Overkill (23 page)

Cold, hard terror took her breath away. But a new and unyielding fury buffeted the fear. She could feel it burgeoning inside her like a festering sore, and she vowed in that instant that she would not let that child die. She would do whatever it took to save her.

She could hear her own breathing echoing over the line, and she put her hand over the receiver so the woman on the other end wouldn’t hear that telltale sound of panic. She closed her eyes, struggled to get a grip. When she finally spoke, her voice was strong. “What do you want?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Meet me and we will discuss the matter.”

“You want to kill me. Why would I meet with you?”

“This is why.”

The high-pitched shriek of a child’s terror and pain barreled through the line. Marty put a hand over the mouthpiece to cover the choking sob that burst from her lips. Oh dear God, they were hurting Erica. She couldn’t fathom such cruelty. But as a cop, she knew better; she’d seen the results. In the back of her mind, visions of the little girl she’d witnessed being shot and killed in Chicago flashed in grotesque detail.

“Don’t hurt her.” This time her voice trembled.

“You will meet with me.”

“Yes.” Marty’s mind spun through her options. “But you have to let her go.”

“In due time.”

“It’s not too late to end this. I’ll help you get away. If you don’t want that, I’ll make sure you get a fair—”

Erica screamed. It was the terrible sound of a wild animal that seemed to go on and on. Marty closed her eyes tightly, wished she could cover her ears, shut down her heart. But the little girl was the one thing she couldn’t steel herself against. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt her.”

“These are the rules. If you want this girl to live, you will follow them to the last detail. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Put your cell phone and your revolver in your overnight bag. Go downstairs and leave the bag with the concierge. Tell him someone will be picking it up. If we do not see you in the lobby in five minutes, we will kill the girl.”

Marty hesitated, her mind scrambling wildly. She needed more time. There was no way she could walk into this without notifying Clay. Before she could answer or come up with anything to say, Erica screamed again.

“Stop it!” Marty cried. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll find a white PT Cruiser parked in the first space on the east side of the lot. Take Interstate 40 west toward Vega.”

Vega was a small town off the interstate forty-five minutes from Amarillo. “Where am I going?”

“There will be a phone on the passenger seat. Once you’re on the highway, I will call you with instructions.”

Marty was already stepping into her jeans. “Why are you doing this?”

The woman continued as if she hadn’t heard her. “My associate had better find your cell phone and weapon in that bag or I will kill this child. I will
hurt
her, and her blood will be on your hands. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Someone will be watching you at all times. In the lobby. On the highway. If you do anything stupid, I will cut out this little girl’s heart and send it to you in the mail. Am I clear?”

The threat was punctuated by Erica’s screams. “
Marty!
Help me! I want my
daaaaaaaaddy
!”

“Erica.”
Marty gripped the phone hard. “Honey, I’m on my way. You’re going to be okay.”

The woman came back on the line. “You have four minutes left.”

“If you hurt her,” she snarled, “I swear I’ll hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands.”

The line went dead. Fury and terror tore down her carefully constructed wall of control. Marty could hear her heart hammering. Panic clawing like a small, sharp-toothed animal trapped inside her belly.

She checked her watch. Five thirty. Only half an hour had passed since Clay left. Such a small span of time for the entire world to change . . .

Without setting down the phone, she punched in the numbers for Clay’s cell. Each ring clanged like a tuning fork against a broken bone. “Answer, damn it!”

A curse slid from her lips when his voice told her to leave a message. “The Russians have Erica,” she began. “Katja Ivanov, I think. Maybe her brother. They’re going to kill her if I don’t meet with them. I’m going. Undisclosed location. All I know is I’ll be heading west on I-40 toward Vega. I’ll be in a white PT Cruiser. I’ll have my personal cell.” She recited the number. “There are at least two of them. One will be watching me, but I’ll try to get a message to you. Clay, they said they’d kill her if I didn’t come alone. I didn’t know what else to do.”

She paused, wanting to say more. Wanting desperately to tell him she was going to get his daughter back. But Marty couldn’t lie. She didn’t know if she would be able to save Erica. She wasn’t even sure she could save herself.

