Fatal Dawn

by Diane Capri

  Gotting sneered. “You think I’m going to tell you that so you can set up some trap? You really do think I’m stupid.”

  Jess shook her head. “You’re not stupid. We both know that the handover is the tricky part. I want to make sure it goes off smoothly. You’ve told me Peter’s life depends on it. I don’t want to screw anything up.”

  “Well, that’s good. You be ready tomorrow with a car and my money in a suitcase, just like I told you.”

  “And after that?”

  “You wait here. At the hotel. You’ll get your instructions.”

  Gotting checked Jess’s bonds before he stood to leave. “I know you think your FBI friends will help you. Maybe you believe they’ll catch me. But think on this. I know the drill. I have the right to remain silent. And I will. And if I do, your precious boy will die.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Thursday, November 30

  5:30 a.m.

  Gunnison, Colorado

  Gotting chose to sleep in the derelict cabin. It was a fifty-fifty decision compared to the Yukon. He’d kept all his clothes on, layering his own coat over the stolen ski jacket. He’d pulled down the fleece hat as far as it would go. His joints ached when the alarm on his watch rang at 5:30 a.m.

  His breath condensed in the air. He levered himself up onto his feet and walked circles to stretch out his muscles. His limp was more pronounced in the cold.

  He walked one more circle, then hammered on the metal door. There was no response. He hammered again but heard nothing.

  He could still get his money, even if the boy had died, but he might be more useful alive. It would give him more bargaining options if anything went south.

  Gotting dragged an old table across the floor. It was warped and moldy but made of thick chunks of wood. He leaned it against the door, an inch under the big metal handle. He slid back the lock bolt. It rasped as rusty metal scraped against rusty metal, and the door inched open.

  Peter slammed his body into the door. The door shook. The hardware jolted back a fraction. The boy grunted and screamed. His shoes were scrabbling for grip and he put all his weight into his effort.

  Gotting held the table under the door handle. The boy’s force was grinding the handle into the wood, binding the two together harder. He waited a full thirty seconds for the boy to adjust his body position. He was preparing for a second attempt. Gotting leaned on the door, closing the gap, and clicked the bolt back in place.

  Peter shouted, his voice rough and gravelly, but little more than a mumble through the metal.

  Gotting adjusted the table, shoring it up under the handle. He scraped up sand and dust with his hands, and poured it into the giant lock, seizing the mechanism.

  Whether Peter was dead or alive wouldn’t affect getting his money. But it would be game over if he escaped.

  He checked he had his gloves and goggles and stepped outside. Light snow was falling. The Yukon was completely covered, making its bulk even larger in the faint dawn light.

  His snowboard boots gripped the soft snow firmly. One advantage snowboarders had over skiers was the ability to walk almost normally.

  He found some broken branches and used them to brush the snow from the Yukon. Normally, he would only have bothered with the windows, but he cleared the whole vehicle. The last thing he wanted was some chunk of snow blinding him at the wrong moment.

  He checked the snowboard was in the rear before starting the Yukon. The engine churned into life. He let it idle a few moments before putting it in gear. Fortunately, the owner had kept the gas tank well filled.

  The big SUV slithered down the trail to the main road. Despite the four-wheel drive, it wasn’t great descending hills. The main road was a mixture of snow and slush. It wasn’t a busy route, but enough traffic had been by to keep the snow from hardening.

  He had sixty miles to go. He kept the heater blowing on the windshield and the wipers going to stop the glass from misting up.

  The route slowly climbed. He passed through a few sleeping towns, their lights filtering through the snowflakes. He kept rigidly to their posted speed limits.

  Cars drove by in the opposite direction. When a car approached him from behind, he pulled over. He wasn’t being a good citizen, he didn’t want anyone following him.

  He knew his route by heart. He reached his final turn. The road weaved as it climbed. The slope grew steeper. The road led out of one valley and into the next. The valleys ran parallel to each other, and the road he was on was the only link for a good ten miles in each direction.

  The snow grew heavier. They were the same thin flakes, but there were more of them. The temperature dropped. The snow stuck to the road. The passage of cars wasn’t enough to turn it to slush, their wheels merely tamped it down into hard pack.

  He passed over the top of the ridge. The wind whistled around the Yukon.

  He looked behind him. There was no sign of his tracks. A good thing as long as it didn’t prevent Kimball getting up to the top of the ridge.

  On the right, he could make out the Zuma Loda ski area through the snow. The lights of the town were on. Yellow pools of warmth inviting skiers for the day.

  The ski lifts were stationary, their wires trailing in haphazard routes down the mountain. A few hundred yards to his right, a group of workers was clearing the overnight snow from a chairlift.

  He made a three-point turn, headed back up the road, and stopped a couple hundred feet short of the peak. He reversed the Yukon through a rough gap in the trees on the opposite side of the road to the Zuma Loda ski area. He guessed that under the blanket of snow there was a footpath, but it suited his purpose.

  His tire tracks were almost invisible. A few more minutes of snow and no one would know he was there. He turned off the engine and headlights. He flipped the interior light to the off position and tested it by opening the door. There was no light. All was good.

