Fatal Dawn

by Diane Capri

  Morris watched her. “That’s for defense, right?”

  She scoffed. “If we find Peter, whoever took him is the one who’ll need a defense.”

  He scowled. “Jess—”

  “Relax. It was a joke.” She wasn’t joking, and he couldn’t possibly have thought otherwise. But he accepted her statement at face value.

  He continued to stare at her, and she wondered what she would actually do if they found Peter’s kidnapper. She’d only know when it happened. If it ever did. Peter had been gone so long. Many days, she’d struggled not to lose hope that she’d ever find him.

  Morris opened the front gate and Jess started up the path to the house.

  The garage door opened. A small silver Mercedes SUV drove out with two men in the front seats.

  Jess waved them to stop. The driver continued out of the driveway. She backtracked along the path, waving her arms in the air and shouting, “Wait, wait!”

  Morris stepped to within a few feet of the vehicle as it turned right. The garage door remained open.

  Jess dug her car keys from her pocket.

  The front door to Norell’s house opened. A woman stepped out. “Zander,” she shouted at the departing vehicle. She turned to Jess and Morris. “Who are you?”

  “FBI,” Morris shouted. “Who was in the Mercedes?”

  The woman frowned. “My husband. What’s going on?”

  “Who was with him?”

  She shook her head. “Where is he going?”

  “No idea,” Morris said as he ran for the Ford.

  Jess jumped into the driver’s seat and punched the start button. She swung the vehicle across the road as Morris closed his door. Even with the steering hard all the way to the stopping point, the Ford’s turning circle was too large. She rammed the gear lever into reverse, shot halfway across the road, she floored the accelerator.

  The Mercedes had disappeared.

  “Right,” Morris said.

  She braked hard for the junction and waited for three cars to pass.

  The Mercedes was several blocks ahead. One of the intervening cars had a left turn blinker on and came to a stop, waiting for the oncoming traffic to clear.

  “Why ignore us?” she said.

  “Could be lots of reasons, but his wife’s response suggests his leaving wasn’t normal.”

  The Mercedes turned right.

  “So, he’s running away or he’s running toward something.”

  “Reasonable assumption,” Morris said.

  Jess checked her mirrors. No vehicles behind her. The line of traffic in front of her wasn’t moving. She twisted the wheel to get around the car in front, mounted the curb and drove past the congestion.

  Morris looked around but said nothing.

  She raced a few more blocks and took the right after the Mercedes. The next street was lined with small shops on one side. Cars were parked at forty-five-degree angles in a line out front.

  She eased by, eyeing each one for the silver Mercedes.

  Morris leaned forward, straining to see.

  Past the shops, she picked up speed. Side streets whipped by.

  “Stop,” Morris yelled.

  She slammed on the brakes. A car behind honked.

  “The last street. On the left,” Morris pointed.

  She twisted around. The car behind her was too close for her to reverse.

  Morris pointed forward. “The next road, then try and get over one.”

  Jess raced forward, the Ford’s tires squealing as she hurled it through ninety degrees.

  The road was quiet. She judged fifty to be the fastest she could drive safely.

  She saw two roads on the right, but nothing on the left. The street ended at a divided highway. She accelerated and joined the flow of traffic.

  They passed the road the Mercedes had taken. Morris stared. “No sign.”

  Jess blew her frustration out in a long stream of air.

  Morris opened the sunroof and climbed on his seat to look out. A moment later he dropped back into his seat. “Silver Mercedes ahead,” he said, buckling his seatbelt.

  Jess squeezed between two trucks to change lanes and accelerated.

  Morris phoned in a request for backup to stop the Mercedes.

  Jess turned on the hazard flashers and honked the horn. Two cars moved over immediately. A large Cadillac SUV blocked her way. She weaved from side to side, her hand on the Ford’s horn.

  “Easy,” Morris said.

  As Jess eased off, the Mercedes accelerated.

  The cars that had pulled over slowed. Jess whispered her thanks and dove into the space they created.