Hanging up, she quickly finished dressing. Jeans. Sweatshirt. Dumping her overnight bag on the bed, she unloaded her revolver and placed it in an inside pocket. Next came the cell phone Clay had given her. Three minutes left.

Marty had no illusions about what the Russians would do once she showed up. She knew they would kill her. Probably Erica, too. There was no way in hell she could show up unarmed and without communication. She still had her personal cell phone. She didn’t know how she could use it if, indeed, someone would be following her close enough to see what she was doing. But she had to find a way.

She had the .22 mini Magnum. It was a five-shot revolver. Minimal stopping power. The good thing about the weapon was it was small enough to conceal.

In her years of working in law enforcement, Marty had found guns hidden in all sorts of places. She knew the Russians would search her. That is, if they didn’t just put a bullet in her head the moment she arrived. But Marty sensed they wanted to spend some quality time with her. The way they had with Rosetti.

The thought made her shudder, and a stark, electric stab of terror shot through her. All she could think was that she wasn’t brave enough to do this. Not alone. Not without backup.

But there was no backup. And she didn’t have a choice. They were going to kill that little girl. Marty already had one child’s murder branded into her brain. She couldn’t let it happen again.

Lifting her sweatshirt, she shoved the mini Mag into her bra. Though the gun was small, it wasn’t minuscule enough for such an obvious place. She knew they’d find it in her waistband or crotch or boot.

Urgency and panic buffeted her, and for a moment she could do nothing but stand in the middle of the room and shake while the seconds ticked by. She had to conceal the weapon in a place they wouldn’t find it and pray to God she could get to it when the time came. She glanced at the bed, saw a hair band lying next to her purse.

Snatching up the elastic band, she finger-combed her mane of hair and twisted it into a knot at the top of her head, securing it with the band. For the first time in her life, she was glad for her mass of unruly locks. Sliding the mini Mag from its leather holster, she worked it into her hair between the knot and her scalp. On a person with normal hair, the weapon would have been visible and fallen out. But on a woman cursed with enough hair to keep a wig shop in business for a week, it was the perfect place.

Gun concealed, she glanced at her watch. Two minutes. Snatching up the remaining cell phone, Marty slid it into the front of her pants. Not the most comfortable hiding place, but the only one she could think of where she stood a chance of getting to it when she needed it. If they decided to strip-search her, it would be over.

She picked up the hotel phone, hit Redial, cursed when she got Clay’s voice mail. Not knowing what else to do, she dialed Jo Nell. The woman picked up on the first ring with her usual “Caprock Canyon PD.”

“Don’t talk. Just listen. The Russians have Erica—”

“
What?
Oh good Lord in heaven!”

“They’re going to kill her if I don’t meet them.”

“Ohmigod-you-can’t-do-that!”

“Find Clay. Now. Tell him. I left a message on his cell. Tell him to listen to it. I have to go.”

Closing her eyes against the panic she heard in the other woman’s voice, she hung up. Marty was on her own.

A glance at the clock told her she had one minute left. Praying she wasn’t making a fatal mistake, she grabbed her overnight bag, flung open the door and ran into the hall, hoping the elevator would get her to the lobby on time.

“What do you mean they never showed?” An uneasy
fear seesawed in Clay’s gut as his sister told him Jett and Erica hadn’t yet arrived. He’d called to speak with Erica, only to learn she’d never reached her destination. “They should have been there half an hour ago.”

“Maybe they had car problems,” his sister offered.

“I’ll call you back.” Clay disconnected and pulled the Explorer into the parking lot of the Super Value grocery. He gripped the steering wheel, terrible possibilities slamming into him with the force of a wrecking ball. Not giving himself time to examine those possibilities, he hit the speed dial for Jett’s number. Three rings and the phone went to voice mail.

“Where the hell are you?” he asked and hung up.

His mind whirled with feasible explanations. Jett had taken a wrong turn that put him behind schedule. An accident on the highway had delayed them. But every reasonable explanation was nullified by a dozen terrible ones.

Clay dialed the New Mexico State Highway Patrol. He spoke to the supervisor and asked if there had been any accidents on the interstate between the Texas state line and Tucumcari. The supervisor promised to check and call him back ASAP.

