by Diane Capri
“You think he’s that stupid?”
“That’s for time to tell. But we’re not that stupid either. We have a large team. Slim chance he’s going to go anywhere other than back to prison.”
She pursed her lips. “Yeah. You make damn sure of that.”
He winked. “You got it.” He closed the passenger door. “Ready?”
She gripped the steering wheel, checked the gun under her seat, and started the V8. “Ready.”
Fernandez started another Jeep Wrangler. Morris jumped into the passenger seat. He was already talking into a radio mic as Jess pulled away. They didn’t immediately follow, and she left town unable to spot anyone behind her.
The directions were simple. South on 285 to 216. She edged the Jeep over the speed limit, taking to the outside lane to overtake slower moving traffic and eighteen-wheelers.
“Ease off, Jess.” Morris’s voice came through the Jeep’s speakers with a clarity that made her feel he was in the vehicle. It was reassuring to know he was there.
“Sorry,” she said and slowed to join the flow in the inside lane.
“Better,” he said.
The navigation system kept her updated on the distance to US-216.
Twelve miles after turning onto 216, she slowed to search for the small roadside picnic area listed on the directions. US-216 was quieter than 285. The falling snow was sticking to the road more than on the busier highway.
She found the picnic site. It was occupied by two cars. She stopped behind them, squeezing into what little space was left, the rear of the Jeep sticking out into the road.
She crushed herself down to be able to look into the cars. One had an older couple, the other held a man eating a sandwich.
She checked the directions for the location of the phone. The list gave a number for a telegraph pole. From the Jeep, she could see the pole in the picnic site was two short of the number she needed. She gambled the numbers rose in the uphill direction and set off.
As she passed the cars, she made a point of standing in front of each and taking a picture of the occupants. The old couple frowned. The single guy flipped his middle finger and left in a cloud of diesel smoke. She checked she had the registration plates and mailed the pictures to Fernandez.
The next telegraph pole was surrounded by thick undergrowth, but fortunately the next was clear. She found a plastic supermarket bag taped to the rear. It contained a cheap burner phone.
She jogged back to the Jeep. The snow was getting thicker. She sat in the Wrangler with the heater running and switched on the phone. “There was a phone. Burner. No surprise.” She worked her way through the menu, found the phone’s number, and read it out. Fernandez confirmed the number.
The next step in the instructions was to continue for five miles. There was no phone number in the instructions. “I guess he’ll call me,” she said to the empty Jeep.
“Guess so. Just remember, take it easy. Gives us more time if he pulls something,” Morris said through the vehicle’s speakers. The reception was getting weaker in the mountains. His voice didn’t have the presence it had earlier.
Jess pulled around the older couple’s car, and back onto the road. Every fiber of her being wanted to go faster, but the tarmac was slippery even with the Jeep’s off-road tires and four-wheel drive.
She ran the heater on the windscreen and the wipers front and rear. After a mile, she caught up with a low-slung sports car struggling with the conditions. To her relief, it pulled off onto the side road by a sign that read Timberline Creek. The road appeared to lead to expensive mountain homes.
The burner phone rang. Jess jolted at the distorted bell sounding from its small speaker. There was no hard shoulder to the road. She slowed to a crawl and the Jeep’s giant tires bounced up onto low rocks, leaving her half off the road for traffic to pass.
She grabbed the phone on its third ring. “Yes?”
“Where are you?” Gotting’s voice was unmistakable. He peppered his words with expletives.
“US-216.”
“What?”
“US-216.” She uttered the numbers slowly.
Gotting swore. “What are you doing on 216?”
“It’s in your directions.”
“You’re trying to mess with me. You’re trying to—”
“I’m not trying to do anything. Your instructions said 216.”
“No, they did not.”
“I have them here. It says—”
“I’ve had it. You’re trying to play games. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“No, no. Listen. Your instructions say US-216. They did. I have them here.”
