Authors: Simon Wood
T
wo of Sheils’s
agents burst into the room, with weapons drawn. The tension went out of them at the sight of Rooker’s corpse, and they lowered their weapons.
Scott held Rooker’s dead body in his arms. A single bullet had dispatched any chance of answers, understanding, and reconciliation. How could Rooker have been so cruel? Did he really hate him that much? Scott wished he could have talked to the man without the threat to his children, without the disguise of the Piper to mask his motives. If they’d talked, maybe something good could have happened. In a twisted way, Rooker had been successful. The Piper had been unmasked and killed. Redfern had been killed. Scott’s children were in dire peril. What more could Rooker have asked for? Scott tried to feel something for the man. Hate. Pity. Disgust. It didn’t matter which. Anything would do. But Rooker’s act of selfish cruelty left him numb.
“He’s dead, Scott. Leave him,” Sheils said. “We have to think about Sammy and Peter now.”
Scott nodded. He took a last look at Rooker’s face. A ragged hole, scorched by the muzzle flash, stained the underside of his chin, and blood had spilled from his mouth. The top of his head was a ruined mess. His stare stretched into the distance, but his expression was one of pleasure.
Victory. With his last act of revenge, Rooker believed he’d won.
“You haven’t won yet,” Scott said. “Do you hear me? You haven’t won yet.”
“C’mon, Scott.”
Sheils dragged Scott away, and Rooker slid to the floor.
Sheils began issuing instructions to the agents, but as he was finishing, Rogers rushed back in.
“Sir, you’d better come with me.”
Sheils and Scott chased after Rogers to where Friedkin lay slumped against the doorway to the house. Friedkin held a towel to his shoulder wound.
“I know where he’s going,” Friedkin called across the hallway.
“Where?” Sheils asked.
“Call my office for the address. My cell is in the car with Alex. He’s driving a Black Ford Fusion. The cell’s transmitting its location. You can track it through a website. My office manager is parked across the road in my car, a Mercedes. She can help you.”
Rogers volunteered to check and ran off. Sheils took the towel from Friedkin and applied pressure to the wound.
“What’s your story here?” Sheils asked. “And where does Alex Hammond fit in?”
“You know my story. Rooker wanted me to find the Piper. Like you, I couldn’t. When Sammy and Peter were kidnapped, Rooker changed tack. He wanted me to follow you, Scott. Me working for you was a sham. I’m sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Scott said. “Why follow me?”
“You’d gotten close to the Piper. He hoped you’d get close to him again.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Sheils said. “Rooker and Alex kidnapped Sammy and Peter.”
“Yes, it does,” Scott said. It all fell into place. “Rooker kidnapped my boys to stir up the Piper. He hoped I would find the Piper or the Piper would find me. Rooker wanted
me to be his bloodhound.”
“And his sacrificial lamb,” Sheils added.
The remark chilled Scott. If he had tracked down the Piper and managed to keep Sheils out of it, Rooker would have risen up from the shadows to reveal himself, his intent, and probably would have killed them both.
“And when you found the Piper, I would be on hand to tell him where,” Friedkin said. “Christ, what a mess.”
“What about Hammond?” Sheils asked.
“He was one of my investigators,” Friedkin answered. “He went rogue on me the week before Sammy’s abduction. He got sloppy on the job, so I let him go. I never imagined it was because of this.”
“You knew nothing of his connection to Rooker?” Sheils demanded.
“No. I didn’t know about Rooker until my tracker brought me here.”
“But you knew Hammond was connected. You recognized him from the digital mug shot,” Sheils said.
“Yes,” Friedkin admitted. “I was trying to get him to turn himself in.”
Sheils shook his head in disgust. He snapped his cell phone off his belt clip and dropped it in Friedkin’s lap. “Call your office.”
One-handed, Friedkin punched in a number, talked for a minute, and waited for the person on the other end of the line to log on to the website.
“He’s on I-Eighty, heading east.”
“Keep them on the line. I’ll alert CHP. I need another phone,” Sheils said.
Scott gave Sheils his. Sheils punched in a number.
Rogers returned without Friedkin’s office manager.
“Where’s Rebecca?” Friedkin asked.
“There’s no one in your car.”
“She arrived in a rental, a white compact.
It was parked behind my car.”
“There’s no vehicle parked behind yours.”
“Shit.” Friedkin put his phone to his ear. “I’m hanging up. Stay on the tracker. Call this number if the course deviates from the freeway.”