Next he called the Texas State Highway Patrol and asked if there had been any accidents between Amarillo and the New Mexico state line. He was on hold for less than a minute when the dispatcher told him there had been nothing reported in the last few hours.

He dialed the Deaf Smith County Sheriff’s office and asked the same question. This was the last county before the New Mexico state line. Relief and edgy concern took turns punching him when he was told no accidents had been reported.

He’d just hung up when his cell beeped, telling him someone had left a message while he’d been on the phone. Praying it was Erica, he quickly called up the message. His blood ran cold when he listened to Marty’s voice.

The click as the message ended sounded like a death knell in his ears. Utter disbelief transformed into a wild, riotous terror as her words sank into a brain that didn’t want to believe. For a moment, he thought he would throw up.

Clay knew enough about the organization to know they would kill her without hesitation and without regret.

When his hands began to shake, he set them on the wheel, gripped it hard. Fear screamed inside him. Panic echoed. For a moment, he was paralyzed. His little girl was in mortal danger. She’d been kidnapped, maybe while he’d been in bed with Marty. The crush of guilt took his breath away. Dear God in heaven, he didn’t know how to save her.

Clay stumbled from the vehicle. His cell rang again, and he snapped it open.

“Chief!”
Terror rang in Jo Nell’s voice. “Marty called. They have Erica! Lord God Almighty, Marty’s going to meet them!”

“Jesus.” Clay got back in the Explorer, started the engine. “Keep trying Jett. Patch him through to me the second you get him.” But he didn’t even know if his officer was still alive.

“I’m on it.”

“I’m going to get the sheriff’s office involved. Alert Amarillo SWAT, will you?” Flipping on his emergency lights, he tore out of the parking lot and headed toward the sheriff’s office.

Having something to do seemed to calm her. “Anything else?”

“You might try praying,” he said and disconnected.

TWENTY

In the hotel lobby, Marty left the overnight bag with the
concierge. She scanned the few people milling about—the businessman checking in at the registration desk, the couple sitting nose to nose at the bar, the family sitting together in the small atrium lobby—but no one face stood out from the others. No time to linger.

She found the PT Cruiser in the parking lot exactly where the caller had told her it would be. The thought that the car could be booby-trapped floated uneasily through her mind as she opened the door and slid behind the wheel. It wasn’t enough to keep her from proceeding.

Having located the key in the visor, she started the engine. A cell phone lay on the passenger seat. For a crazy instant, Marty considered snatching it up and calling Clay. She was scared. For herself. For Erica. But Marty knew if the Russians were watching, they might make good on their threat and kill the girl. In the back of her mind she thought maybe she could dial unnoticed once she was on the interstate, while the phone lay on the seat out of view.

Taking the service road, she headed west and merged onto the interstate at the first entrance ramp. As usual, traffic was light in the city of Amarillo. At the city limits sign, she took the speedometer to seventy and set the cruise control.

All the while she kept her eyes on the cars around her. A blue Chevy pickup truck. A silver Toyota. Several semi-rigs. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for, so she watched for other vehicles following too closely. A driver or passenger paying too much attention to her. A car keeping perfect pace with hers.

But as Marty headed west toward Wildorado and Vega, she saw nothing unusual. Traffic shifted; drivers passed and exited and slowed. Where the hell were they?

Just past Bushland, she carefully worked the cell phone from her pants with her right hand. Without looking down, she hit the speed dial for Clay. She didn’t have her ear bud; she couldn’t raise the phone to her ear. She was going to have to assume he would pick up.

“Clay,” she said, trying not to move her lips. “I’m westbound on I-40 just past Bushland in a white PT Cruiser. Plate number Zero Five Victor Adam Frank Four.”

She jolted when the cell phone on the seat next to her trilled. Leaving the line open on her cell, she reached for the other and put it to her ear. “Yeah.”

“I see you found the car.”

“Where am I going?” she asked, hoping Clay was on the other phone, listening.

“Exit at County Road 53. Go north until you hit dirt and keep going.”

Marty repeated his instructions loud enough so that if Clay were listening on the other phone he would be able to hear her.