  He exited the Yukon, and walked along the road, toward the mountain’s peak. The snow grew thin. The wind blew it into swirls around the trees. He zipped up the hood of the ski jacket. It was thin material and barely windproof. The jacket was a fashionable make. He cursed the person who’d put style before substance.

  The wind picked up as he crested the peak. The snow was traveling almost horizontally. Visibility was down to perhaps a mile or two.

  He looked back the way he’d come. It was downhill, but when Kimball arrived, a mile would barely give him a minute or two. He found a spot on the edge of some trees. It afforded shelter and gave him the best view of the road down the mountain and valley. It would form a good sighting spot to watch for Kimball’s approach.

  He strained to see through the falling flakes. He could hear a delivery truck lumbering up the hill. As soon as he caught sight of the vehicle, he checked the time on his watch and ran. He dodged his way out of the trees to the main road then followed the edge toward the Yukon. The gravel on the side of the road gave better grip than the smooth tarmac.

  He ran hard. His arms swinging and his heart pumping. His lungs strained in the thin air. He was almost to the Yukon when he stumbled to a stop. He folded double, supporting his upper body weight with his elbows on his knees, and panted. Stars swam across his vision. He staggered back and leaned against a tree.

  Damn.

  The truck drove by. The noise of its laboring engine replaced by the squeal of its brakes as it rolled downhill.

  He checked his watch. It had been a minute and forty-five seconds since he first saw the truck. That meant he couldn’t run when he saw Kimball’s Jeep. Even if he made it to the Yukon, he’d be in no state to take her on and escape.

  The path he’d parked on led through the trees up to the peak. It was a straighter route, but it’d be more difficult to run.

  He took the floor mat from the passenger side of the Yukon. It was a two-foot square, nylon carpet on one side and hardened plastic on the other.

  He walked the path back to the peak, sat on the floor mat, and waited to g
et his breath back. He angled himself down the path and pushed off. He had to work with his feet to keep himself going straight, but he arrived at the Yukon in just over forty seconds.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. He would have almost a minute to get himself ready, and he would be in good shape to take her on.

  Satisfied with the first half of his scheme, he climbed into the rear of the Yukon and tested the snowboard’s bindings. They zipped up snug with just one strap. He practiced putting his feet in and out of the binding. If his plan was going to work, he was going to have to be fast and unobtrusive. Nothing attracted attention more than fumbling and fighting with your gear on the slopes.

  He carried the snowboard across the road, and through the trees to the opposite side. There was a walking trail, rough underfoot and about fifty yards long. The trail ended with a danger sign and the Zuma Loda ski resort emblem. He laughed. There was no danger, they just wanted to frighten people away from skiing without buying a lift pass.

  Down the mountain, a chairlift started to move. Minutely at first. Groaning and clanking until it got up to speed.

  The town was lighting up. The workers were in full swing. A few determined skiers and snowboarders were eating an early breakfast, waiting to jump on the first lift to the top of the groomed area. Some would go farther. Hiking another five-hundred feet up through a narrow passage to the mountain’s peak.

  There was the real terrain. Backcountry stuff. Off-piste as the French like to call it. Gnarly. It was the stuff he’d sought out when he’d lived in Colorado. The high he’d had blasting down the mountain through the biting cold air was its own drug.

  He’d do it again. But not today.

  He chose a tree on the edge of the woods and leaned the snowboard against it.

  He practiced reaching for the board and clipping his boots into the bindings. The tree was ideally located on the flat ground and at the edge of a run. He could step into the board’s bindings and use the tree to push himself onto the run. It was only a green, the easiest slope, but it would be enough for him to leave behind anyone on foot.

  He trudged back to the Yukon. It had gained a few flakes in the time he’d gone. He brushed the windows. He could hear the clanking of a chairlift in the distance. The cold air carried noises clearly.

  He went over his plan again. This was it. He had to get the money. The police, the FBI, and the Kimball woman all knew him. There was no way back. But with three million cash he could leave the country on his own terms. He’d get a boat and head south.

  He switched on his phone and pulled out the receipt for the express delivery envelope. A search engine gave him an expected delivery time of 9:50 a.m. He had three hours.

  He didn’t mind. The handover had a lot of things in common with kidnapping. Of course, kidnapping babies and young kids was a lot easier than giving the feds the slip, but it all came down to the same thing. Timing. They wouldn’t have any idea where he was, and when they finally got a clue, it would be too late because he would be long gone.

  He set an alarm on his phone. At exactly 9:50 a.m. he’d go back to his sighting spot in the trees. At 10:10 he’d call Kimball. Minutes later, she’d fall into the trap, and he’d be three million richer.

  He ran the engine a few minutes for warmth and settled down to wait for his alarm.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Thursday, November 30

  9:30 a.m.

  Vista Hermosa, Colorado

  Gotting had said the instructions would arrive at the hotel, so Jess rose early after a fitful sleep. She ate a light breakfast and drank two espressos. She was ready to go at a moment’s notice.

  Lynette Tierney had arrived early. After a few moments of conversation, she sat in a chair, hands clutched together and rocking back and forth.

