?”

Jesse smiled and reached around Carlos for the bag, never taking his gaze from the man’s eyes. “Sure, a woman got lost. I escorted her out. What? You’ve been looking for a bag just like this one? You want to keep it?”

Carlos and Miguel eyed each other then burst out laughing.

Miguel slapped Jesse on the back and squeezed his neck. Jesse couldn’t afford to show his relief. He needed to keep his cool like he hadn’t been concerned to begin with. Unlike how he’d handled the reporter.

“That’s why I like you, Jesse. You make me laugh.”

Over the past few months, Jesse and Miguel had become friends. Miguel called them brothers. Just another reason for Jesse’s gut to sour every day. Growing close to people, becoming like family, then turning traitor on them was a tough gig.

Jesse held up the bag and laughed, too. “You want to look inside?” He feared they might already have done that, but then again, if she’d carried some sort of recording device or anything reporter-looking, they’d be having a different conversation right now.

“Nah. What do you think, I’m a criminal?” With that Miguel laughed again, mischief in his eyes. “Hey, Elena wants you over for dinner again. You like her cooking, sí?”

Jesse scratched his chin as though he’d have to contemplate his answer. Miguel narrowed his eyes. Jesse allowed a broad smile. “You know I do.”

“We’ll set it up. Oh, and little Rosita has a crush on you, so be nice when you see her.”

A truck backed up to the enclosure, drawing Miguel and Carlos’s attention away.