  The Mercedes was ahead, traveling fast.

  She floored the accelerator and the Ford responded dramatically. The engine roared and settled on its haunches as the speedometer climbed to ninety.

  The Mercedes easily ran ahead. The road was clear.

  Jess maintained a steady speed ten miles an hour over the limit.

  Morris kept a running commentary on the phone.

  The Mercedes slowed. The two men in the Mercedes seemed to be fighting.

  Morris drew his gun.

  Jess inched closer. The Mercedes braked and lurched to one side, smashing into her Ford and shoving her sideways, trying to push her off the road. Metal crunched and Jess wrestled the steering, fighting to keep the Ford in her lane.

  She tapped the brakes, slowing enough to wrench the two vehicles apart.

  The Mercedes rocked on its suspension. One of the men turned to look at her.

  She backed off. The Mercedes lurched across the lanes and slammed into the guardrail, showering sparks in the air.

  She braked hard and swung onto the shoulder, maintaining a twenty-foot margin between her vehicle and the Mercedes as it came to a stop in a cloud of dust and gravel.

  The traffic behind them stopped, blocking both lanes.

  Morris leaped from the Ford and took up a position by the rear wheel. Jess ran around the rear of the Mercedes to join him.

  Police sirens sounded in the distance.

  “FBI,” yelled Morris. “Get out. Keep your hands up.”

  A man jumped from the passenger side and ran around the front, using the SUV to shield himself from gunfire.

  “Hands up!” Morris repeated.

  The man in the driver’s seat climbed out, holding his leg. “Don’t shoot. I’m Zander Norell. I was kidnapped.”

  Jess rose a fraction to look over the Ford’s hood. The passenger was long gone.

  Norell leaned on the hood of the Mercedes, apparently in pain.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” Morris said.

  Norell collapsed on the ground and feebly held his hands up.

  Morris kept his gun pointed toward Norell as he approached.

  Jess crouched and moved toward the Mercedes.

  She confirmed that the vehicle was empty, but thirty feet ahead she saw movement behind a tree.

  She stayed behind the hood and trained her gun on the tree. “Stop!”

  The passenger’s face peered from behind the tree. He ducked back just as quickly.

  “Come out,” she called, but he stayed behind the tree.

  The traffic on the highway began moving. Maybe the show wasn’t all that interesting.

  Morris came up beside her. “I cuffed the guy.”

  She pointed. “The other one is behind that tree.”

  Traffic rolled past.

  The sirens grew louder.

  “We can wait for backup.” Morris swiveled his head to look at the passing cars. “Let’s move out of the traffic.”

  He nudged Jess toward the guardrail. He grabbed Norell, still in cuffs, on the way.

  Jess kept her gaze on the tree. She saw the man hiding behind the trunk.

  The traffic gained speed.

  A harsh staccato burst of gunfire split the air. Jess ducked and covered her head. A futile, automatic response.

  Bullets raked across the Ford. Autom
atic fire. Tearing metal and splintering glass. Steam and smoke billowed. The air smelled of harsh chemicals.

  Morris spun around and doubled over with a grunt, both hands clapped to his side.

  A white Toyota rolled past, the passenger window down and a large gun barrel poking out.

  Jess jerked up her Glock, leveling it on the Toyota a second before squeezing the trigger. She fired three times. Close and fast. Concentrating on the Toyota’s window as the gun jerked in her hands.

  The Toyota driver fired back. The muzzle veered in Jess’s direction. Bullets hammered into the street on her left. She flung herself back and smashed head first into the guardrail.

  Pain speared her skull. Multicolored spotlights bloomed across her vision. Her legs wobbled as she tried to regain her balance until her knees buckled.

  Morris lay on the ground, his hands clutching his side. His clothes were soaked with the dark blood that dripped through his fingers.

  The Toyota pulled onto the hard shoulder in front of the Mercedes, and she heard shouts coming from that direction.