“Drive for three miles and stop.”

She started to respond, but the caller disconnected. “Clay, I’m to drive three miles and stop.”

The exit came up fast. As she left the highway, Marty risked picking up her cell phone. Her heart sank when she found that the call had ended. Had Clay picked up? Had he heard anything she’d said? Had she even left a message?

The questions pummeled her as she turned onto the county road and headed north. Ahead, the massive white turbines of the Wildorado wind farm loomed. Dozens of them rose out of the earth like the sun-baked bones of long-dead behemoth creatures. Around her, the area was as desolate and flat as Death Valley, a mix of pasture and farmland dissected by barbed wire and the occasional dirt road.

A quarter mile in, asphalt gave way to dirt. Marty drove as slowly as she dared, in the hope Clay had gotten the directions she’d repeated and was on his way. She prayed he would find them. The area was so desolate, no one would hear them scream.

The fear that had been hibernating inside her began to thaw. A terrible and cold sensation spread from her chest to her limbs. She knew it was counterproductive to dwell on all the terrible things that could happen. But Marty knew she was driving to her death. She knew they would probably kill Erica, too. A sweet and innocent little girl with her entire life ahead of her. The injustice of that was almost too much to bear.

There had to be a way to give Clay her destination. That was when she remembered she could take photos with her cell phone. It was equipped with a browser and e-mail capabilities. One shot of the giant structures and Clay would know where to go. If she could covertly shoot a few pics and send them to Jo Nell, Clay could be here in minutes.

Marty glanced down at the odometer. The Russian had told her to drive three miles, which she had. Stopping the car, she turned off the engine. Without giving herself time to debate, she reached for her cell phone. Holding it low, she studied the main menu, put it to memory. She hit the Address Book feature and called up Jo Nell’s e-mail address: [email protected].

The other cell phone trilled. Heart lurching, Marty reached for it, hit Talk. “Yeah.”

“Get out of the car and walk.”

“Where’s the girl—”

The line went dead. Cursing, Marty tossed the phone onto the seat. Gripping her own cell in her left hand, she opened the car door. Her legs trembled as she got out and looked around. She could smell the Wildorado feedlot to the southwest from where she stood. Around her, the wind had kicked up, moaning like the sound effects of some film noir. Tumbleweeds barreled across the open fields to huddle like shy, frightened animals against barbed-wire fences. Beyond, the arms of the windmills chopped through the air like the rotor blades of a massive helicopter.

Ever conscious of the mini Magnum against her scalp and the cell phone clutched in her left fist, Marty started down the road. The wind buffeted her, kicked dust into her eyes, but she didn’t stop. She sensed them watching her as she drew closer to the wind farm. She wondered if they had binoculars. Or if they gazed at her through the scope of a high-powered rifle. The thought of crosshairs focused on her chest made her shiver despite the sweat pouring down her back.

A hundred yards from the gate to the wind farm Marty took her last chance. Twisting her left arm slightly, she pointed the cell phone camera lens at the turbines and hit Enter three times. Unable to look at the phone, she had no way of knowing if she’d captured the images. The only thing left to do was e-mail them to Jo Nell without being seen and pray to God they found their way to Clay.

Marty continued to walk, trying to move naturally. All the while she tried to recall the menu buttons that would e-mail the pics to Jo Nell. It was tough to do without looking at the phone. A swirl of dust pelted her. It wasn’t enough to diminish visibility, but she used the moment to raise her left hand as if she were shielding her eyes. She looked directly at the menu. Using her thumb she hit Select, Send To, and then she pressed J to bring up Jo Nell’s e-mail address. As she lowered her hand to her side, she hit Send.

There was no way she could do more without risking being seen. If they caught her with the cell phone, there was no telling what they might do. If they realized she’d summoned help, they might just put a quick bullet in her head as well as Erica’s and get the hell out.

Swinging her arm slightly as she walked, Marty let go of the phone. She heard it land in the high grass behind her and to her left, but she didn’t look back.

She was truly on her own now. There were no more chances. If Clay didn’t receive the e-mails, both she and Erica were as good as dead.

