Cold Pursuit

by Carla Neggers

  But she knew that wasn’t exactly true, either. Scott would want what they all did—a good outcome. Kyle Rigby in custody, explaining himself. Devin and Nora safe. Jo and Elijah back on the lake.

  “Everyone down!”

  It was Elijah, intense. Jo dropped, even as a sharp crack shattered the silence and, simultaneously, the front window splintered and shards of glass crashed onto the cabin floor.

  Another shot went through the same window as the first and struck the solid wood beam above the back wall of the cabin.

  Staying low, Jo dived for Nora and Devin. Nora had already thrown herself onto Devin and was half dragging him, half rolling with him across the plywood floor around to the back of the woodstove.

  She looked up, her eyes wide with terror. “What’s happening?”

  “We’re getting shot at.” Jo shoved the backpacks toward them. Devin stirred, white-faced as he caught the strap of Nora’s pack and pushed it at her. “Use the packs for cover. Stay behind the woodstove. Understood?”

  Devin barely reacted, the pain of his injuries evident in every breath he took. Nora nodded, recoiling as a third round hit the same window, and the report of the heavy-caliber weapon boomed and echoed on their quiet hillside.

  Elijah pulled the slide on his .45. He’d already raced to the front of the cabin and was positioned in the corner by the shot-out window.

  He aimed and fired one round.

  Crouched down, Jo ran to him, ignoring the glass shards as Elijah fired again.

  Two more shots in quick succession smacked into the sturdy wood door.

  Jo knew she didn’t need to tell Elijah it was a heavy-caliber weapon firing at them: an assault rifle. And she didn’t have to tell him it was Kyle Rigby.

  He probably had a thirty-round clip. A lot of bullets.

  When he used them up, he’d reload.

  “He’s using the trees my father cut down as cover. Right by the spruce trees.” Elijah didn’t take his eyes off the spot. “I’m going after him.”

  “I’ll keep him from moving,” Jo said. “He wants us all dead, Elijah.”

  “I can tell from the bullets.” He looked at her, his gaze steady. “We’re past negotiations, Jo.”

  “Yeah. Go.” Her breath caught. “Stay safe.”

  He winked at her. “Be good, sweet pea.”

  Moving fast, he crossed to the back of the cabin. Snow blew in as he went out the back door, shutting it silently behind him.

  Nora and Devin stayed quiet and still behind the woodstove, huddled among the backpacks, as protected as possible with a madman shooting at them.

  Not a madman, Jo thought. Rigby had examined his options and picked the one he’d considered most likely to get the job done. He knew what he was up against. He’d counted on Nora and Devin freezing to death up here, and when he’d realized that wasn’t going to happen, he’d come up with a new plan.

  The all-or-nothing approach.

  She fired toward the fallen trees before he could get off another shot, ducked low and fired again from another angle. She wanted to provide cover fire and keep Rigby pinned down and guessing. He was aware he was dealing with two shooters. Let him think both she and Elijah were still in the cabin.

  “Rigby, I know it’s you out there,” she yelled. “Let’s talk.”

  “No talking. You’re all dead.”

  “Let’s figure something out.” She moved to another spot on the window and fired again. “You’re not in a good situation. I’m armed, I’ve got food and water and I’m warm. Bet you’re frostbitten.”

  Another shot.

  Not frostbitten enough not to be able to shoot.

  Then she heard three quick shots of a .45.

  Elijah.

  She waited, poised to shoot again if necessary.

  But there was silence. Finally Elijah called to her. “He’s down, Jo. No sign of another shooter.”

  She turned to Nora and Devin, who still hadn’t moved. “I have to go out there. I’ll be back in two minutes. Stay put.”

  She raced out the front door and into the snow, wet and deep as it sparkled in the bright rising sun. She pushed through the tiny clearing in front of the cabin and slowed her pace as she ducked behind the felled trees and entered the spruce grove.

  Elijah had picked up Rigby’s assault rifle—not that there was any chance Rigby would be able to use it. But it was what Jo would have done.

  She knew Elijah had checked Rigby but she felt compelled to do so herself. He was dead.

