Cross Hairs (18 page)

“Kelly, grab your stuff and follow me right now,” Cal said in a low calm voice.

“Why, Cal?”

“Just do it,” he barked in a whisper.

Cal slipped his iPhone in his pocket. Kelly crammed her camera back into her backpack and they exited on the south side of the restaurant and headed for the Vmax.

He turned back to locate the man – and he was gone.

“Hurry, Kelly. We’ve got to leave now!”

CHAPTER 54

“THWACK!”

Cal was just about to put on his helmet when a forearm shiver knocked him to the ground. Disoriented and lying face down on the pavement, Cal began looking for Kelly.

“Run, Kelly! Run!”

Had Cal been more aware, he would’ve seen that his instructions were meaningless. Kelly’s legs dangled off the ground as Yukon wrapped his meaty arms around her body that suddenly seemed frail. She shrieked and struggled. Her actions were futile – and she knew it.

Yukon cast an ominous shadow over Cal.

“Get up, kid. … You ever heard of a
dead
line?”

Cal rolled over to see the long-haired man clutching Kelly in one hand and a crowbar in the other. Groggy from the blow, Cal moved slowly. It wasn’t fast enough for Yukon.

“Let’s go now,” Yukon bellowed as he snatched Cal into the air and began shoving him around the back of the restaurant to the other side of the parking lot. The truck was their destination.

Cal wanted to fight and be Kelly’s hero, but he knew he didn’t stand a chance.

Just be smart and stay alive. You’ll think of something.

Yukon snatched Cal by the back of his collar and hoisted him a few feet off the ground before pushing him into the back of his pickup bed. Cal had almost fully recovered from the earlier blow, but decided to play the part of a wounded animal. He did as he was told.

“Don’t go tryin’ to be a hero, kid,” said Yukon, who maintained his tight grip on Kelly. “You just might end up dead sooner rather than later.”

Cal nodded and sat still, awaiting his next instruction.

Yukon then grabbed Kelly with both hands and lifted her into the pickup bed as well. He ripped her backpack off, confiscating the damning evidence. He took some rope out of his toolbox in the truck bed and began securing Kelly’s feet together. He then pulled her hands by her side and ran the rope around her midsection a few times. The last touch was the gag, though by this time Kelly had stopped hurling insults. Cal got the same treatment.

***

Yukon covered the reporters with a tarp, securing it on all four corners with bungee cord.
This is better than the time I killed two elk in one day.
Yukon was reveling in the fact that he would get to keep his way of life after all.

Time to report the good news. Yukon called Gold.

“I got ‘em,” Yukon said before Gold could utter a word.

“And the evidence?”

“It’s sitting next to me on the front seat. And those two aren’t going anywhere, except on a quick trip to Cold River Canyon.”

“Well done. Dump the bodies and bring me what evidence you confiscated.”

“You got it, boss.”

Yukon’s F-250 began rumbling. Statenville justice had to be served.

***

Neither Cal nor Kelly made a sound for the first two minutes of their ride to an eventual murder scene. Cal glanced over at Kelly after he heard what sounded like a muffled sob. Tears were streaming down Kelly’s face.

When Cal begged Kelly for help on this story a day earlier, he certainly didn’t think that they would be bound, gagged, and headed for their deaths less than 48 hours later. But as a professional reporter whose business was dealing in facts, Cal had to recognize them. There was no cavalry coming. No one was going to save them. No one wanted to hear the truth – and they wouldn’t. The truth was about to be buried with them.

Cal grew sick thinking that he was going to die next to the woman he now had feelings for.

But that wasn’t a fact. Not yet, anyway. There was still time.

CHAPTER 55

MERCER SAT IN HIS
parked car, a couple houses down and across the street from Guy’s house. He wanted to talk to Guy and warn him that Gold was tying up all his loose ends – and Guy would be considered one of them. But it looked like he was too late. Gold’s car was already parked outside when Mercer had arrived.

Finally, there was movement outside of Guy’s house. The front porch light went dark. Then the outside flood light on the side of the house went dark. Mercer could make out Gold’s shadowy figure sneaking out of the house and to his car.

