Full Tilt

by Rick Mofina

  I knew he’d try something.

  In his gut, Erich had feared Zurrn would come for Kate.

  Her increasingly high profile, her public anger toward Zurrn, had concerned Erich. He’d secretly cloned Kate’s phone and replaced it unnoticed when she’d dropped her bag in the restaurant after her Today show appearance. He’d installed in Kate’s phone new ultrasecret “infect” software developed for the NSA and CIA. The software instantly infiltrated and tracked any phone that attempted to hack or destroy a protected phone, in this case: Kate’s. The software first defeated, without detection, any security installed on the intruder’s phone, then infected it with a stealth tracking program. The instant Zurrn killed Kate’s phone, he’d triggered Erich’s trip wire alarm, allowing him to instantly pinpoint Zurrn’s phone and track his location without his knowledge.

  “Gotcha!” Erich said aloud to his computers.

  With a few key strokes he was looking at a geo-map showing the location, direction and speed of Zurrn’s vehicle.

  Erich called 911.

  * * *

  The emergency operator passed Erich’s call to the NYPD’s Real Time Crime Center at One Police Plaza in Lower Manhattan.

  Immediately, crime analysts at the center, working at rows of computers before a large two-story array of flat video panels known as the data wall, used every high-tech resource they had. They tapped into large displays of detailed city maps and live feeds of surveillance cameras throughout the city.

  Within ninety seconds of Erich’s call they’d located Zurrn’s car.

  “He’s leaving 125th and is starting southbound on FDR Drive,” one analyst told the responding team.

  “Keep this off the air!” Lieutenant Walt Mercer, the center’s duty commander, had taken charge of the unfolding situation. “Get all available unmarked units into position. No lights, no sirens!”

  The analysts used one of the center’s geocode maps to locate on-duty unmarked units in precincts along FDR south, the 25th, the 23rd, the 19th and 17th.

  Dispatchers made urgent cell-phone calls and sent encrypted messages to detectives and officers whose units were closest. Several unmarked cruisers began roaring toward the expressway.

  * * *

  In the Upper East Side, Detective Vinnie Cerito, of the 19th Precinct, had completed a burglary beef at a clothing store near E 63rd Street and 1st Avenue.

  He was working alone. Ruiz, his temporary partner, had booked off with a toothache. Cerito didn’t care. It was better when he was alone because he was on edge. It’d been a month since he’d returned to duty from stress leave.

  Maybe it’s too early after what happened to Quinn. But I couldn’t take another minute sitting at home watching TV, picking at the scab of my life.

  Cerito had believed that being an NYPD detective was the best a cop could ask for. He and Quinn had lived the job, they’d put in the time. They’d climbed a million stairs, knocked on a million doors, dealt with every terrified, arrogant, snotty, idiotic citizen and criminal that dwelled here, only to see the courts let evildoers go; only to see that no one cared and good cops ended up like Quinn: shot in the head.

  It was a night like this five months ago. They pull over an SUV wanted in a domestic and—bam—the driver shoots Quinn in the head. He dies on the street in Cerito’s arms. The suspect gets away, leaving Cerito to question everything.

  To hell with it. Cerito had to keep going, had to push it aside tonight.

  Now, he considered picking up some Chinese takeout when he got a message on his phone.

  A dangerous homicide suspect abducted a woman after posing as a detective, is driving a black 2012 Chevy Impala, southbound on FDR. Take a position on the eastbound on-ramp to the 59th Street Bridge and await further instructions. No siren, no lights.

  Cerito wheeled his Ford to the bridge, three blocks away, his stomach churning as he bit back on his rising anger. This call tore at his wound.

  Whoever this A-hole is, he better pray he doesn’t come my way.

  * * *

  Kate lay on the backseat, every muscle vibrating.

  The initial pain of her body stiffening was wearing off, but she was still quivering.

