There was blood on the ice. Rick Jordan jolted to a stop, gaze riveted on the crimson spots blemishing the frosty ground, fingers tightening on the disposable cup of coffee he’d just nuked. Could his eyes be playing tricks on him in the waning light of the December afternoon? He leaned closer. No. His 20/20 vision hadn’t failed him. It was blood. After all the gore he’d seen, it wasn’t difficult to make a positive ID. But with all the wildlife on the wooded acreage he called home, could it be from an animal? As he peered at the ruby-­colored stains, the hair on the back of his neck snapped to attention–and since metabolic cues had saved his hide on more Night Stalker missions than he cared to remember, ignoring them would be foolish. The blood was human. Giving the landscape a thorough, methodical sweep, he set down the cup of java he’d picked up at the café during his supply run to town, balancing it on the uneven ground. No movement other than the huge flakes that had begun to sift down from the leaden sky. Apparently the blizzard warning issued this morning had been spot-­on. Missouri would have…