Fatal Dawn

by Diane Capri

  The lines of skiers scurried to the far side of the slope. She edged onto the trail. In theory, it would be easier to drive on the manicured surface, but she’d skied plenty and knew there’d be little texture for the Jeep’s knobby tires to grip.

  She was right. She was crossing the slope with twenty-five degrees of roll. The Jeep see-sawed down the slope, first the front losing grip, then the rear. She swung the wheel aiming to keep up her progress across the trail, honking the horn as she went.

  Skiers came to a stop and lined the hill above her. A man in a red ski patrol uniform raced down the slope on a snowmobile. The skiers opened a gap for him to travel through.

  Gotting disappeared into the trees. She pressed a fraction harder on the accelerator. The Jeep lost traction against the pull of gravity, sliding sideways down the slope and turning as it went.

  She fought back her instinct to stomp the brakes and spun the wheel to steer into the slide. The Wrangler responded and the wheels aligned with the direction of travel.

  She regained momentary control of the vehicle. The Jeep picked up speed. The trees loomed close. She had no choice, she stomped on the brakes. The Jeep went into a full-on skid, rotating ninety degrees before it hit the trees.

  The passenger side absorbed the brunt of the impact. The airbags exploded, throwing Jess back in her seat. Her ears rang as acrid smoke filled the vehicle. The engine quit. The lifeless Jeep bumped over the rough ground, turning as it went, until the rear of the vehicle came to rest against a trunk.

  Wind rushed through the missing windows and cleared the smoke. She was facing uphill. The snowmobile was barreling toward her. The first few skiers set off to pass on the far side of the run.

  She opened her door. Her head swam. She breathed deep. The snowmobile slowed as it approached. She reached under the seat and pulled the second Glock free.

  She stood on the driver’s seat and held onto the roof rails to gain height. Between the thin trees was indistinct movement. Gotting wasn’t that far ahead.

  “What are you doing?” shouted the ski patrol.

  She jumped from the Jeep and worked her way toward him, digging the toes of her boots into the snow.

  “I need your ride,” she said.

  He leaned forward, a frown visible behind his goggles. “What?”

  She reached him and grabbed the handlebars. “I need this.”

  The man’s eyes fell on the gun. “Er…”

  “I’m with the FBI. Chasing a kidnapper. Get off.” In the circumstances, she didn’t feel she was stretching the truth, and she didn’t care.

  He shook his head. “No. I…are you serious.”

  She hefted the gun. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  He held his hands up. “Okay, okay.”

  “Get off.”

  He dismounted the snowmobile, his gazed fixed on the Glock.

  She sat on the sled. “Call the police.”

  She twisted the throttle, and the machine snapped forward, almost throwing her off the back. She plunged down the slope, leaning back in the seat. She circled around the end of the trees.

  Gotting was crossing a rough section to the next run. He had a backpack in place of the suitcase. He’d switched the contents.

  She leaned into the hill and crossed the trail.

  Gotting was leaping and pushing, fighting against the lack of slope.

  She opened the throttle. The snowmobile bounced and wobbled as it crested tiny dips and swells in the trail. She steered up and down a fraction to avoid a group of skiers hurling a barrage of angry shouts.

  She reached the rough area as Gotting made it onto the next trail. She held the throttle open. The engine’s roar deepened as it worked hard to propel the snowmobile through the softer, deeper snow.

  Gotting turned and fired. Jess ducked down. She couldn’t return fire with so many people around and she wouldn’t stop. The distance between them reduced rapidly. Gotting ran out of ammo, threw his gun toward her, and set off down the slope.

  She kept her hand on the throttle, sweeping round above him. He headed straight down the fall line, accelerating rapidly. She leaned back in the snowmobile’s seat because the weight of the machine threatened to pull her over, head first.

  Gotting slowed a fraction before turning toward another bank of trees.

