Karen Vail 01 - Velocity (19 page)

“Pul over, Roxx. I need your ful attention.”

Dixon stopped the car.

“What’s your procedure out here?”

Dixon shoved the gear into park. “H-30 wil circle the area until ground units set up a perimeter. The patrol sergeant has already requested that SWAT respond.

The SWAT team’s made up of officers from the Napa sheriff and the Napa city police. But because we’re an unincorporated county, the Sheriff’s Department runs the show. They’l draw up a tactical plan, which’l probably include setting up a perimeter closer to the house. We’d bring in our hostage negotiating team to attempt phone contact with the suspect.”

“Doesn’t sound like eighteen minutes to me. It’l take them at least as long to get themselves set up and plugged in. Besides, James Cannon doesn’t want to talk to us, Roxx. Right now, he’s tired and freaked out and hungry and on the run. The people in there with him are in extreme danger.”

“No argument there. Your point?”

“What do you want to do?” Vail asked.

Dixon stole a look at Vail. It was fast, but it said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Vail brought the radio to her mouth. “Commander Orent, how many heat signatures do you have?”

“We count five. Four are stationary, one is mobile. Judging by their movements, we assume Mr. Mobile is our suspect. He seemed to clear al the rooms and herd the occupants into a main area in the center of the house.”

Vail swung her gaze over to Dixon. “You think Robby’s one of those hostages?”

Dixon shook her head. “No idea. Either way, no matter who he’s got—”

Vail keyed the radio. “What’s he doing now? Over.”

“He appears to be pacing back and forth. Over.”

“We’re going in. Copy?”

There was a long pause. Vail was ready to rekey the mike to repeat when suddenly Orent said, “You are instructed to wait for SWAT. Over.”

Vail let the radio fal back to her lap. “Do we need them?”

“I don’t want to go in with drawn guns and start a shootout because of a mistake.

We don’t even have the street address. And these people who live in the mountains . . . who knows what kind of rifles they might have?”

“How would you normal y handle something like this?”

“Assuming they’d run it the same way they take down pot farms, the H-30 wil use GPS to give us the coordinates, and the ground units would plug them into their portable GPS devices. That’s how.”

“You have a GPS?”

Dixon started to shake her head, then stopped. “Let me check.”

She jumped out of the car and rummaged around the trunk. A moment later, she returned with a smal canvas kit. “I usual y don’t have one, but I borrowed one a couple weeks ago from a buddy in the department and forgot to return it. Fire it up.”

Vail did so, then keyed the mike. “Commander, we’re concerned about the wait.

That’s a very violent offender in there. But my purpose is not to debate this with you. We understand you wil not assist. Thing is, we’re going in and we need the GPS coordinates. We don’t have the address. It’s dark out and these houses don’t have neon signs out front that say ‘suspect’s in here.’” She paused, waited, then said, “Of course, I’d total y understand if you refuse.”

As the seconds passed, Vail and Dixon stared out the windshield before final y turning to each other. “Maybe he’s thinking about it,” Dixon said. “Or cal ing for approval.”

“Unable to comply, Agent Vail,” Orent said. “Over.”

Dixon shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

“May’ve been worth a shot, but it didn’t get us anywhere.” A second later, Vail said, “There!” and jabbed a finger at the windshield, indicating a house about a hundred yards away. Moving slowly across the roof tiles was a pinpoint green laser beam.

Dixon was about to jam the gear into drive, but Vail grabbed her arm. “Leave it here,” Vail said. “We’re too close. Let’s go it on foot. If Cannon hears the car, we’re cooked and so are those hostages. Unless he’s aware of the chopper tracking him—which is possible but not likely. That ATV is a loud son of a bitch, and the chopper was purposely flying at a high altitude. We’re probably okay.”

“So why’d Cannon stop?”

Vail checked the dome light to ensure it was off, then quietly opened her door.

“He’s been riding for hours. Probably hungry, tired. And his ass and bal s hurt, I’m sure.”

“You sure you want to go in? SWAT wil be here in ten minutes.”

