“Make it in two,” Pescoli snapped out. “Looks like I’ve got company!” She clicked off just as the white van belonging to Carnie Tibalt rounded a final bend.
Sliding her sidearm from her shoulder holster, she ducked behind a copse of hemlock, enough protection that she could peer through a crack in the branches.
Make the collar. Her inner voice was insistent, telling her she had the drop on him, and her finger tightened over the trigger of her sidearm. But she wanted him alive, to suffer the trial, to spend the rest of his miserable years in prison, to pay for what he’d done to Dan Grayson, Kathryn Samuels-Piquard, and now, Carnie Tibalt.
The engine died and she moved for a better view, a clear shot if she needed it. He’d pulled into the garage. Seconds ticked by and she didn’t move, barely breathed, all of her senses trained on that small open area between the garage and the front porch of the cabin.
Come on, bastard, show yourself.
Her jaw was rock hard, her muscles tight and coiled. She could hear the beating of her heart in her eardrums.
Through the snowfall she saw movement as he appeared, dressed in white camouflage, a rifle in one hand, a shifting image in the wintry flakes.
You bastard!
He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes spying her trail of footprints rimming the house.
Without hesitation he shouldered his weapon and started searching in the shadows.
Training her weapon on him, she yelled. “Police! Drop your weapon, Verdago! Put your hands over your head! Now!”
His head jerked toward the sound of her voice and he fired.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
The trees around her shook.
Ice splintered.
Snow fell in thick, powdery clouds.
Pieces of bark shot from the trunk of the tree she was using for cover. Jesus! She ducked back into the thicket, breathing hard, her heart thundering in her chest. She lost him in the heavy curtain of snow.
He’s right here. Has to be.
Frantically, she searched the clearing, then the woods. She tried to focus on his footprints, but the snow was too thick.
He knows where you are, but you can’t see him. You’re a sitting duck, Pescoli. Move!
“She’s in trouble!” Alvarez said.
“She’s always in trouble.” Behind the wheel of his SUV, Brewster hit the gas. The wipers slapped snow off the windshield, the car radio buzzed, and Alvarez was checking the computer as Brewster drove tensely along this winding road that cut through the mountains. “Call for backup.”
“They’re on their way.”
“Good. Oh, hell!”
The Jeep slid around a corner that he took a little too fast. They fishtailed on the packed snow, the rear of the SUV sliding dangerously near a deep chasm that fell a hundred feet to a stream far below. On the other side of the narrow road, mountains soared, their peaks invisib
le in the ever-falling snow.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered between teeth that were clamped tight, but he straightened the wheel and the tires grabbed the road again, propelling the Jeep forward as they wound ever closer to the cabin where Maurice Verdago was hiding out. “She’s just lucky you figured out where she was.”
“It wasn’t that hard.” Alvarez had pieced together where her partner had gone by the messages she’d left, and now Pescoli had given her the address.
“I warned you about her,” he said now. “She’s gone rogue. What the hell’s wrong with that woman?” He slowed for a second, turning into the long lane leading to the cabin owned by Carnie Tibalt’s uncle. “She’s a liability to the department and if she hasn’t already, she’s going to get herself killed.” He slid a glance at Alvarez. “She could take you out with her, you know.”
She ignored that. “Okay, we’re getting close. Should be just over the next rise.” There wasn’t any time to discuss the pitfalls or pratfalls of Pescoli’s professionalism.