  Watching lights streak by, she struggled to grasp what had transpired…Detective Morello had come to drive her to the hospital…no, not Morello…not a detective… Zurrn!

  Fear billowed in her.

  He’d shocked her with a stun gun…she remembered…she was in Zurrn’s car now, sensing they were still in the city speeding along an expressway, but she didn’t know where.

  Oh, God, think. Think!

  She considered sitting up and looking but rejected the idea.

  Better to remain quiet, let him think that she was still unconscious.

  It gave her the advantage of surprise.

  She looked at the plastic dividing shield. The sliding portion for the gap remained open.

  Get ready! Wait for the right time and get ready!

  * * *

  At the center, analysts updated Lieutenant Mercer that the suspect had left FDR for 63rd.

  “Where’s everybody?” Mercer glared at the center’s geocode map. “We need to get people into position to box him!”

  They continued tracking the suspect’s vehicle entering the on-ramp for the 59th Street Bridge to Queens. But not enough units were in place to choke the ramp for a proper takedown, not with a hostage situation.

  “What about that one?” Mercer pointed to a unit on the map. “Bring him into play.”

  * * *

  At that moment, Cerito’s cell phone rang. It was a dispatcher from the Real Time Crime Center, confirming that he was now live in the hot zone.

  “Target vehicle to pass you in seconds, five…four…three…”

  Cerito had been idling on a shoulder. When Zurrn’s dark Chevy Impala passed him he slid the transmission into Drive.

  “Got a visual! I’m on him!”

  “You are to follow unseen and await further orders.”

  * * *

  Mercer was satisfied. Now they could execute a proper takedown.

  The center had alerted the 114th and 108th precincts in Queens. Mercer instructed them to seal the bridge’s off-ramp with all available units, marked, unmarked, so that the suspect would have no place to go. The unmarked unit following him would help box him. With enough manpower they could swarm the target car and reduce the risk to the hostage and the traffic.

  That way we keep it off the bridge.

  It would all be over in about three minutes.

  * * *

  One car was between Zurrn and Cerito as they proceeded along the approach for the upper level. Two narrow eastbound lanes bordered by concrete barriers flowed under the intricate webbing of arched steel trusses. They were in the right lane.

  Cerito adjusted his grip on the wheel.

  No way is this guy getting outta this!

  * * *

  In Zurrn’s car Kate knew from the steelwork rolling by that they were on one of the major bridges.

  Zurrn would be concentrating on driving.

  This is my chance!

  She whispered a prayer, took a breath, sprang up, shot her hands through the divider’s open gap and clawed at Zurrn’s face. Startled, he swerved, scraping against the barrier as he fought with her. Horns sounded, the car behind Zurrn veered around him into the left lane.

  * * *

  Cerito was now directly behind them.

  Witnessing the struggle, Cerito accelerated until he was flanking Zurrn. Cerito hit his lights and siren, flagging Zurrn to stop. Zurrn’s response was to crank his wheel left, slamming his Chevy against the side of Cerito’s Ford, jolting him and detonating the cop’s rage.

  “You freakin’ motherf
u—!”

  Something inside Cerito exploded—for Quinn, for all of Cerito’s bitterness and pent-up anger. Adrenaline surged through him. He mashed the pedal to the floor, pushing the Ford half a length ahead of Zurrn, then he cut him off, forcing the Chevy into the concrete barrier.

  * * *

  Kate fell back into the seat.

  Metal crunched, sparks cascaded as Cerito’s fury, and the Ford’s momentum forced the Chevy to jounce up the concrete barrier.

  Kate screamed.

  The sky, city lights and the East River flashed in a surreal montage as the Chevy sailed over the barrier. Her stomach lurched as she rolled and the car hung in the air for a sickening second before dropping upside down twenty feet, crashing onto the pavement of the single outer roadway of the lower deck, landing on its roof in the path of a VW Jetta.