As soon as Gold’s car disappeared down the street, Mercer opened his car door and sprinted down the street to Guy’s house. Careful not to leave any prints, Mercer smashed the windowpane closest to the door knob and reached through the remaining shards with a handkerchief to open the door from the inside.

As soon as Mercer stepped inside, he saw Guy’s body with blood pooling around him. He checked for a pulse. Nothing. Gold had eliminated a possible whistle blower. There was little doubt in Mercer’s mind that he would receive a call in less than ten minutes to take Gold’s body and move it to another place, make it look like an accident. Mercer knew the drill far too well.

Acting quickly, Mercer put on a pair of latex gloves and began combing through Guy’s personal effects.

He went straight for Guy’s computer. No password lockout. Just an open window of Guy’s home email inbox. Mercer saw a response from two email accounts, one ending in seattletimes.com and the other ending in sltrib.com. Guy had been communicating with other newspapers. Mercer opened the sent folder and read two emails to two editors who were acquaintances, informing them about an impending story that may come from a reporter named Cal Murphy. He stated a photographer named Kelly Mendoza would also send photos and other evidential material.

Then Mercer found Guy’s cell phone on the kitchen table. Undoubtedly a few key entries had been deleted. The last call was to what appeared to be a local cell number about 45 minutes ago. According to the call records, the final one was a minute and a half long, much longer than the time it probably took for Gold to announce he was going to drop by and discuss a few things.

Mercer redialed the number.

***

Cal felt a familiar vibrating sensation in his pants pocket. He figured it was Guy calling with instructions on where to file his non-existent story, a story that might never get written. The buzzing served as a reminder of his frustration, but it also reminded him of something else as it made an awkward clanging sound: It reminded him of his pocket knife.

Sure, it was small. Cal could’ve probably hid it in his mouth if he needed to. But in his haste to finish his assignment, Yukon didn’t confiscate cell phones, making the assumption that everything he needed was in Kelly’s bag. But then, it wasn’t like he was figuring either of the bound reporters could make an escape. Not at 75 miles an hour. Not with arms and legs bound in the bed of a pickup truck. Not on his watch.

Cal’s hope returned. He began scooting closer to Kelly. Cal was already working on a plan.

CHAPTER 56

COME ON! PICK UP
the phone, Cal!

Mercer felt the walls crumbling around him. Everything he and Walker had uncovered to build their case against Mayor Gold and Cloverdale Industries was vanishing. With Walker and his reckless ways gone for good, Mercer knew how he wanted the story to be written. He was going to be the hero—and the FBI would be innocent. After all, they were just protecting the public, for the greater good.

But Mercer's ability to spin the story his way was slipping away. He had to know what Cal and Kelly knew. If he could only reach them.

***

As Yukon sped down the highway, Cal felt like the anxious driver was determined to jar every tooth loose in the remaining 30 minutes he had. It made Cal all the more determined. He began sawing through Kelly’s ropes with the precision of a heart surgeon. Despite the ticking clock, Cal knew this was no time for shortcuts or sharp cuts to the flesh. He had to cut Kelly free so she could return the favor—and the job needed to be done right.

Despite the seconds feeling as if they were hours, Cal eventually sliced his way through Kelly’s cords in about two minutes. She pulled the gag out of her mouth before pulling Cal’s off.

“Spin around so I can cut your feet loose,” Cal said to Kelly as he shouted above the whooshing wind and the flapping tarp.

Kelly didn’t hesitate to follow orders. Despite the gag being removed, she didn’t say a word. She was focused – and shaking.

Fifteen seconds later, Cal was ripping his way through the rope around Kelly’s feet. Despite having his hands bound, Cal figured he could cut her loose more quickly – and if this ride abruptly ended, he figured at least one of them could escape to tell the story of what was happening in Statenville.

Cal preferred they escape together. Eluding danger brought an adrenaline rush, but the potential of going on an adventure with Kelly seemed to heighten Cal’s excitement. This could be a high stakes game of hide and seek, but Cal liked his chances with Kelly facing the formidable – only in stature – Yukon.

Cal cut Kelly’s feet bindings free in about 90 seconds. He was quickly picking up on how to operate a pocketknife in pressure situations with his hands tied together. He had never done it before. But it made no difference now. Kelly was free.