“We both know we should wait,” Vail said.

Dixon sat there with her door ajar—but didn’t move. “Right.”

A crackle from the radio. “Agent Vail, we’ve got activity. Two individuals moved toward the rear of the structure and it appears that one exited the premises.”

“Copy,” Vail said. She leaned forward and shoved the radio in her back pocket.

“Wel , that solves that.” And off they went.

30

T
raversing the steep mountainside in the dark made moving along the hil y terrain at Herndon Vineyards seem like child’s play. Vail slipped and slid on the damp forest floor, pine needles and low-lying ferns serving as snow discs that propel ed her down and forward.

This would do wonders for her knee. At the moment, it didn’t matter.

They were moving reasonably wel as they approached the house, which sat below street level in a large gul ey carved out of the mountain. The rear of the home was suspended on pilings, leveling out the structure. A muted dimness from within suggested it emanated from one of the inner rooms, where light had a tough time escaping the confines of wal s and doors.

Vail had moved thirty feet ahead while Dixon moved more deliberately. As Vail evaluated the area behind the house, Dixon lost her footing on the incline and slammed against a narrow eucalyptus stalk, chest first.

“Shit,” she said between clenched teeth.

Vail pul ed her gun from its holster. “You okay?”

“Fine. I’ve got another boob on the other side.” Dixon pointed. “There’s the rear of the house. You see any movement?”

Vail shook her head. “Without night vision, we’re not gonna see much. I can’t even make out how many fingers you’re holding up.”

“I’m not holding any up.”

“My point exactly.” Vail moved forward, then stopped. “Hang back, cover me.

Just in case Cannon sees me before I see him. No sense in giving him a shot at both of us.”

“You think he’s armed?”

“I wasn’t speaking literal y, but then again, who the hel knows? It wouldn’t be his style—he kil ed his last vic up close and personal, which means he gets off on that, just like Mayfield. But does he have a gun? We know so little about him, it’s impossible to say.” Vail bent over. “Cover me.”

She scurried ahead, scampering as fast as she could without slipping and going down on the slick terrain. As she approached, what she saw made her pul up, which sent her into a slide—right into the slumped body of a male. In a leather jacket.

Vail felt a lump the size of a basebal blocking her throat.
Robby?
In the dark, it was hard to say. His body was folded and crumpled, almost fetal in its curve. She steadied herself, leaned over the man, then felt for a pulse. Not only did she not feel anything, but her fingers slipped on the unmistakable thick and slick liquid she knew as only one thing: blood.

She grabbed the jacket lapel and yanked—nearly slipping down the incline—and shined her BlackBerry light on the man’s face.
Around the same age. Smaller. Not
Robby.
Actual y, the guy’s face shared a resemblance with Dixon’s former boyfriend, Detective Eddie Agbayani, a victim of John Mayfield’s violence a couple of days ago. Vail hoped Dixon wouldn’t notice.

Dixon was now by her side. Vail looked up at and caught the whites of her partner’s eyes.

“It’s not Robby,” Dixon said.

“No.”

“Dead?”

“Dead. Trachea crushed. Wrists slit. My guess,” Vail said, “is that this is the man of the house, the father. The only true threat to Cannon. Take out your threat, then you can do whatever the hel you want. Common tactic among disorganized offenders who enter a house or apartment and find a boyfriend or spouse. Blitz attack, get ’em out of the way.” Vail reached into her back pocket and pul ed the radio. Lowered the volume, then keyed the mike. “H-30,” she said in a soft voice.

“This is Agent Vail. That heat signature you picked up exiting the building’s rear is a dead body. Early thirties male Caucasian. Looks like Cannon kil ed his only threat, to get him out of the way. Over.”

“Copy that. Relaying same to SWAT. Over.”

Vail leaned over to Dixon’s ear. “He could kil the others. And soon.”

“Why?” Dixon asked. “I thought he only kil ed this guy to get him out of the way.”

“Point of getting the male out of the way is so he can have his way with the women. On the other hand, if he knows the chopper’s located him, he’s under extreme duress.”