“What’s wrong?” Scott asked.
“Nothing, I hope.”
Friedkin hung up and punched in another number. “Rebecca, where the hell are you?” he cursed when she answered. “Has he seen you? Okay, stay back and observe. The FBI is on this now. Don’t approach him. Don’t go hero on me.” He smiled. “Yeah, yeah, not like me. Look, I’m staying on the line with you.”
“What’s going on?” Sheils asked, the cell pressed to his ear.
“My office manager is in pursuit. She saw Alex leave after Rooker shot me, so she called nine-one-one and followed.”
Scott reined in his excitement. Minutes ago, he couldn’t see any way they would find Sammy and Peter. Now they were being led to them. It was good news, but they were a long way from recovering his children.
“How can you be sure Alex is going to hurt my boys?” Scott asked.
“Rooker told him to,” Friedkin answered.
Scott paled.
“Okay,” Sheils said. “Let’s get after him.”
Sheils had a car brought around, and Scott took the phone from Friedkin so he could stay on the line with Rebecca. Sheils and Scott took the car, leaving the rest of the team to secure the scene and watch over Friedkin while the ambulance arrived. Sheils sliced through traffic with his lights and sirens on.
Scott balanced Sheils’s laptop on his knees. He’d logged on to the website Friedkin had given him to track his cell phone. A red dot on a map of Northern California blinked close to Fairfield, giving Alex a thirty-five-mile head start.
Sheils stayed on his cell, corralling his agents
and enlisting support from other jurisdictions. CHP had sighted Alex’s Ford Fusion on the freeway. Sheils made one thing clear: everyone was to leave Alex alone. No one was to approach or apprehend him, because he was leading them to Sammy and Peter.
While Sheils rallied his multi-jurisdictional task force, Scott stayed on his cell with Rebecca.
“Can you still see him?” he asked her.
“Yes. He’s about three hundred yards ahead.”
“I want to thank you for what you’re doing for my boys.”
“I don’t want them to get hurt. I can’t believe Alex is involved in this. He’s a nice guy with a wife and kid.”
Scott thought of Rooker. He’d been a nice guy with a wife and kid too.
“I just want this to work out,” she said.
“We all do.”
If he got Sammy and Peter back safe and sound, he’d be indebted to a lot of people for life.
“Where is he now?” Sheils asked.
Scott tracked the red dot on the laptop. “He’s still on I-Eighty, approaching Sacramento.”
Sheils called Guerra. “Lucy, I need to know what properties Rooker owns, either in his own name or under the name Douglas Ritchie near Sacramento. He’s been using his properties to run this show so far. He’ll be using one to hold the kids captive. Get back to me when you have a list.”
He hung up on Guerra and drove hard. He took the cell from Scott and talked Rebecca through her tailing techniques. His calm tone soothed Scott as well as her. Everything sounded in control.
Scott watched the dot on the laptop. Sheils was reeling Alex in. As the dot curved north around Sacramento, Sheils’s tripledigit speed closed the gap to within six miles. Sheils cut the sirens at that point. He nixed the lights when he got to within three miles of the red dot and slowed to a sane
speed when he got within two. He moved with stealth to close within half a mile of Alex. Scott dispensed with the laptop and strained to see the Ford Fusion ahead. He didn’t see it, but he spotted what he thought was Rebecca’s white Pontiac G6. He took the cell from Sheils.
“Rebecca, I think I see you. Are you in the right lane, with a gray Dodge pickup in front of you?”
“Yes.”
He looked to Sheils and nodded. Sheils took the phone back. He told her they had it covered. She cut her speed, and Scott waved to her as they sped by.
Sheils closed the gap on Alex to within three hundred yards. They had a clear visual on the car. Scott’s mouth went dry. This man was leading them to his boys. They couldn’t screw up this time.
The Placerville/Grass Valley exit came up, and Alex took the off-ramp. Sheils floored the gas, but made sure there were a couple of vehicles between them and Alex. Sheils reached the off-ramp as the lights turned green and the vehicles surged ahead. Alex turned left toward Grass Valley. Sheils accelerated and made the light just as it turned red.
Sheils lagged back. Alex would have the comfort of knowing he had the jump on the cops, but he might be on the lookout for a tail.
Sheils stuck his cell in the hands-free dock and called Guerra again. “We’re off the freeway, heading toward Grass Valley. What have you got for me?”
“Then I know where you’re heading. Rooker owns the Imperial Mine, a gold mine that’s no longer operational.”
