Fatal Dawn

by Diane Capri

  Wednesday, November 29

  4:10 p.m.

  Zuma Loda Ski Area, Colorado

  Gotting parked in the most remote parking lot at the Zuma Loda ski area, near the exit. The slopes had already closed and the daylight was fading fast. The looming mountains brought darkness much earlier out here.

  The remote lot was mostly used by locals who valued cheap parking more than convenience. Skiers had to walk to the main area but could ski directly back to the car through the trees at the end of the day.

  The locals were almost all gone now. Unlike tourists, once locals finished skiing, they didn’t waste time in the bars. They had to drive back to their homes in the towns and cities across the snowy roads. Navigating in the dark while under the influence of alcohol was nothing but a disaster waiting to happen.

  He ripped the labels off the snowboard boots he’d bought earlier. They fit him well enough and gripped the snow. He selected one of the coat hangers, straightened out the wire triangle and kept the hook.

  He locked the Audi and walked along the road away from town. Lights from houses, chalets, and apartments glinted through the trees.

  Ten minutes later, he found a chalet he could use set back off the road, up to an unpaved lane. Heavy drapes covered the windows, but there were people inside. He heard music and laugher as he walked quietly up the lane, which was even better.

  Six SUVs were wedged into the small parking area. The snow around them was undisturbed, indicating they hadn’t been moved today.

  Farthest from the chalet was an old, light brown GMC Yukon, solid and heavy with bull bars and four-wheel drive. The front end pointed down the slope of the lane. Even better, it was at least twelve years old and wouldn’t have an immobilizer.

  He looked in through the windows to confirm no blinking red lights or other signs of an aftermarket alarm.

  He hid behind the bulk of the vehicle and pushed the coat hanger through the weather-strip on the passenger door. He was about to pull up, hoping to open the lock, when he noticed the door wasn’t locked.

  He pulled the coat hanger out and lifted the handle. The door opened with a tinny metal clang. His heart jumped and he stared in the direction of the chalet. The music didn’t stop. No one opened the drapes or came out of the front door. He breathed again and crawled into the vehicle.

  Not only was the Yukon unlocked, but the keys were in the ashtray. Which wasn’t surprising. People were pretty trusting around here, which he’d forgotten about. Leaving the doors unlocked with the keys inside was not only convenient, but it was also common practice.

  He engaged the key and released the steering lock. He didn’t start the vehicle. He released the parking brake and rolled the Yukon downhill along the lane. He used the vehicle’s momentum to turn onto the main road without stopping. When he was a hundred yards from the chalet, he started the engine and switched on the lights.

  The Yukon coughed into life. He light-footed the accelerator to keep the engine noise down and headed into the Zuma Loda resort.

  There might have been a small town there long ago, but any sign of it had been obliterated by corporate investment. The resort was built for skiers and intended for profit.

  Four ski runs converged in a big open area in front of pricey shops that sold trendy snow gear along with useless but expensive trinkets. Restaurants lined up for business, and several hotels faced the slopes, making the most of their ski-in/ski-out positions.

  Away from the base of the ski runs, the buildings were less grand. Vehicles packed in along the streets because the public lots were full.

  He found a bar illuminated by neon lights that he recognized and circled the block to the road that led out of Zuma Loda. He parked the Yukon and locked it when he stepped out, just in case someone else wanted to steal it.

  He heard the noise from the bar at the end of the block. The après-ski crowd was going strong, which suited his purposes perfectly.

  Outside the bar, they’d lined up their skis in a snow bank. The potential for theft was obvious, so they tried to split up the skis, mixing lefts and rights, but the colors were so bright that it took only a moment to match them again.

  Snowboards were locked to a rack, though. He searched until he found an old one wedged in the snow bank. He rocked it in the snow to make sure he could break it free easily when he needed it.

  Inside, the bar was packed. The air was humid because the snow on the boots mixed with warmth from the heaters to infuse the air with moisture. Coats were heaped in piles, on tables near groups of revelers, or hanging three deep on nearby racks. Even in the dim light, he could tell light blue coats were this year’s color.

  Beer flowed freely and a lot of it spilled. At the back, a local garage band thrashed through Tom Petty songs. He listened briefly on his way through. He wasn’t there for entertainment, but he wanted to fit into the crowd and not draw too much attention.

  Which was also why he went into the restroom and waited a few minutes. Walking in and straight back out of any bar in Colorado would put a spotlight on him for sure.

  When he returned to the bar, the band was belting out “American Girl.” Fortified with alcohol, guys and girls crowded the center of the room writhing in what might have passed for dancing.

  He glanced around. Everyone seemed preoccupied. A light-colored jacket hung on the rack, a black fleece cap poking from the pocket. He lifted the jacket and slipped it on as he walked out.

  Over his pounding heart, he heard no shouts, and no one ran after him. He didn’t look back.

  He found the unlocked snowboard again, pulled it from the snow bank with one swift tug, tucked it under his arm, and walked toward the Yukon, speed increasing with every step.

  In two minutes, he was on the road and the neon lights faded in his rearview mirror.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Wednesday, November 29

  8:00 p.m.