  “I’m sure you gave him a chance to put down his weapon,” she said.

  “Ten chances.”

  Rigby had fired ten rounds.

  “Don’t touch anything. The police need to get here.”

  There was just a hint of humor in his very blue eyes. “Sure, Jo.”

  She heard a cry of pure anguish up by the cabin and turned just as Nora leaped out the front door into the snow and ran, tearing off back toward the gully where Elijah had found her.

  Jo went after her, post-holing her way through the deep snow. “Nora, stop,” she called sharply. “You don’t have the energy or the equipment to go far. Neither do I. You’re safe now.”

  But she kept running.

  “Stop. Now, Nora.”

  She fell onto her knees in the snow. “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed, covering her head with her hands. “It’s all my fault. I should have left well enough alone.”

  Jo caught up with her and crouched next to her. She said gently, “It’s okay, Nora. Come on, kiddo. We’re safe. Let’s go back into the cabin. Storm’s over. We can get out of here.”

  She dug her fingers into her hair and seemed to try to rip it out as she cried. “I want my mom, but she doesn’t care about me.” She raised her head, dropping her arms as tears flowed down her pale cheeks and she shook uncontrollably. “I’m so scared. My dad—what if he’s involved in whatever’s going on? He’s so caught up in Melanie.”

  “First things first, Nora.”

  She glared up at Jo. “What if he did something stupid, and now he’s ruined his life? What if he’s being blackmailed?”

  There was no way Jo was going into all that right now. “We’ll get everything sorted out. You knew something was wrong, and you were right. You trusted your instincts.”

  “I never thought anyone wanted to kill me. I wouldn’t have come up here. I’m so stupid.” As she spoke, she started shivering. “I’m so cold. Jo…”

  “You survived. You did what you had to do.”

  “Don’t patronize me.” With a sudden burst of anger, Nora shook off Jo’s offer of a hand and stalked back toward the cabin. But she stopped short of the front door, lurched toward a felled tree and vomited in the snow.

  Jo hung back and said nothing. When Nora finished, she just silently returned to the cabin.

  Elijah stepped out from the spruce trees and stood next to Jo. “Rigby had his chance to get out of here and disappear. Interesting that he didn’t.”

  Jo nodded grimly. “He knew he had to succeed up here. Failure wasn’t an option.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We need to get these kids off this mountain. How much time do you figure before the cavalry arrives?”

  “My guess is they’re close enough to have heard the shots.”

  “I can go down the trail and meet them.”

  “No.” Elijah shook his head and brushed a knuckle across her cheek. “We stick together.”

  Thirty-Two

  Grit stood outside the revolving doors of the hotel where Ambassador Bruni had been killed and watched the passersby. It was almost noon and cloudy, but other people seemed to be enjoying themselves. Last night, Myrtle had said to meet her there. She’d added a little something to her coffee and was in a maudlin mood when they’d parted, the kind that indicated she had layers and secrets and dark corners that she didn’t like to look in.

  He had a bad feeling about Myrtle.

  Just down the street a fair, buff teenage boy
in a navy Georgetown University cap, hooded sweatshirt and tan chinos was staring at the spot where Bruni was hit.

  The pants were neatly pressed.

  Well, well, Grit thought, and eased in next to the kid. “Hello, Charlie.”

  He looked startled. “That’s not my name.”

  “Sure it is. You know a friend of a friend of mine. Jo Harper.”

  “The Secret Service agent in the video?”

  All innocent. Grit narrowed his eyes. “What’re you doing here, Charlie?”

  “What makes you—”

  “Prep-school pants. And the hat and the sweatshirt both Georgetown? Come on.”

  He reddened some, but not much. “I have a trombone lesson around the corner.”

  “You don’t play trombone.”

  The kid stared at the asphalt and said calmly, “A doctor’s appointment would have worked better?”

  “No,” Grit said.

  “Who I am is none of your business.”

  “I’m a caring citizen.” But Grit figured Charlie Neal, being a genius as well as sixteen, already knew who he was. “There are no Secret Service agents strong-arming me right now, so that means you gave them the slip somehow. What did you do, hide yourself in a suitcase?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t do anything. You obviously have me confused with someone else. I’m just a kid.”