“Where?”
Guerra reeled off directions.
“Okay. Tell Brannon and wake up the locals. This guy is getting into the mine. He’s not getting out.”
“Will do,” Guerra said and hung up.
Alex pushed the speed limit, staying within
five to ten miles per hour over the posted signs. Guerra had estimated they were twenty minutes out from the mine. The proximity excited and scared Scott. He tied himself to the belief he would see his boys alive in half an hour.
Things looked good, but Scott also feared Sheils’s car would give them away. A dark-blue Crown Vic screamed government car. To Scott’s relief, Alex seemed not to notice them. He maintained his speed and did nothing erratic.
Then, ten miles out, the vehicles between them and Alex peeled off. Sheils maintained his distance, but Alex would have had to be blind not to spot them.
“He’ll see us,” Scott said.
“Don’t worry about it. He knew we were coming.”
Scott didn’t like their frail grip on the situation. Circumstances had spread them thin and forced them to react without the time for preparation. They were in prime slipup country. It wouldn’t take much for unnecessary deaths to occur. He shut out the image of Nicholas Rooker’s body lying in the rain.
Sheils closed in on the rear of Alex’s sedan, slowly at first, then more swiftly. Scott eyed the speedometer. Sheils hadn’t increased his speed.
“Shit. He’s seen us,” Scott said. “What do we do?”
“We go around. He doesn’t know we know about the mine.”
Alex’s brake lights came on, and Sheils reeled in the kidnapper. He took his foot off the gas as a precaution and eased the Crown Vic over to pass.
“Don’t acknowledge him,” Sheils said. “We’re going about our business. We’re not interested in his.”
Scott’s hands were slick with sweat, and his respiration was elevated. He noticed his condition and exhaled slowly to calm his nerves.
They were within a hundred feet when
Alex’s car came to an abrupt halt and the Ford Fusion’s reverse lights came on. Alex’s car leapt backward, accelerating fast. Sheils jumped on the brakes, but he couldn’t avoid the impact.
The Ford’s rear slammed into the Crown Victoria’s front. The jarring impact threw Scott and Sheils into the exploding air bags. The Fusion’s higher profile worked to Alex’s advantage. The Ford climbed up the Crown Vic’s hood, the back wheels smashing through the windshield. The safety glass splintered, showering Scott and Sheils in diamond-sized fragments. The conjoined cars slithered to a grinding halt.
The Fusion rolled forward off the Crown Vic and jumped forward, dragging the shattered rear bumper behind.
The Crown Vic’s engine had died. Sheils twisted the ignition. The engine turned, but didn’t fire. “Start, you bastard,” Sheils snarled.
Scott sat dazed, less from the impact than from Alex’s audacity. He watched their tenuous advantage slip away with Alex’s disappearing vehicle.
An approaching sedan slowed at the sight of Sheils’s crippled car blocking the road. It would have to stop. Scott kicked open his door.
“Bring your gun and your badge.”
Sheils looked at him in confusion.
Scott stood in the way of the sedan, waving his hands. The car stopped and an elderly couple climbed out.
“Do you need us to call nine-one-one?” the man asked.
“No, we need your car.”
Sheils held his shield in the air. “FBI. We need you to stay with this vehicle and turn yours over to us.”
The couple, too stunned to argue, stood by as Scott and Sheils took their vehicle from them. Sheils reversed hard and spun the sedan around to point in Alex’s direction.
Sheils drove with his cell pressed to his ear, yelling instructions to Brannon. He and his team were still ten minutes behind, but would take care of the couple when they caught up with
them. He told Brannon to brief the locals. They were to seal off the mine the moment he and Scott reached the property. Whatever happened, Alex wasn’t to leave.
Sheils drove hard until they reached the mine, then slowed going through the entrance. They followed the winding gravel drive that snaked around a crumbling mansion to the mine behind. Alex’s damaged sedan sat in the open, hemmed in by the remains of the foundry, the winch house, and other shop buildings. Sheils stopped the sedan and cursed.
“What’s wrong?” Scott asked.
“We’re sitting ducks. He’s got his choice of cover, and we’re stuck out in the open.”
Scott reexamined the layout with informed eyes. The frontier architecture and the narrow strip of dirt flanked by buildings on all sides reminded him of every Western movie ever made. He pictured the black hats hiding behind the parapets while the white hats walked down the middle of Main Street with every gun barrel trained on them. Alex could be hidden amongst any of the shattered windows, with them in his sights.