  She shuffled forward, her gun ready. Her legs didn’t want to move. She rolled onto her side to see the Toyota, training her gun in that direction.

  The Mercedes passenger jumped into the Toyota, and the car screamed off. She adopted a classic shooter stance and steadied her aim. She wanted to fire. She wanted to stop the man who shot Morris. But shooting at a speeding car on a crowded street was foolhardy.

  Norell had crawled to the guardrail and used it to prop himself up.

  She crawled to Morris on her hands and knees. He lay on his back, blood spreading into a widening pool on the street. She grabbed his wrist and found a pulse, but his hands were limp and his eyes were closed. He didn’t speak or groan or make any noises at all.

  She placed her hands over the bullet hole in his shirt and pressed down, attempting to slow the blood loss with pressure.

  People raced from their cars to surround her and Morris. She heard frantic calls to 911. A man tucked his coat under Morris’s feet and used his hands to help Jess staunch the blood flow.

  After what seemed a century, sirens approached, and flashing lights lit the scene. The crowd parted and paramedics swarmed in. One man hoisted her away from Morris as two doctors ripped into sterile packs of IVs, tubes, and field dressings.

  Morris didn’t flinch as they jammed needles into his veins.

  Jess sat back and stared off into the distance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, November 28

  11:50 a.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  Hallman threw open the Mercedes door moments after the vehicle crashed head-on into the guardrail and the airbags deployed. The blast was numbing, but the adrenaline rushing through his body jerked him back to reality fast.

  He jumped from the battered SUV and climbed over the guardrail.

  Norell climbed out of the other side. A tall guy from the Ford shouted “FBI.” Norell’s hands shot up into the air.

  The woman driving the Ford had a Glock in her hand when she got out. Hallman tossed the saw he’d stolen from Norell’s garage over the guardrail and into the long grass beyond. The saw was a puny weapon against their firepower.

  Police and ambulance sirens sounded in the distance.

  His eyes scanned quickly for the nearest cover. He spied an established tree with an eighteen-inch trunk and hid behind it.

  More shouting. Norell begged the FBI agent not to shoot. The agent moved to Norell and cuffed him.

  Hallman looked around wildly for an escape route. The FBI agent would move in on him next. The highway’s shoulder was a broad swath of unkempt grass which thinned out as it reached a side road. On the far side of the road was a wide gravel area running up to an industrial park.

  The FBI agent didn’t advance from the Mercedes. Probably a good idea. The open space between the SUV and the tree would have made him an easy target if Hallman had a gun, but he didn’t.

  The FBI agent moved closer to the guardrail.

  Hallman fixed his gaze on the woman. He recognized her. She wasn’t an FBI agent. Jessica Kimball. Damn! How had she tracked him down so fast?

  The police sirens grew louder as the vehicles approached. Emergency lights danced over the cars stopped on the highway. His stomach clenched as his tension mounted. When more cops arrived, he’d be hemmed in. Not that his chances of escape were good now. The Mercedes was trashed, and the Ford would catch him in seconds if he tried to run.

  The traffic began moving, rolling at first then picking up speed.

  Automatic gunfire rent the air. He dropped to his knees and leaned into the tree for protection. Was the FBI shooting? There were a few single shots then more automatic fire.

  Whoever was shooting, wasn’t aiming at him. He peered around the tree. The FBI man was down, Norell was cringing in a fetal position, and Kimball was crawling toward the FBI man. She looked dazed like she might have been hit.

  He twisted around. Who was shooting?

  A white Toyota pulled over on the hard shoulder. The passenger window was open.

  “Get in!” Metcalfe shouted.

  A chill gripped Hallman, paralyzing his muscles.

  “Get in,” Metcalfe screamed.

  Hallman’s heart pounded in his chest. Had Metcalfe fired on the FBI? Was he trying to kill them all?

  The Toyota’s engine revved hard and the car jerked forward. The passenger door flew open. “Now,” Metcalfe screamed again.