  Vista Hermosa, Colorado

  Jess looked out of her hotel room window, holding her phone to her ear while talking to Morris.

  He said, “Fernandez has a good reputation.”

  “He’s doing everything he can, Henry.” She smiled so he could hear it. “He’s not you, of course. But that can’t be helped.”

  He wasn’t mollified. “You’re doing the handover?”

  She could hear his disapproval all the way from Kansas. “It’ll be okay. I want Peter, he wants his money.”

  “I don’t like it, Jess. We have people who are trained for this work. Can’t you let us do our jobs?”

  Jess didn’t reply.

  He sighed. “I know it’s a waste of breath to argue with you. But be careful. Please.”

  “Of course.” She resisted the temptation to offer some sarcastic teasing. Partly because he was truly worried. And partly because it was nice to have someone who worried about her, finally.

  “I talked to him. He’s wired the car for sound and rigged two guns,” Henry said, probably to reassure himself more than her.

  She smiled, although he couldn’t see her. “One under the driver’s seat, one in the rear wheel arch.”

  “Have you practiced reaching for them? On no advance warning at all?”

  “We ran through everything at the police station. Several times.”

  “But you can reach them? Quickly? With your eyes closed?”

  “I practiced. A lot. No problem. I promise.”

  Henry sighed. “Weather will be our biggest obstacle. We all have four-wheel drive but don’t get too far away from easy access. They can’t help you if they can’t get to you in time.”

  She was about to tell him she wasn’t going to do anything stupid, but she paused, remembering who she was talking to.

  He was the best FBI agent she’d ever met. He was genuine, sincere, and as brave as they came. He’d risked his life to save hers in Italy. He’d even relocated to her city so they could be together. He’d been shot helping her track down Peter. And he was lying in a hospital bed six hun
dred miles away because of her. He’d probably never sat out anything out in his life. Reading emails and listening to secondhand plans couldn’t be easy for him.

  Whatever happened tomorrow would happen. She was as prepared as she could be. They all were. There was nothing else she could say.

  So she told him she loved him. He seemed stunned to silence.

  “I do love you, Henry. Please don’t act like you didn’t already know that,” she said.

  “You’ve never said anything before.” He drew a deep breath. “Promise me you’re not planning some stupid grand gesture against Gotting tomorrow, Jess.”

  She shook her head and grinned. “I know lawmen are skeptical by nature. But the customary thing to say when a woman says she loves you is that you love her back. Not ‘please don’t commit suicide.’”

  He paused for a long time. She heard him breathing, so he hadn’t died. She waited.

  After a while, he said, “I swear, if you die tomorrow, I’ll never forgive you.”

  She laughed heartily and it felt really good to let go. When she finally could speak again, she said, “Good night, Henry. See you soon.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Wednesday, November 29

  11:00 p.m.

  Vista Hermosa, Colorado

  Jess said goodnight to Fernandez when he got off the elevator on the floor below hers after dinner. Her room was a suite with a small kitchen and a tiny desk and chair that allowed the budget hotel chain to claim it offered a workspace for the busy professional.

  She called room service to order a glass of Cabernet. While she waited, she dashed off an email to Stephenson apologizing for not having updated him with the rapidly changing events. He’d been her go-to guy for a long time while she searched for Peter. He’d become emotionally invested in the search, and she couldn’t wait for Peter to meet him when they got home.

  The wine arrived a few minutes later. She sat on the bed, sipping her wine to relax. Her nerves were fizzing. The handover was tantamount to a life-and-death game of chicken. Whatever happened, the first and only thing that absolutely had to happen was to get Peter away safely.

  Even if it meant Gotting escaped. Not that she intended to let that happen. But if it did, Morris would track him down later. Peter came first.

  She finished her wine, no more relaxed than when she started. No way could she sleep. But she had to. She had to be one hundred percent ready when Gotting called tomorrow. Fatigue was the enemy.

  Maybe a warm shower would help relax her. She pushed off the bed and padded barefoot into the small bathroom.

  She started the shower, testing the water with her hand. The mirror began to fog from the steam. The hotel provided small bottles of shampoo and conditioner. She placed them on the edge of the tub.

  She’d seen a bathrobe in the closet. She walked into the bedroom and grabbed it. She tossed it onto the bed and reached to unsnap her jeans.

  A blindingly bright light flashed high up in the corner of the bedroom.

  A fire alarm sounded.

  Deafening whoop, whoop, whoop blasted from speakers in both rooms of the suite and from the corridor. A mechanical voice said, “Please proceed down the stairs. Do not take the elevator.”

  She turned off the shower, dried her hands, and grabbed her coat. She slipped on her shoes. She put her palm flat on the interior door. It was cool to the touch. She pulled it open to step into the corridor.

  She never got the chance.

  Earle Gotting waited until she’d opened the door. He pushed against her chest with both arms, leaning his weight into it. The force slammed her backward into her room.

  She fell against the wall.

  He walked inside and kicked the door closed with his boot.

  All in one motion, he stepped toward her, grabbed her throat with his gloved left hand, and rammed a gun against the side of her head with his right, driving the muzzle into her skin.

  He growled, “Don’t think I won’t shoot you.”