  Grit studied him thoughtfully and considered his research into the life and times of Charles Preston Neal, the only son and youngest child of the current vice president of the United States. “Your cousin,” he said finally, “Conor Neal. You two are the same age. You both look like Prince Harry did at sixteen.”

  “Prince Harry?”

  “You and the cousin switched places. Create a little bedlam, and next thing, he’s you and you’re him. Conor doesn’t have a Secret Service detail. You do.” Grit thought it through and figured that was it. “It’s sort of like The Prince and the Pauper. Ever read that book?”

  Charlie didn’t answer, but his ears got red under the lower edge of his Georgetown cap.

  “Must be refreshing,” Grit said with some sympathy, “just to be normal.”

  Big roll of the eyes. “That’s not the point.” Charlie turned his head and glared at Grit. “You’re Petty Officer Taylor, right? You and Petty Officer Michael Ferrerra, also a Navy SEAL, were each awarded a Silver Star last year. It’s for gallantry in action—”

  “I know what it’s for.”

  “I keep track of Silver Star recipients. I figure it’s the least I can do.” Charlie stuffed his hands into the front pocket of his oversize sweatshirt and kept his blue Prince Harry eyes on Grit. “Petty Officer Ferrerra died in April. He saved your life.”

  “Photographic memory?”

  “I just pay attention, Petty Officer Taylor.”

  “Just Grit is fine. And not because you’re the vice president’s son.” He nodded to the spot where Bruni was hit. “Was Ambassador Bruni meeting you the other morning?”

  Charlie’s shoulders slumped, and he shook his head but didn’t speak.

  “Why are you here, Charlie?” Grit asked.

  “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”

  “You want to keep yourself out of trouble, too, don’t you?”

  That gave him his spine back. “I don’t care about that. What’re they going to do? Just watch me even closer than they do now. The people who are supposed to keep an eye on me will get in trouble, though. And that’s not fair.”

  “It’s also not your problem.”

  Charlie glanced behind them at the revolving doors, then shifted back to the street. “I followed him here,” he said. “I wanted to talk to him about Agent Harper. My sister Marissa told me they’re friends. Agent Harper has lots of friends in various federal law enforcement agencies, but I didn’t want to go to them. You know. Risk getting them in trouble.”

  “Risk having them recognize you and haul your ass back to school. Who’s ‘him’? Who’d you follow?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Marissa misinterpreted their friendship. It’s not as close as I thought.”

  Grit realized Charlie wasn’t talking about Bruni, but he said, “Is Marissa like you, smart and doesn’t mind her own business?”

  “She’s not as smart as me. I’m not bragging. I’m just…”

  “You’re just stating the facts,” Grit finished for him.

  Charlie hunched his shoulders and said quietly, “I wanted to figure out how I could make amends.”

  “Ah.” Grit got it now. “You’re talking about Thomas Asher.”

  The kid was silent.

  Grit figured it was pretty much like holding a live grenade, having the veep’s kid right next to him with no Secret Service protection. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “Go? Go where?” Charlie straightened, his cockiness back in full force. “I have to get to school. I have another calculus test today. I can’t miss it. I’m down to a B-plus average as it is. My cousin took this one test for me, and he isn’t great at math—”

  “Too bad.”

  “You can’t just kidnap me.”

  Grit scratched the side of his mouth. Now what? He’d tried calling Elijah first thing that morning but got no answer. It was lousy weather up north. Snow, ice, wind. He could always try to reach Agent Harper, but Grit had a feeling she was onto Charlie herself. And she was up north in the same storm as Elijah and probably in his back pocket wherever he was.

  “The Secret Service will have egg on its collective face,” Charlie said, “if it gets out that my cousin and I switched identities.”

  There was that. “Tell me about Thomas Asher.”

  Charlie debated a moment, his lips compressed in a manner that suggested he was accustomed to being called onto the carpet. He nodded back toward the hotel entrance. “He went in through the revolving doors and entered the restaurant and waited at his table for a while. I hung around. I figured I’d talk to him after he finished breakfast. I assumed he was meeting someone, but I kept checking and no one ever came. Then there was this big commotion out here.”