  Fernandez was outside with two other officers, keeping watch up and down the road, scrutinizing each approaching vehicle. They’d been doing it for two hours, but they’d seen no one suspicious.

  The FBI had alerted the Post Office and national delivery companies. None of them reported having an envelope or package to be delivered to Jess or to the hotel. The hotel had given permission to trace calls, and an agent from the FBI office was at the telecom company’s switching exchange.

  Jess paced the length of the hotel lobby and rubbed her wrists. She’d raised the alarm soon after Gotting had left, but the exertion required to get the duct tape off had left her skin raw.

  His visit had been all about power. He wanted to prove she should take his threats about surveillance seriously. And he had done it through threatening the one thing she loved the most.

  Peter.

  His message wasn’t wasted on her. He was heartless. Ruthless. Soulless. Anyone in his crosshairs was in mortal danger. He thought his visit would frighten her into submission, make her force the FBI to stay out of the way.

  He couldn’t have been more wrong. He’d grossly underestimated her in more ways than one.

  She was the last mother he’d ever do this to. Never again.

  Her phone alerted her to an email from Stephenson. He wished her good luck and hoped that she didn’t need it. She sent him a quick thank you as she walked back across the lobby.

  A black Lincoln Town Car pulled into the parking lot. Jess stood by the window, watching. The car stopped under the awning outside the main door. Henry Morris stepped out.

  Jess ran outside. Morris grinned.

  She hugged him. “How on earth—”

  “I checked out. Doctors weren’t happy, but neither was I. We reached an agreement. I have to go in for a checkup tomorrow.”

  She stepped back. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m going to have to take it easy.” He shifted his weight. “I wanted to be here to help.”

  Fernandez put his hand on Morris’s shoulder. “He’s going to be a passenger in my Jeep, and nothing else. Director’s orders.”

  Jess took Morris inside the hotel and introduced Lynette Tierney.

  A woman wearing jeans and a bright yellow parka crossed the road from the small garage opposite. Jess stiffened when she handed a padded envelope to Fernandez. They talked for a moment before she returned to the garage and Fernandez came into the hotel.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Jess said.

  Fernandez ran his hand across the envelope. “Seems like just paper.” He held out the letter. “Addressed to you care of the garage across the street.”

  “He’s full of surprises.”

  Fernandez donned nitrile gloves. “Let’s hope this is the last surprise.”

  The envelope contained a single sheet of paper with directions. The list was handwritten in block capitals. He held the paper by the corners.

  An FBI technician shone a black light over the page and shook his head. “Nothing obvious.”

  Fernandez laid the page on a larger sheet of paper and photographed the text.

  The technician dusted both sides of the page for prints and shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Jess took a picture of the page, and the technician made photocopies.

  Fernandez laid out a map and traced the directions with a pen.

  “That’s a long way,” Jess said.

  Fernandez nodded. “Highway 285 south then 216 west through Pineland Valley.”

  Morris pointed at the list. “He’s making you pick up a burner phone on the way, so give us the number as soon as you get it.”

  Next to the location of the phone was a note that the phone was under observation, and if anyone picked it up before Jess, Peter was dead. “You think he has a partner?”

  “We’ll have to assume he does. But unless he’s got a large team, he can’t be watching everything. We won’t risk picking up the phone early. Once we have the number, we can trace calls right away.”

  Jess nodded. “The directions don’t end with the word handover.”

  Fernandez sucked air in through his teeth. “No.”

  “He’s going to be watching me on the wa
y, and if you’re there at the next set of instructions…”

  Fernandez consulted the map. “I can put some men in the area pretty quickly. Drive slowly. Give us time.”

  Jess nodded. “Just bear in mind, I can handle myself. I won’t be suing you for keeping farther back until we’ve exchanged.”

  “We’ll be out of sight, Jess.”

  The technician handed Jess a copy of the map mounted on cardboard. It was small enough to hold with one hand. The route was highlighted in yellow marker. “We’ve programmed it into the Jeep as well,” he said.

  Fernandez’s phone rang. He listened for a few moments and hung up. “The money is on its way.” He took a deep breath. “Time to put you in a bulletproof vest.”

  She nodded. “Let’s get going.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Thursday, November 30

  10:00 a.m.

  Vista Hermosa, Colorado

  The bulletproof vest was bulky. Despite its claims of comfort and the reassurance it gave her, it did little to slow her racing heart. She adjusted her seat to compensate for being an inch closer to the Jeep’s pedals.

  Morris put a red, hard-sided suitcase in the passenger seat footwell. He patted the handle. “Stock suitcase. No trackers. Nothing. Once you hand this over, it’s his. Unless we have eyeballs on him, we’ll never see it again.”

  “I’m not letting go until I have Peter.”

  He nodded. “And no hero stuff. Once you have Peter, you head in the other direction as fast as you can.”

  She nodded.

  “Agreed?” he prompted.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m serious, Jess.”

  “How many others did Gotting kidnap?”

  Morris sighed. “Fernandez and I pulled every string imaginable to even get you near this handover. It’s all about you and Peter. Gotting gets away, and no problem. He’ll turn up again. Three million dollars in his pocket, and he’ll stand out like a sore thumb.”