  Hallman ran for the open door. He cleared the guardrail in one bound and dove into the car.

  Metcalfe floored the accelerator and the Toyota lurched forward, which caused the door to bang shut. Hallman twisted around in the seat and wrestled the seatbelt on. The needle on the speedometer climbed past eighty.

  “What’s going on?” Hallman said.

  Metcalfe glared. He weaved around slower traffic and took the next exit at seventy mph.

  “You shot an FBI agent back there.”

  “I missed that scum Norell.”

  “You were trying to kill Norell?”

  “Duh.”

  Metcalfe fishtailed the Toyota around a ninety-degree bend into a parking lot.

  “Why?” Hallman said.

  “Why!” Metcalfe shouted. “You should be asking why I didn’t kill you, asshole.”

  Metcalfe parked beside a silver Volkswagen Jetta. “Wipe anything you touched.”

  Metcalfe leaped out of the Toyota and rammed a bent coat hanger down the Volkswagen’s window and into the door’s pocket.

  Hallman grabbed the cuff of his jacket and wiped over the Toyota’s seat and door handles as best he could, and hurried out of the car, glancing around wildly. He expected a horde of cops to land on them at any moment.

  The Volkswagen’s locks popped open. Metcalfe ripped a panel from under the steering wheel and plugged a small box into some electronics. The car burst into life.

  Hallman ran around the Jetta and slipped into the passenger seat.

  Metcalfe cruised out of the lot and doubled back the way he’d come.

  Hallman took a deep breath. “So, tell me why you wanted to kill Norell.”

  Metcalfe growled, “Because we’re partners now. Like it or not.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Tuesday, November 28

  1:00 p.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  The first ambulance took Morris. The paramedics loaded him onto a stretcher and one carried the IVs along beside him. Jess asked to go in the same ambulance, but they said no.

  Norell was taken next, with a squad car following.

  They put her in the last ambulance after the police had run through the preliminary questions. They bagged and took her gun.

  She had no strength to argue, but she was able to walk thanks to the medics and a generous supply of oxygen.

  At the hospital, she went through a series of tests. An hour later she sat propped up on a bed, waiting for the results.


  A man in a dark suit and short cropped hair stepped into her room. His dark brown eyes looked almost black. “Jessica Kimball?”

  She nodded.

  He offered his ID. “I’m Special Agent Emilio Fernandez. From the Kansas City field office.”

  Jess scrutinized his ID and nodded as she returned it. “How’s Henry?”

  Fernandez put the ID into his jacket and stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. “Not great. He lost blood, but the paramedics were there quickly. He should be okay in a couple of days.”

  “Is he awake?”

  “He’s sleeping right now, but he asked for you earlier.”

  Jess gave a flat smile. “Can I see him?”

  “Once the doctors say it’s okay. Couple hours or so, probably.”

  “When he wakes, will you tell him I… I asked about him, too.”

  Fernandez nodded. “I know you two are involved. It’s in his file.”

  Jess frowned. “There nothing illegal about that, is there?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. I just want you to know I understand your concern.”

  “Sorry.” She exhaled, looking at Fernandez. “Do you know who shot Henry and why?”

  “Not yet,” he paused. “And we don’t know anything more about your missing son yet, either.”

  She nodded.

  “That’s why I’m here. Morris asked my boss for help and he cut me loose for a few days. See what we can turn up.”

  “We?”

  “Henry filled me in on the case when he came into town. Unfortunately, we were too slow to provide the support we should have.”

  Jess shrugged. “We… I was too impatient.”

  “We are where we are. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Good. Norell claimed he was kidnapped. Do you believe him?”

  She sneered. “That he was kidnapped? Hard to tell.”

  “But the shooter in the Toyota was working with the passenger in the Mercedes?”

  “Makes sense to me. He got into the Toyota of his own free will and then disappeared,” Jess said.

  Fernandez didn’t argue.

  “Has Norell said anything about why he was kidnapped if he was?” She asked.