  Jess hurtled past him with her leg out. She caught his hip with the sole of her boot. A good solid impact. Gotting was thrown flat. The force rotated her body, twisting the handlebars and inducing a heart-stopping rocking motion. She eased off the throttle and leaned into the hill. The rocking stopped, and she raced around in an arc.

  Gotting was sliding down the slope, trying to rotate his body and get back on the snowboard.

  She matched his speed with the snowmobile, staying above him.

  His slide stopped. Jess did the same, ten feet away, with the Glock trained on him. “Don’t even think about moving.”

  He stood up. One boot had come free of the snowboard. He struggled to kick the second boot free. Finally, the board separated and skittered down the hill.

  He stepped toward her. “You think I’m scared of you?”

  “You should be. I’m an excellent shot. I could have hit you a dozen times.” She held the gun pointed steadily at his groin. “Where’s Peter?”

  He laughed. “You’re going to shoot me?” He held his arms out. “Here? Where there’s a ton of people.”

  A trio of snowmobiles started up the hill, two riders apiece.

  “Where’s my son?”

  He laughed. “I told you what would happen.”

  “Where. Is. My. Son!”

  “Ain’t nothing you can do to find your little boy. He’s a gonna die!” He went for the Glock in her hands.

  Jess whipped the gun out of his reach, but he caught her jacket, yanking her from the snowmobile. The Glock spun out of her hand and vanished down the slope.

  She lashed out with her boot, catching him in the groin with a solid kick. He grunted and threw her to the ground.

  She rolled onto her knees and sprang to her feet. He was still folded in two. He looked up at her. She pounded her fist into his face. The cartilage in his nose bucked and twisted. He yowled. She grabbed his stringy thin hair, wrenched his head forward, and hammered her fist into his face a second time. Blood poured from his nose and lip.

  “Where’s my son?” she shouted.

  Gotting sank onto the snow.

  She raised her fist.

  Gotting looked at her, blood running down his face, and sneered. “He’s never been yours, and you ain’t gonna have him now.”

  She swung her fist for the center of his face.

  He jerked backward, breaking free of her grip, and slid down the snowy slope.

  Jess fell onto the side of the snowmobile, fighting to avoid the hot and still running engine.

  She used the handlebars to pull herself up to her knees.

  Gotting was thirty yards down the slope, on his stomach and scrabbling across the frictionless surface, going for her Glock.

  She looked around. The trees were twenty yards away on either side.

  Gotting grabbed the gun. He was still on his back. He leveled the gun toward Jess and fired. The gun boomed in the wide-open space and the shot went wide. A cloud of snow erupted to her right.

  Offense was her only defense.

  She levered herself up and lay flat on the snowmobile’s saddle, her hands on the handle bars.

  The Glock boomed again. Three shots. All three hit much too close. The metal of the snowmobile rang with each bullet’s impact.

  She twisted the throttle wide open, gripping the handlebars as tight as she could. The vehicle bounded forward, almost throwing her off behind.

  She stayed flat while steering directly toward Gotting.

  He rolled up onto his feet and fired again and again, emptying the clip.

  The snowmobile covered the gap in seconds. At the last moment, he threw himself backward, but the snowmobi
le ran over the top of him.

  The vehicle bucked and threw Jess off before it came to a stop, its tracks digging into the snow while she continued to slide down the slope.

  Gotting lay still, buried in the snow.

  She finally slowed to a stop. Her hands and knees stung from the impact, but she kept her eyes locked on Gotting.

  The trio of snowmobiles arrived. The first stopped beside Jess, the other two continued onto Gotting.

  Fernandez dismounted and held his hand out to help her up. “You okay?”

  She didn’t speak. Her fists were tight, and her teeth were clamped hard shut. Given the chance, she’d beat the answers out of Gotting. Where was Peter? That’s all she wanted to know. She panted like a bull before a charge.

  One of the agents checked Gotting for a pulse. He looked at Fernandez and shook his head.

