Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(49)

Shouting—screaming.

Vail spun around the edge of the wall, Glock out in front of her, and moved down the carpeted hallway 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 wall. Again, and again.

Vail followed 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. “I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?” She quickly pulled off the mother’s gag, which elicited a whimper. Vail ignored it. “Scissors?”

“In the drawer,” the mother said. “The desk—”

Vail swung around and found the piece of furniture three strides away. Grabbed the scissors, cut the ankle bindings. “Out the back,” she said. “Go!”

She would be sending them where the woman’s husband and the girls’ father was lying dead—but their physical safety was of paramount importance. Their mental health could be addressed later.

Now. Find Dixon.

A loud thump. A groan.

Vail slipped out of the family room, then moved down the hallway toward the front door. There, laid out face up on the carpet was James Cannon—and Dixon astride him, pounding away at his face. “Roxx!”

Another punch.

Vail ran forward and grabbed the back of Dixon’s shirt. “Roxx, enough!”

Dixon’s shoulders rose and fell with rapid heaves as she got up and stumbled backward. Vail almost gasped when she saw her partner’s face: red welts over the left eye, which was already swollen half shut. A bruise across her right cheek.

Cannon didn’t look much better: his mouth, which hung open, was bloody, his teeth coated a slasher-film burgundy.

“Cuffs,” Vail said, then swung her Glock into her holster. As Dixon handed them over, Vail asked, “Where’s your SIG?”

Dixon looked left, then right, then paced up and down the hallway. Vail knew she would want to locate it before SWAT arrived on scene. Having your sidearm taken from you in a confrontation was embarrassing—and bordered on incompetent.

Vail pulled the radio from her back pocket. “H-30, this is Vail. All secure. Repeat. All secure. Suspect in custody. Request ambulance.”

“Roger that, Agent Vail.”

Dixon came up to her, SIG in hand. She slipped it into her holster without offering a word.

“So what happened?”

“I came through the door, and he was on me as soon as I stepped through. We both landed some good shots, but I think I got the worst of it. I went down and he came at me, but I landed a hard kick in his steroid-shrunken balls. That was all I needed. I got to my feet and kneed him pretty hard in the face. Broke his nose, for sure. He staggered back and I landed a few good blows. He went down, and a couple punches later, you appeared.”

“A couple punches?”

Dixon flexed her swollen right hand. “Maybe a few more.”

Red, blue, and white lights strobed through the drawn window curtains, projecting a nervous energy onto the far wall. The thumping beat of the H-30’s rotors intensified, indicating that the chopper had dropped to a safe distance above the house. Vail felt the vibration in her chest, and she fought the urge to cough or bang it to dislodge the discomfort.

She made her way to the backdoor and saw the helicopter’s white beacon bathing the rear yard in light. A CSI Vail hadn’t yet met was slipping and sliding toward the dead body lying on the wet bed of pine needles and mud.

“Karen!”

Dixon’s voice. She made her way back to the front door. The SWAT commander would no doubt be entering the house any minute. But as Vail approached, she realized that wasn’t why Dixon had called her. James Cannon was regaining consciousness.

Dixon was standing a few steps away from him, her SIG drawn and in her right hand, extended and pointed at his chest. Inviting him to make a threatening move.

He pushed himself backward against the front door and now sat half reclined, canted left, his shoulder pressed to the wall. His hands were cuffed behind his back. He did not look comfortable—or pleased.

Vail approached and stopped ahead of Dixon, at Cannon’s feet. She crouched and rested her forearms on her thighs. “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. You fucked up real bad. You had everything going for you. Working at an up-and-coming winery, possibly slated to be the wine maker in five to ten years if you learned the business well and proved yourself. Forgive me for asking, but what the hell were you thinking?”

Cannon’s right eye narrowed. “You’re not as pretty as I thought you were when we met in the gym. Asking you out . . . yeah, what the hell was I thinking?”

Vail grinned. “That’s good. I believe in giving credit where it’s due. But we don’t have a lot of time here, Jimmy. So I’m gonna come straight with you. I’m serious—was the wine thing a cover or did you really have intentions of being a wine maker?”

Cannon’s gaze fell to his lap. “I took enology in college. I wanted to be a wine maker.”

“Until John Mayfield came into your life. Then you saw something that interested you more. Right?”

Cannon pouted his lips and nodded imperceptibly. A concession without an embarrassing admission.