Gotting breathed hard. “You’re supposed to be on US-261, not 216.”
“Okay, okay. I can turn around. I can find 261. I can be there.”
There was a long silence.
“Where are you?” Gotting said, his voice angry.
“216. I’m…” she twisted in her seat and looked at the home sign. “I’m by some big houses. Timberline Creek. I can look up 261 now. I can—”
“Two miles ahead. Take the left. Plateau Creek Road. It goes over the mountain to 261. Then turn left. Call me when you reach 261 or Peter here is going to meet a sad end.”
“No, wait. I need—”
The line clicked. Gotting had gone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Thursday, November 30
10:15 a.m.
Pineland Valley, Colorado
Jess tossed the burner phone into a cup holder and stomped on the gas. The Wrangler shimmied, its wheels scrabbling for grip as it bounced off the rocks and back onto the tarmac. She fought the steering for a moment to keep the vehicle going straight down the road.
Two miles. She punched a button to reset the trip meter and watched it count up.
Morris’s voice rasped from the Jeep’s speakers. “Jess. Slow down. We’ve got a problem.”
“Could you hear him?”
“Just about.”
“He almost lost it.”
“The directions definitely say 216, Jess.”
“So? He made a mistake. He’s an idiot. He was probably drugged up when he wrote the instructions. Either way, I’m not risking Peter. He wants me on 261, that’s where I’m going to be.”
“Jess. We’re all in Pineland Valley.”
“So?”
“The only way into Lakeland is back to US-285 or over Plateau Creek Road. Which means it’s either thirty minutes going around the mountain, or we risk being seen on Plateau Creek.”
Jess eased off the gas. “Where are you?”
“According to our tracker, three miles behind you. But with this weather, that’s four minutes.”
She pushed back down on the accelerator, and the Jeep forged ahead. “Okay. Four minutes. That gives me plenty of time to get through the road. He can’t be watching us everywhere. Just don’t drive in a convoy, and we’ll be all right.”
“Jess—”
“He was on the verge of losing it, Henry. I’ve got to show him I’m trying. I’ve got to show him I can be trusted.”
“Jess we had people ahead and behind you. Now, we’ll all be behind. It’s not good. Makes us weaker. We won’t be able to support you as well.”
The trip meter closed in on two miles. There was a road on the left. She slowed. The sign was partly covered in snow, only the word “Plate” was visible, but it was enough. She turned hard, the rear of the Jeep fishtailing in the snow and slush. “Morris, I’m going over Plateau Creek. You copy?”
There was no reply as she barreled up the mountain road.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Thursday, November 30
10:16 a.m.
Plateau Creek, Colorado
Gotting couldn’t believe his luck. Not only had Kimball fallen for the idea she was on the wrong road, but by identifying her position accurately, she’d given him a few extra minutes notification of her arrival.
He jumped onto the floor mat and bounced down the
path to the Yukon.
His adrenaline was getting to him. He sat in the driver’s seat a few moments. He had his old coat over the light blue ski jacket. He had his hat and gloves on. He pulled on his ski goggles and tightened his seat belt. What would fight off the extreme cold would also help prevent serious injury in what he was about to do.
He rolled down the Yukon’s windows. Less glass meant less chance of injury. The metal on metal sounds from the chairlift a few hundred feet away wafted through the openings.
He started the engine. The noise would prevent him from hearing Kimball’s approach. He’d have to depend on visual identification. Not that it should be that hard. The feds would have chosen a dark color to stand out in the snow.
Kimball’s Jeep appeared over the crest of the road.
He selected first gear, revving the engine while holding the big SUV on the brakes.
With luck, the impact would render Kimball immobile, if not dead.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Thursday, November 30
10:30 a.m.
Plateau Creek, Colorado
Jess eased off the accelerator. The road was leveling out. If it weren’t for the snow, the view would have been stunning in all directions. She was at the peak between Pineland Valley and Lakeland Pass. The road was white with snow. The only indication that she was actually on the road was because the snow was flatter than on the sides.
