Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(32)

“Roxx.”

Brix’s voice.

“He might be on his way out toward you. Cannon isn’t the wine maker, he’s a wannabe. Currently the inventory manager. We didn’t get a good look at him, but someone made us and took off.”

“Got it.” She snapped her phone closed and drew her SIG.



“ANYTHING?” VAIL WHISPERED.

Brix used hand signals to indicate he was moving toward the door. He wanted her to cover him.

Brix stepped to the side, grabbed the knob, and pulled it open. Vail was in a crouch, Glock out front in a Weaver stance. The area beyond the door was vacant. Brix motioned her through.

Vail slid forward, cautious yet determined not to let Cannon escape their grasp. At best, they had a scared employee who saw cops and, for whatever reason, didn’t want to hang around to chat. At worst, they had a murderer in their sights, someone who might be able to provide clues about Robby.

Vail moved onward, through another room and down a different hallway. She was beginning to think they were going to lose him. He knew the layout of the winery, much of which wasn’t even finished, and there could be an exit they hadn’t seen during their approach. Some downwind access, a loading dock or delivery port that would take him away from them without their ever seeing him.

She was about to turn to share her thoughts with Brix when her phone rang.



DIXON STOOD THERE with her SIG at the ready, clasped in both hands, knees slightly bent, forearms taut.

And that’s when she saw him: James Cannon, the size and shape, the face. No doubt. They locked eyes—and his gaze dropped to her hands, where she was holding the chiseled metal pistol.

“Hold it right there, Jimmy,” Dixon shouted.

But he didn’t “hold it right there.” He spun and ran.





21


He’s headed—” Dixon craned her head skyward, but the sun wasn’t far enough in one direction to estimate east or west. She glanced toward the mountains, estimated where Highway 29 sat, and pressed the handset back to her mouth. “West, I think. Down behind the building. Positive ID.”

“As soon as we find our way out,” Vail said, “we’ll have your back.”

Dixon shoved the phone in her pocket and increased her pace, headed around the sharply sloped left side of the building. She shifted the SIG to her left hand and stuck out her right, using it as a third leg against the hillside. Her feet slipped in the loosely tilled soil, but she maintained her balance.

Fifty feet ahead of her, Cannon was doing much the same, ambling as fast as he could. But was he running away from her or toward something?

A yell behind her—Vail’s voice. Dixon dared not turn around or she might lose her balance and slide down the hill into the vines that lay less than ten feet away. Cannon was approaching level ground.

“Jimmy—” Dixon called. “We just want to talk! C’mon, man, why are you running?”

The dumb cop routine didn’t work—Cannon kept moving. He climbed over a short wrought iron fence, more decorative than functional, and broke into a dead run. Dixon struggled with the soil, and the faster she tried to go, the more she slipped and slid.

Goddamn it, come on!



VAIL TOOK ONE LOOK at the sloped ground and knew she could not traverse it. She had undergone knee surgery two months ago, and had already stressed it more than was wise. Vail waved Brix by her and told him she’d circle around. But as she turned to head back toward the front of the sprawling, multilevel building, her eye caught sight of an ATV parked in the shadows of a utility garage built into the far end of the structure. It was a tier below them, and Cannon was headed toward it.

That’s his endgame.



DIXON GRABBED a protruding root and yanked hard, using it to leverage herself up and over the fence. But as her feet hit the level ground, the rev of a rough outboard engine snagged her attention. She looked up to see James Cannon on a three wheel vehicle blowing out of an open garage. He twisted the throttle and the ATV burst forward, over the far edge of the hill.

And out of sight.





22


Vail reached Brix’s Crown Victoria out of breath—not so much because of the run but due to the stress of the moment, piled atop the strain of the past week. So much on her mind, so much had gone wrong. So little had gone right.

And now a killer within her grasp, about to slip away—unless she prevented it. She yanked open the door. But she was out of sync. She stuck her right leg into the car just as the door hit the endpoint and swung back into her face. Fuck!

She pushed it open again, felt her bottom lip swelling, then grabbed the keys from atop the visor. Backed out and headed farther down the road, around the other side of the tasting room building. But the road stopped—dead-ended as they had originally thought it did.

For an ATV, however, roads were unnecessary. That was something they had not anticipated.

The Ford’s engine was idling, her foot was shoved up against the brake—and she was filled with indecision. Forward? Or back, the way they came in? Which way would Cannon go? Toward the road? No—that’d make no sense. On the road, the cops had the advantage. Off road, the ATV was king.

Ahead were vines and beyond that, evergreens. Mountain. Uphill. Behind her, if Cannon was not headed for the road, he could go down through the vineyard and then into the forest. They wouldn’t be able to follow and he had acres upon acres to roam.