“Then in a matter of minutes, he’s going to be knuckling down, waiting for the police assault. And the chances of getting the hostages out alive wil plummet like a bear market.”

Vail looked at the backdoor. “A bear out in the woods. Nice analogy. But SWAT’s less than ten minutes away now. At this point, I think we should let them handle it.”

Dixon looked at the man lying on the ground at their feet. Vail saw the way she appraised at the victim’s face, the way her lips tightened.

“It’s not Eddie,” Vail said.

“Fucking looks like him.”

Vail glanced at the house, her eyes checking things out. Then she leaned down to catch Dixon’s gaze. “Roxx, listen to me.”

“What’s his reaction going to be to an armed assault?”

“He won’t surrender, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That is what I’m asking,” Dixon said. “Those hostages inside are in a heap of trouble. We have a window, before this escalates. I don’t think he knows we’re here. This is the best shot we’re gonna have. Right?”

Vail bit down on her lip. “Probably. Yes.”

Dixon rose from her crouch. “Then I’m going in. We approach from opposite angles, we’ve got him. He doesn’t have a gun.”

“How do we know that?”

“Because he didn’t shoot this guy. Looks like he did what Mayfield did: crushed his trachea, slit his wrists. That’s the way he kil s.”

“We think that’s the way he kil s. We don’t know enough about him to reach definitive conclusions about his behaviors, about his identity as a kil er.”

“I’ve got al I need right here.”

“Roxx, don’t—”

Dixon started climbing the slick hil . “I’m going in the front. If you’re gonna help me out, count to sixty, then go in the back.” She stopped and turned. “You with me?”

Vail rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, the one holding the Glock.
I
hate situations like this. You know it’s the wrong thing to do, but you have no
choice.
“Don’t get me kil ed, Roxx. I stil have to find Robby. And I’ve got a kid, remember?”

“Then we’d better be careful. Sixty seconds. Fifty-nine Mississippi, fifty-eight Mississippi, and so on. On my mark. Ready?”

Vail nodded.

“Mark.” Dixon turned and scurried away. Into the darkness.

31

V
ail made her way up the slippery wooden steps onto the deck that led to the backdoor. At least with wet wood there was less chance of a board squeaking under her weight.

Counting.
Forty-five. Forty-four.

There were two windows, one on either side of the door, which was partial y constructed of glass. She crept along, keeping herself low. Inspected the jamb and considered where she would need to strike the door to blast it inward. Because of its construction, she knew she could do it—using her good leg.

Thirty. Twenty-nine.

She put her ear to the crack in the weather seal, down below the window line.

Listened. One, perhaps two, female voices whimpering.
Maybe Roxx was right.

Going in now before he killed someone else made sense. Didn’t it?

Seventeen. Sixteen.

Vail tightened her grip on the Glock. She would kick in the door, then go in low. It was always risky when you did not know the floor plan of the house you were infiltrating. Where was your target? Would you be immediately visible to him upon entry? And most disconcerting . . . did he have a weapon? In close quarters combat like this, a knife was often more dangerous than a handgun.

Infiltrate, rapidly assess: Was your immediate environment safe? Were your hostages in imminent danger? Had your appearance
placed them
in imminent danger?

Five. Four.

Vail stepped back—she was now in view of the home’s occupants should they choose to look—and brought her right leg up and then thrust it forward, just below the knob.

The jamb cracked and splintered, and the door flew open. Vail dropped to the floor and clambered into the room—it was the kitchen—and brought her back up against the wood cabinets. Listened.

Shouting—screaming.

Vail spun around the edge of the wal , Glock out in front of her, and moved down the carpeted hal way toward the light—and the commotion. There! In the family room, three females. One woman. Early thirties. Two girls, about eight and nine, sporting tear-streaked red cheeks.

No sign of James Cannon. Not good—he could be behind me, or he could be choking Dixon, right now—

Slamming noise. Loud, something smashing into a wal . Again, and again.

Vail fol owed the noise and stopped in front of the three women, whose wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape. A taut strip stretched across their mouths.