The road angled down. She backed off the accelerator even further. The Wrangler had four-wheel drive, which was great for going faster, but under braking, it was no better than a two-wheel drive car.
Trees loomed on either side of the road. Their presence had kept some of the snow from the road, but it was still well covered. The slope ahead looked ominous. Beyond the trees, it dropped out of sight.
“Morris? Fernandez? Can you hear me?”
Static rasped from the speakers. She thought she heard a voice but couldn’t make out any words.
“Morris—”
A blur flashed through her peripheral vision. She twisted her head to the left. A brown SUV burst from the trees. It covered the road in a second. She wrenched the wheel right, but it made no difference.
The SUV smashed into the rear of the Jeep. Metal crumpled and glass shattered. The Jeep twisted, the rear of the vehicle slewing around. She stomped on the brakes and gripped the wheel as the Wrangler hurtled into the undergrowth.
The Jeep came to a halt, rocking on its suspension. Her fingers held a crushing grip on the steering wheel. She took a deep breath. The impact couldn’t have been that bad, the airbags hadn’t gone off. The Jeep should still be drivable.
She whipped open the door. How could the SUV driver have been so stupid?
She slid out of the Jeep’s seat and turned toward the SUV.
A black-gloved fist flashed. A swinging blow. It caught the right side of her face, pounding into her cheekbone and grinding across her nose. Her balance swam. She collapsed sideways into the Jeep’s rear door, her hands slapping against the metalwork. She glimpsed Earle Gotting’s face as her knees gave way and she tumbled to the ground.
He’d tricked her. He’d forced her over the mountains and into his ambush.
Gotting swung his leg to kick her. She grabbed his ankle. He swept down a blow from above. His gloved fist smashing a glancing blow to her ear. Lights flashed in her vision. Pain bloomed in her head. If she stood any chance of fighting back, she had to get off the ground.
She rolled onto her knees and launched herself upright. Gotting kicked toward the side of her knee and she collapsed away from the full force of his blow.
He grabbed her hair, holding her head still as he rammed his gun in front of her face. “Where’s my money?”
Jess grabbed his sleeve. “We had a deal!”
He jerked her head sideways, breaking her grip on his sleeve. Her head bounced against the Jeep.
“The deal is you give me my money!” He shoved the gun into the soft flesh under her chin. “Now!”
“Where’s Peter?”
He wrenched her up by her hair, dragging her to the open driver’s door. “Where’s my money!”
“I need Peter!”
Gotting saw the suitcase in the passenger footwell. He still had the gun shoved under her chin. She grabbed his sleeve. “No. You don’t get it until I get Peter.”
He snarled, kept his grip on her hair, and dragged her around the rear of the vehicle to the passenger door.
He kicked the door. “Open it.”
“Not until I get—”
He shook her head. “Open it!”
He yanked her hair hard. The pain burned like a storm of a thousand needles. She grabbed his wrist. “I can’t—”
He threw her backward, grunting with the effort. She stumbled and rolled onto the ground.
He whipped open the Jeep’s door and leaned in for the suitcase.
Jess scrambled toward the rear of the Jeep.
Gotting hoisted the suitcase onto the passenger seat. He glanced at Jess, still on the ground, and turned back to the case. The luggage locks thunked open.
Jess reached for the rear wheel arch. It was packed with snow and slush. She drove her fingers into the cold and yanked out the slippery bag.
The suitcase locks thumped shut.
She was holding the barrel of the Glock.
Gotting leaned back out of the Jeep, the case in one hand, his gun in the other.
She snatched the Glocks’ grip with her other hand, pushed her finger onto the trigger through the plastic bag and fired without aiming. She didn’t want to kill him. He was her only link to Peter.
The gun boomed. The noise bounced off the hard side of the Jeep and echoed down the valley.
