Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(47)

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 small canvas kit. “I usually 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 will 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 totally understand if you refuse.”

As the seconds passed, Vail and Dixon stared out the windshield before finally turning to each other. “Maybe he’s thinking about it,” Dixon said. “Or calling 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 balls hurt, I’m sure.”

“You sure you want to go in? SWAT will 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. “Well, that solves that.” And off they went.





30


Traversing the steep mountainside in the dark made moving along the hilly 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 propelled her down and forward.

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

They were moving reasonably well as they approached the house, which sat below street level in a large gulley 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 walls 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 pulled 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 literally, but then again, who the hell knows? It wouldn’t be his style—he killed 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 pull 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 baseball 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. Actually, 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.