 
Jo Nell sat behind her desk sipping a diet Dr Pepper and
munching on a Snickers bar, trying in vain not to think about Erica and Marty. The Russian Mafia in Caprock Canyon. She couldn’t believe it. This was the worst thing that had ever happened in the sixteen years she’d been with the police department. God help that sweet little child. God help them all.

She found an inkling of comfort by telling herself that if anyone could get through this, Marty Hogan could. The city slicker from Chicago might be a little rough around the edges, but she had that cat-always-lands-on-her-feet thing going. Marty Hogan was as tough as they came.

That didn’t mean the chief wasn’t sick with worry. Jo Nell had never seen him like this. As pale and grim as a damn corpse. She didn’t know the whole story, but she knew not all of that worry was reserved for Erica. There was something going on between him and Marty. Jo Nell didn’t know what it was, but she’d known enough men in her sixty-two years to know it was serious.

She was listening to Gretchen Wilson belt out “Redneck Woman” when her e-mail program notified her of incoming mail. Taking a swig from the can, she reached for the mouse and clicked.

Three e-mails with attachments from M. Hogan landed in her in-box. Jo Nell set down the can. “What the hell?”

Last she’d heard, Marty was on her way to meet the kidnappers. No one knew where she was going. The chief was bouncing off the walls. She looked down at her switchboard to find he was still on the phone with the Feds. Jo Nell figured if there was ever a good time to interrupt, this was it.

Rising quickly, she rounded her desk, jogged to the chief’s office and shoved open the door. He glared at her from behind his desk.

“I just got an e-mail from Hogan,” Jo Nell said.

Clay hung up without saying anything to the caller and rose. “What? When?”

“Just now.”

He was already coming around his desk. Jo Nell trotted back to hers. Sliding behind her computer, she turned the monitor so he could see. “There’re attachments.”

“Open them.”

Jo Nell clicked the first e-mail. “No text.”

“Try the attachment.”

She double clicked. The photo managing software booted. In the next instant an image she didn’t recognize filled the screen. “What the hell is it?”

Clay’s heart beat hard and fast as he rounded her desk. Kneeling, he squinted at the screen. “It’s outdoors.”

“I see grass and sky.”

He lifted his finger. “Looks like part of a barbed-wire fence here.”

“What’s that in the background?”

He couldn’t tell. “Go to the next one.”

Jo Nell clicked. Another image filled the screen. This time the photo was too dark to make out much. Clay discerned yellow grass. Brown, dusty earth. Barbed-wire fence. And something smooth and white that looked like part of an aircraft blade.

“Is that a plane prop?” Jo Nell asked. “Could they be at the airport or a landing strip?”

“That doesn’t look like any prop I’ve ever seen.” Urgency tugged hard at him. Fear was a lead weight in his chest. He couldn’t stop thinking about Erica and what she must be going through. How terrified she must be. He thought of Marty and couldn’t get the horrific images of what they had done to her partner in Chicago out of his head.

“Click on the next one,” he said.

Jo Nell clicked. “This one’s better.”

Clay stared at the image. He saw the same yellow grass. Tumbleweeds trapped against a locust post and barbed-wire fence. Beyond, part of a smooth white structure stood out in stark contrast against a blue sky.

He stared. Recognition sparked in his brain. At some point, he’d seen that structure before. But where?

“I don’t get this,” Jo Nell said.

“Marty is trying to tell us where she is.”

“We know she’s outside. No traffic. What the hell is that white thing?”

A memory materialized. A story in the
Amarillo Globe News
about a wind farm project. “The Wildorado wind farm.”

“You think that’s where she’s meeting them?”

Clay was already sprinting toward his office. “Call the sheriff’s office and Amarillo SWAT. Give them the twenty. Expedite. No lights. No sirens.”

“Got it.” She snatched up the phone.

Clay’s hands shook as he jammed the key into the gun cabinet. He grabbed the AR-15 and an extra magazine and started toward the door. Jo Nell wished him luck as he crossed through the reception area and went out the door, but he didn’t respond.

Clay figured it was going to take a hell of a lot more than luck to get the two people he loved most in the world out of this alive.