  Jess breathed out like she’d been punched in the gut. “Peter’s not in Gotting’s Yukon. He wouldn’t tell me where to find my boy,” she said, her teeth still clenched tight.

  “We’ll find him, Jess.”

  “How?”

  Fernandez said, “Forensics. We’ll go over the Yukon, and his Audi in the parking lot. Soil samples and all sorts of things can help.”

  She shook her head. “That’ll take days. Gotting was taunting me. He said Peter won’t last long.”

  “We’ve got CSI coming from Denver and Colorado Springs. We’re doing everything we can.”

  She looked back up the slope. “He was parked in the trees. Ready. He intended to ambush me on that road all along. He planned his getaway on the snowboard.”

  “He was heading for his Audi.”

  “Is Peter in the car?”

  Fernandez shook his head. “And we have men combing the woods around the Yukon. If Peter’s there we’ll find him.”

  She looked around at the mountains. “He could be anywhere.”

  Fernandez nodded, with a sympathetic smile. “We’re not giving up, Jess.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Thursday, November 30

  11:00 a.m.

  Zuma Loda Ski Area, Colorado

  Jess sat in Morris’s Jeep, the heater blowing hard. He’d insisted she get some warmth.

  Her knuckles burned from punching Gotting, but she was sorry she hadn’t punched him several more times.

  Morris was on the phone, calling every police department for miles around and questioning every record of suspicious activity. Gotting must have holed up somewhere, but Morris had found nothing helpful so far.

  The Jeep’s windows were misting up. The snow had intensified. Visibility was down to less than a quarter mile. She cracked open a window.

  Jess clenched her fists. “He knew what he was doing. He planned…” She took a deep breath. “He planned to let Peter die. He was always going to let Peter die.”

  Morris put his hand on Jess’s shoulder. “We’ve got leads Jess. We’re following up everything. CSI is working on the Yukon. CBI is reviewing every traffic camera they can.”

  Her phone rang. She answered immediately. “Jess Kimball.”

  “Ross Tierney. Get moving. Out of the parking lot and turn left.”

  Jess spun around. “You’re here?”

  “I’ll explain when you’re on the move.”

  She covered the mouthpiece. “Tierney has something. Drive.”

  Morris shoved the Jeep into gear and raced out of the parking lot. Fernandez saw them leaving and followed in a second Jeep.

  Jess put her phone on speaker. “Okay, we’re on the way.”

  Ross Tierney’s voice rasped from the car’s stereo. “Take Plateau Creek Road back to 216. Four miles then turn left on 149. It’s a winding road, but it’ll be quickest.”

  “What have you found?” Jess said.

  “You realize I can’t just use Air Force assets as if they were my own?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I want my son back just as badly as you do. We’re training a lot of drone pilots. We have seven Night Crows in your vicinity.”

  Jess leaned forward. “Seven?”

  “Should have been eight. One of them is a hangar queen. We’ve been doing a wide-area moving track sweep since dawn. We record everything. Once something happens, we can rewind the recording to find the target’s origin.”

  Morris ran the wipers on full speed and the heat blasting on the windshield. The Jeep rocked in the wind as they reached the peak and Gotting’s Yukon. The CSI team stared as the convoy of Jeeps barreled past.

  “So, you know Peter’s location?” Jess said.

  “Not yet. Gotting started outside the area we were sweeping. But we know he can’t have driven more than a few miles because his Yukon had a low heat signature when it entered the search area.”

  Morris slowed on the downslope. The Wrangler’s transmission whined as it took some of the load, controlling their rate of descent.

  “Where do we go after we turn onto 149?” Jess said.

  “Our best guess is the Yukon started on that road, somewhere between five and ten miles from Gunnison.”

  Jess brought up a map on the Jeep’s dashboard. “It’s going to be seventy-five minutes before we can get there. Can you cover that area with your drones?”

  “We’re trying. The snow is thinning quickly, and we have a few possible buildings, but nothing certain yet. There’s a lot of holiday cabins in the area. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something.”