Gotting’s eyes went wide. He jerked backward, raised his gun and fired.
The bullet went over Jess’s head. She scrambled toward the back of the Jeep, firing as she moved, aiming wide.
Gotting screamed.
She reached the back of the Jeep.
Gotting fired. The Jeep’s rear window shattered. He continued firing, the bullets making metallic ticking sounds as they pierced the Jeep’s metalwork.
Gotting grunted in pain. One of her bullets must have hit him.
She dropped flat, her arms under the Jeep, cradling the Glock and aiming twelve inches away from his feet. She fired once. A cloud of snow erupted beside his foot.
Gotting dodged away from the Jeep, swearing as he went.
Jess rolled onto her feet, the gun in front of her as she peered around the side of the Jeep.
He was scrabbling away, disappearing into the woods.
She raced for the Yukon, her boots slipping on the thickening snow. The driver’s door was open, and the engine was still running. She jumped up into the driver’s seat and craned to see into the rear seats.
No sign of Peter.
She ran back to the Jeep and stabbed the starter button. The V8 growled into life. “Fernandez,” she shouted. “If you can hear me, Gotting attacked me on the top of Plateau Creek. He has the money. No sign of Peter. I’m going after him.”
Jess rammed the Jeep into gear. Chasing Gotting through the trees was likely to get her shot. He could be waiting for her. But the trees were only a band that started at the road’s peak and ran along its side.
She slung the Jeep through a one-eighty. The tail end slew round farther than she expected and snapped back hard as she straightened the wheel. The impact must have bent the rear of the vehicle.
She headed a couple of hundred feet back up the hill to where the trees started, checked the Jeep was in four-wheel drive and bounced off-road.
The snow was soft, the smooth surface hid lumps and potholes. The Jeep crashed and banged over the terrain, the engine revved, dipping when more torque was required, but the Wrangler never slowed.
Two Jeeps were climbing Plateau Creek Road. She angled hers toward them and flashed the headlights. “Morris! Fernandez! I’m here. Can you see me?”
“Jess,” came the distorted response. “We’re on our way. Stay back.”
She flashed her lights again. “Can you see my lights?”
“Yes. We’re trying to close off the roads. We heard shots.”
“He didn’t hit me. He’s on foot. He abandoned a Yukon. I’m going after him.”
“Wait for us.”
“He took the money, and he didn’t have Peter. He’s getting away.”
“Wait, Jess.”
“I’ll keep him in sight.”
She turned back down the slope. To her right, a chairlift station was busy with skiers. Some stared at her. The ski runs from the chairlift angled away from the road. A wide swath of unprepared snow separated the trees from the trail.
She drove closer to the woods than the ski runs. The thicker snow slowed the Jeep, and as the slope increased, its resistance was a blessing. A display by the rev counter told her the Jeep’s pitch and roll. She was at twenty degrees of each, and already it felt uncomfortable.
She scanned the trees and saw no sign of movement. The jeep bucked over a pothole, wrenching the wheel from her hands. She grabbed hard and yanked it back as she stomped on the brakes. The Jeep rocked for a moment.
Ahead of her was a line through the snow. A snowboard’s track. It started where she estimated Gotting had attacked her. A black object lay stretched out on the snow by the trees. Straining in her seat until her head touched the roof, she could make out that the black object was his jacket.
She followed the snowboard’s track. It wasn’t traveling straight down in a headlong rush. A hundred yards away, Gotting struggled to cross the trail on a snowboard. The red suitcase was unwieldy and slowing his progress toward a clump of trees on the far side.
“Fernandez. He’s on a snowboard. Red suitcase and light blue jacket. Heading about ninety degrees away from the road.”
Fernandez’s reply was a mixture of buzz and crackle.
She put the Jeep in its lowest gear and headed for the trail. Skiers and boarders were flying by, shouting and waving their fists. She switched on the hazard flashers and kept up a rhythm of honking the horn.