  The first thing she noticed was he smelled of sweat.

  He was only a few inches taller than her. The hair she’d seen in his mug shots was fading fast. What was left dangled down the back of his neck in unwashed clumps.

  Her head throbbed from the impact with the wall, but she ignored it.

  “What do you want?” she said levelly. The fire alarm continued its ear-splitting volume, but he stood so close she didn’t need to raise her voice.

  “You know who I am?”

  She shook her head. Playing dumb might make him talk as much and as long as possible while she figured out what the hell to do.

  He relaxed his grip on her throat and shoved her toward the middle of the room, keeping the gun pointed at her face. “You’re lying.”

  “You’re the man on the phone.”

  “Forget it. Take off the coat. Slowly.”

  Jess slipped off the coat and laid it on the bed. The noise and the flashing lights were disorienting. She couldn’t think.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  Her heart skipped. “You kill me and you’ll never get your money.”

  “You’re mouthy for a woman who wants her kid back,” Gotting grunted. “I think your boss is made of weaker stuff.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I don’t think so. I think I’ll kill you, and he’d still pay up. Now turn around.”

  She turned but kept her head twisted toward him and his gun in view.

  He grabbed the desk chair and shoved it at the back of her legs. “Sit down.”

  She sat slowly while keeping her head twisted around and her eyes on him.

  He secured her silence by placing a length of duct tape over her mouth. She fought back her gag reflex.

  He wrapped the duct tape around her wrists and secured her ankles to the base of the chair.

  She couldn’t talk. Her heart rate rose, pounding painfully against her sternum. She struggled to keep her breathing under control.

  He ripped the tape off her mouth and applied it again. Looser this time, giving her room to breathe and to speak muffled sentences. “Don’t want you dying too soon.”

  He sat on the bed, the gun leveled at her stomach.

  The lights stopped flashing, and the alarm ceased. The noise still rang in her ears even as the silence overwhelmed her senses.

  “What do you want?” she grunted, barely able to form words with her tongue.

  “You know what I want.”

  She nodded. “Three million.”

  He rammed the pistol under her chin. “Five.”

  She grunted no and shook her head. Was that what this was about? He thought if he threatened her personally, she could get more money?

  “I saw you land. Private jet. You and some FBI dweeb.”

  “I wanted to get here as soon as I could.” Her words were a muffled mess, but he seemed to understand her.

  “Private jet. Must have cost thousands. Ten thousand maybe.”

  She shrugged. “FBI.”

  “FBI?” His gaze bore into her. “You’re not trying to cheat me? You have my money. Right?”

  She grunted yes and tried to nod, pushing against his gun as her head bobbed up and down.

  He grabbed her hair and jammed the gun hard into the flesh of her neck. “You. Have. My. Money?”

  She widened her eyes and whimpered. Maybe he’d lay off if he thought he was hurting her. “Yes, yes.”

  His malevolent gaze roamed over her face. She angled her head to relieve the pressure from the muzzle against her jaw.

  He grunted and pushed her head back by her hair. “I’m settling for three. You should be grateful.”

  She nodded as best she could.

  He removed the gun’s barrel from her jaw. “Three million. Not a penny less. Used bills. No trackers or tracers. No funky powder that glows under a black light. Just you and my money.”

  She coughed and rolled her head down, compressing her chin against her neck. She panted. “I can d
o that.”

  He nodded. “Good. Because if you don’t, your boy dies.”

  She lifted her head up, still breathing hard. “Do you have him?”

  Gotting frowned. “You trying to be funny?”

  She shook her head. Her heart pounded.

  Gotting snarled, “Of course I have him. And in case you’re thinking of doing something clever right now, if I don’t get back to him, he dies.”

  She closed her eyes a moment longer than a blink and nodded.

  He grinned. “He won’t die quick. Cold, dehydration, or the fumes. All can kill him. None work fast.”

  Jess grunted. “Okay.”

  He jammed the gun to her forehead and pushed her head back. “You. You will do it.”

  She nodded rapidly. “Me. Just me.”

  Meeting him face to face had revived her memory. Thirteen years ago, he’d been a sullen man in her apartment building who stared and never spoke. He’d been creepy then, and he was creepier now. She hadn’t thought him dangerous then, but now she knew better.

  He eased the gun away. “Good. You do one thing I’ve told you not to do, or one thing I don’t like, and poof. I’m gone. And if I’m gone, so is your baby. Understand?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He must have been satisfied because he reached up and ripped off the duct tape. She felt the sting as it pulled her skin.

  Jess took a deep breath. “You won’t get a cent if Peter isn’t alive and well treated.”

  Gotting rubbed the gun against her cheek. “You just get me my money.”

  She looked down then back up, and straight into his eyes. “If Peter is hurt in any way—”

  “You’ll what?” He looked her up and down. “Write an article about me? A stern telling off? Damn me in print? You haven’t got the balls to do anything to stop me. Not thirteen years ago and not now.”

  The last thing Jess wanted was for Gotting to worry that his money was in jeopardy. Just the opposite. She needed him to be overly confident. To make mistakes.

  She bit her lip. “How do we do the exchange?”