  The impact hurled Kate against the roof, her eyes frantic as the oncoming Jetta braked, skidded and slammed into the Chevy’s rear quarter, plowing it through the steel wire fence, over the edge until the car’s front half teetered in the air over the East River 130 feet below.

  Metal crumpled as the car seesawed at the precipice.

  The collision knocked Kate’s head, jarring her teeth. Blood flowed from her injuries. Dazed, she tried to escape but was locked inside.

  Zurrn was unconscious, his bloodied face buried in a deployed air bag.

  Horns were blaring, people were shouting, calling for Kate.

  “Don’t move!” a man’s voice boomed. “We’ll get you out!”

  * * *

  A crowd gathered. Cerito had climbed to the lower level and radioed for help. Amid the chaos, construction workers emerged with tools, a rope. Working fast while others helped hold the car, one man used a special hammer to break open the rear windshield. They got a rope around Kate and under her arms.

  “Climb out!”

  As she clambered, something clamped onto her ankle.

  Zurrn had seized her. Metal creaked loudly because his sudden movements had tipped the car’s balance and it began slipping.

  “We can’t hold it!” the men felt the car’s rear half rising.

  “Come on! It’s starting to fall!”

  Kate kicked Zurrn’s head, shook herself free and scrambled through the broken windshield as the Chevy, with Zurrn inside, plummeted nose first into the East River.

  The construction workers pulled Kate to the bridge and safety. There, she joined the others staring in disbelief at Zurrn’s car, headlights glowing, then fading in the water as it sank.

  Amid the noise and confusion, Kate trembled through her blood and tears as she watched the lights of the police and news choppers and the emergency boats. On the bridge, witnesses shared images and video they’d captured of the crash and plunge.

  Sirens wailed. Traffic was frozen. Police had closed the bridge.

  Someone had draped a blanket around Kate and was talking to her, but she couldn’t hear them. Her ears rang with one thought:

  It’s over, it’s over, it’s over.

  EPILOGUE

  Soft breezes carried the giant iridescent soap bubble skyward and over Central Park’s treetops before it popped.

  A warm memory floated over Kate as she, Grace and Vanessa watched the street artist create another swirly sphere.

  It’s like when Vanessa made bubbles in our backyard. Now we’ve got another new memory.

  It had been six weeks since Vanessa’s rescue and they’d been taking her recovery day by day. Kate was still shaky from her close call with Zurrn and had taken a leave from Newslead. Together, they were working through the healing process as they moved on with their new lives.

  The new bubble lifted off, Kate’s phone rang and she answered it.

  “Kate, it’s Ed Brennan.”

  Since the search for Zurrn had ended she’d only heard from him a few times.

  “Hi, Ed.”

  “How are you two doing?”

  “A step at a time, you know.”

  “Listen, I’m in Manhattan meeting with the FBI. I would like to see you and Vanessa, give you an update. Would that be okay?”

  “Sure. Say, three at my place?”

  “See you then.”

  * * *

  Later on the subway home, Kate wondered about the update. After Zurrn’s death, Brennan had been working steadily with the task force tying up loose ends of the case in Rampart, New Jersey, Chicago, Minnesota, Colorado and Alberta.

  Sorin Zurrn was definitely dead.

  Of that, Kate was certain. Divers had retrieved his corpse from the car and she’d insisted on seeing his autopsy photos. He had no family to claim him so the city took over disposal. His body was put in a pine coffin and buried on Hart Island by convicts from Rikers Island who were tasked with such work. There was no marker to draw twisted fans to the grave of one of the nation’s most notorious murderers.

  They’d found more remains at the barn site near Rampart, so the known number of people Zurrn had killed, including the Chicago schoolgirl who’d taunted his mother, was twenty-one. The identities of twenty had been confirmed. Across the country in the cities and towns where his victims had lived, people held candlelight memorial services, set up foundations, charities and scholarships.