  Tierney hung up.

  Morris used the Wrangler’s speakerphone to call Gunnison PD and the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. Within a minute, five more cars were converging on 149, south of Gunnison.

  He rallied his way along 216 and onto 149. The road narrowed. It was almost all turns. The agents in the Jeep behind kept pace.

  Jess studied CO-149 on her phone as she held onto a grab handle.

  The land looked hilly on either side of the road. The map image showed nothing but trees. There were numerous turnings off the road, presumably leading to houses under the tree canopy. “There’s a lot of pines obscuring the buildings. And there’s a lot of buildings.”

  “Gunnison PD will be there well before us. They’ll know the area and the residents. That should cut down the number of places to search.”

  Morris kept his foot down. The Jeep made light work of the snow and slush, but 149 was a twisting road that prevented rapid progress. The snow changed from the large fluffy clumps on the top of Plateau Creek to a needle-fine dust.

  Jess jolted when her phone buzzed. Tierney spoke immediately after she answered the call.

  “I’m sending a text with GPS coordinates now. Two possibilities. One’s a weekend place that looks like it’s been broken into, the other is a derelict structure built against the side of an escarpment. The derelict place has tire tracks, now covered by snow, so they must have been earlier this morning. It’s consistent with our back-track of his Yukon.”

  Jess typed the coordinates into the Jeep’s navigation system. “We’ll be there in fourteen minutes.”

  “Good. We’re still looking for other high probability targets.”

  Tierney hung up.

  Morris pushed his foot down on the gas.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Thursday, November 30

  Noon

  Gunnison, Colorado

  Morris slowed as they closed in on the GPS coordinates. A police cruiser was parked by a lane on the side of the road, lights flashing.

  He displayed his badge to get them by an officer at the bottom of the lane.

  The path sloped upward. Tracks showed several vehicles had traveled the lane already. They passed a derelict shelter and came to a stop. The lane ran out at a line of three police Ford Explorers. Morris parked the Jeep, careful not to block any of the police vehicles.

  Jess jumped out. Foot traffic had made a line through the undergrowth. She raced to follow the path. Morris was a few steps behind her, grunting to control his pain.

  They em
erged into an open area. In front of them was a forty-foot, vertical rock face. A large dilapidated wooden building appeared to be leaning against the rock. An officer stood by one corner of the building. Jess ran to him. “Is there a boy inside?”

  Morris held out his badge.

  The officer nodded. “There’s someone inside. He—”

  Jess pushed past and ducked into the building through a large hatch.

  The building was basically one open space. Moss grew in corners. The air was damp and fetid. A large rusted wood-burning stove lay on its side. Rotting furniture was strewn about.

  The rear wall was bare rock.

  In the middle of the wall, four officers were leaning on crowbars, trying to pry open a giant metal door. The ground around them was littered with tools.

  “Is he alive?” Jess called.

  One of the officers nodded. “He’s making noises.”

  The officers adjusted their crowbars and heaved their weight into the door again. It creaked but didn’t open.

  Jess pointed to the stove. “We need to use the weight of the door. Lever it down from the top by standing on this.”

  One of the officers stared at her. She patted the stove. “Stand on it. Lever the door from the top.”

  The officers dragged the stove to the door. It was big enough for three of them to stand on. They dug crowbars into the gap at the top of the door.

  They leaned in. The door creaked and bulged.

  The fourth officer dug a crowbar into the gap by the lock.

  The metal screeched like an angry bird before it bent. Paint and rust crumbled off, but the door and its frame flexed back into position.

  Jess grabbed an ax from tools on the ground. “Again!”

  The officers leveraged their weight into the top of the door. The metal creaked. The last officer wedged his crowbar into the gap on the side.

  Jess pounded the ax into the gap by the door handle.

  The officer inched his crowbar farther into the gap.

  She wrestled the ax from the door and slammed it into the widening gap.

  The officer repositioned his crowbar.