  “Where exactly were you?”

  “In the lobby outside the restaurant. I didn’t see Ambassador Bruni get hit.”

  “Asher?”

  “No. Impossible.” Charlie shook his head, adamant. “He ran out into the lobby to see what all the commotion was about. Then he left.”

  “How’d he look?”

  “Shocked. Upset. Terrified—but under control. He was in self-protection mode.”

  “Witnesses?”

  Charlie adjusted his cap, a hunk of blond hair falling down on his forehead. “That’s why I came here today. I hoped it would help me remember.”

  “Did it?”

  “There was a messenger on a bicycle. A woman. I saw her. I heard about the tip the police received. I didn’t realize she’d witnessed what happened.”

  Grit waited, then said, “And?”

  The kid obviously didn’t want to go on. Finally he answered. “Mr. Asher spoke to her.”

  “Can you describe her? The tip didn’t have details. If Thomas phoned it in, he might have been too upset to remember specifics and—”

  “Fleet of Pedal is the name of the messenger service.”

  Grit waited again. “Charlie. You have to tell the police.”

  “It doesn’t have to be me.” Charlie turned to him. “You could tell them.”

  “I wasn’t here,” Grit said. But he could tell the FBI or even Myrtle, let her work her wonders and get Charlie’s tidbit to the police without putting him into the middle of a media firestorm.

  In the meantime, Grit wasn’t about to leave the only son and youngest child of the vice president of the United States—a smart, troubled, sixteen-year-old kid with assassins on the mind—out on the streets.

  He jerked a thumb at Charlie. “Let’s go.”

  “Are you kidnapping me?”

  “I’m taking you back to school.”

 
; Except he didn’t have a car. Where the hell was Myrtle?

  Ten seconds later, as if he’d conjured her up, she pulled next to the curb in a fancy little car, her window rolled down. “Sorry I’m late.” She frowned at Charlie. “Who are you?” She swallowed, obviously recognizing him. “Oh. You do have some interesting friends, Petty Officer.”

  They got in her car, Grit in back with Charlie, and Myrtle drove them out to the rolling northern Virginia campus of a very private school. Grit’s high school in the Florida panhandle had been a series of trailers. Charles Preston Neal was good-looking, smart, athletic—and surprisingly invisible. It was tough to stand out when you were good at everything and were handed everything. He wanted to matter.

  Not your problem, Grit reminded himself. “How does your cousin explain where he’s been when you’re off following people and hunting bad guys?”

  “We’re careful. Except for that one time during calculus, we switch during play practice. It’s intensive, total immersion into the play. We’re doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Conor and I work production. We switch off, so it’s easy—he can be himself and me. Neither of us is missing that way. No one notices when one of us isn’t there.”

  “You’ve pushed it. He took a test for you. Ever take one for him?”

  “He was going to fail trig. He has this awful, obtuse teacher—”

  “Conor sounds like he’s as big a pain in the ass as you.”

  “I have four sisters,” Charlie said quickly. “They’re all pretty. If you don’t rat me out, I can arrange a date with one of them. Come on. Cut me some slack.”

  The kid wasn’t exactly begging, but Grit said, “I’ve got enough problems without dating one of your sisters. Go on. Get to class. Myrtle and I will keep your secret.” He glanced up front. “Won’t we, Myrtle?”

  “Sure.” She smiled into her rearview mirror. “You’ve got that look, Grit. I’ll agree to anything you say. I don’t want you killing me in my sleep.”

  Drama. He reached across Charlie and opened his door, then sat back again. “You and your cousin are not to pull this stunt again. Understood?”

  Charlie nodded, then hesitated, his skin losing some of its color. “I don’t care what happens to me,” he said quietly. “These assassins. They’re not done. There’s a network of them out there. They’re ruthless, Petty Officer Taylor. I don’t know if it’s all about money or what. There has to be a middleman who hires killers on behalf of different clients. It’s so clear to me.”