  Starting in Minnesota, with the state patrol, various groups in other states planned to honor Vanessa and Kate as heroes for saving lives because their actions had helped locate and stop Sorin Zurrn. Vanessa and Kate agreed to participate in a Minneapolis award ceremony in three months where Ashley Ostermelle, the teen Vanessa had freed, would be present to thank her.

  All of the events were valid, positive steps in Vanessa’s path to recovery. But one of the most significant aspects of her healing was Grace, her niece, Vanessa’s psychiatrist had said.

  Two weeks after her rescue, Vanessa had requested Kate bring Grace to the hospital so that they could meet for the first time, something the psychiatrist supported. Prior to that day, the psychiatrist talked to Grace, to let her know that it was okay to be nervous, even a little scared, but it would be all right.

  Their first meeting involved lots of hugging and joyful tears.

  Afterward, the psychiatrist told Vanessa and Kate that because Grace mirrored their ages during the tragedies of their young lives, she would be something of a therapeutic anchor for them, a strong focal point for their healing and a reflection of the unbreakable bond of their love. Understanding that would help them move on, would help them put the past in its proper place, to reach through the worst moments of their lives to connect with the best, and hang on.

  * * *

  After three weeks in the hospital, Vanessa had been discharged to live with her and Grace.

  Kate had given her sister her own room. Initially there were rough moments with nightmares, anxiety attacks, fears of trust, of things not being safe. Gradually, those episodes diminished. The psychiatrist had said that Vanessa had emotional scars and that some would take longer than others to heal.

  Nancy, with her nursing background, was a godsend to Vanessa, helping her adjust. Some days Kate and Vanessa would pore over old pictures of them. Eventually Kate arranged for a tutor to help Vanessa as an early step to help rebuild her life and Vanessa talked about maybe finding some sort of a job.

  Since Zurrn’s death Kate and Vanessa had declined the wave of interview requests, but they agreed to representation by a firm to help them consider which of the numerous book and movie deal offers they’d received was the best way to tell their story.

  And it was during those early weeks that Erich called to see how they were recovering. Kate invited him over and he arrived bearing two small gift-wrapped boxes topped with pretty bows. Inside were new cell phones for Kate and Vanessa.

  “They’re the very best on the market,
” he said.

  “No spy stuff installed?” Kate asked.

  “They’re as private as they can be.” He winked.

  “Thank you, Erich.” Kate hugged him. “For all that you did.”

  “You’ve got my number, so don’t be a stranger, Kate.”

  * * *

  It was two forty-five when they got home.

  Some twenty minutes later, Brennan got there.

  “I got tied up with the FBI,” he said at the door.

  Nancy had taken Grace to her apartment. Kate directed him to the sofa where Vanessa greeted him with a hug. They’d met before when Brennan had questioned her at the hospital and she liked him.

  “So, what’s the update, Ed?” Kate asked, offering him coffee, which he declined.

  “Since I was the first to talk to you when the case surfaced, I wanted to be the first to tell you that it’s closed.”

  “Thank God,” Kate said.

  “The reason it took so long is that we had to work with the US Attorney to be sure that no other person was criminally connected to Zurrn, that he’d acted alone when he’d committed his crimes. That took time.”

  “What if other victims are found?”

  “If that happens, those cases will be investigated individually, of course. They’re done searching the Rampart scene. It looks like there was nothing more in Minnesota, and he never got started in Montana. So for our purposes, the case has been cleared.”

  Vanessa was nodding but not smiling. She’d clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles had whitened.

  “That’s not the only reason I’m here.”

  “What else is there?” Kate asked.

  “This.” Brennan reached into his pocket for a small box, passing it to Kate. “These are yours and I’m happy to return them to you.”

  Kate opened the box to two tiny guardian angel necklaces, with their names engraved.

  One charm was battered and charred, the other was glistening.

  * * * * *

  Don’t miss USA TODAY bestselling author Rick Mofina’s newest pulse-pounding thriller, Their Last Secret…