“Start with my feet first,” Cal yelled to Kelly, who began cutting away on Cal’s ropes.

Since Cal could only guess at where they were headed, if he was wrong he at least wanted to be able to make a run for it. Free hands and bound feet meant nothing but a few parting shots before Yukon would subdue him and carry Cal to his grave. Free feet? That at least gave him a chance.

Kelly had almost finished cutting his feet loose when the truck slammed 90 degrees to the right. Kelly slid to the right as did Cal, whose shoulder saved his head from a blow against the side of the truck bed. The constant hum of four-wheel mud-grip tires on the pavement switched to the crackling sound of dirt. Cal figured his speculation about where they were headed was right: Cold River Canyon.

Based on his best guess, Cal also calculated that Kelly had about five minutes to cut him totally free before entering the foothills. Once in the foothills, the never-ending maze of hills and valleys would make it a daunting challenge for the two of them to escape alive before an all-out search party hunted them down.

Kelly kept hacking away before she cut Cal’s legs free from the rope. Then she got to work on his hands.

“Kelly, keep cutting but listen to me,” Cal said. “We’ve got to make a run for it the minute this truck slows down. There’s probably only one more place he’s going to halfway slow down that gives us a chance to jump out and run for it, OK? So, just follow my lead.”

Kelly nodded, too focused to even expend energy responding.

She, too, had quickly learned how to hasten the process while ensuring that the cut was clean. In two minute’s time, she had cut Cal free.

Just as she had finished cutting him free, the truck slowed to a stop – but it was much earlier than Cal had anticipated. Cal’s best guess was that the final turn onto Cold River Canyon Road was at least another three minutes away.

Where are we? And why are we stopping?

CHAPTER 57

WORRIED AND FRUSTRATED AT
the lack of response from Cal, Mercer decided it was best to get back into his patrol car and not yield to the paranoia that was gnawing at Gold. The killing spree over the past 24 hours proved Gold’s resolve to insulate the Cloverdale empire from any scurrilous accusations. If there was any doubt before about Gold’s determination to protect what he had built, it was snuffed out with Guy’s last breath. Nobody was going to penetrate Statenville’s fortress. It was an outpost that fell off almost every radar, the exact reason Gold methodically picked this city for his business.

But Gold put it on the FBI’s radar. When Mercer joined the bureau, his first assignment at the Boston field office was to look for ways to bring down the Scarelli mob bosses. Gold, who went by Carmen Deangelo on the street, was a rising captain with great promise before he almost vanished. For about 12 years, the FBI’s best assumption was that Deangelo had been killed quietly and buried in a place he would never be found.

However, Deangelo resurrected himself as Gold hundreds of miles away in a town he was sure the FBI had never heard of. And he was right. Most people in the FBI’s Salt Lake field office had no idea where Statenville was, even though it was just a short drive north. That’s because it was a typical small agricultural community where the biggest crimes committed were drunk driving and the occasional construction of a meth lab. Yet, Gold made one mistake five years ago that extinguished his anonymity with the FBI: one tidy job tipped off the bureau.

When Deangelo was in Boston, his crime scene signature was a U.S. gold coin from the late 1800s stuffed into the mouth of his victim. The FBI had at least a dozen murder victims demarcated by these rare gold coins, but proving Gold actually committed the crimes was another issue. The fact that most of Gold’s victims were members of a rival mob did nothing to encourage the FBI to pursue the futile investigations further. If Gold did their dirty work without all the messy trials, the FBI was satisfied – even if it was wrong.

But Deangelo’s signature reappeared about 12 years after the last gold-mouth murder – but it wasn’t in Boston. This victim was in Portland – and he wasn’t the member of a rival mob. Call it a reflexive flashback. Deangelo later lamented leaving his signature, but he figured no one would make the link. The gumshoe cops in Portland might overlook a detail that would be rehashed and analyzed in Boston. Maybe Deangelo would get lucky. But he didn’t.

The man he killed was the 19-year-old son of U.S. Senator Tom Brazenworth, just a kid who got mixed up with the wrong crowd. This wasn’t a case that was going to get overlooked. When the FBI was called in to investigate, agents quickly recognized Gold’s calling card and began searching for him, eventually discovering his new alias and tracing him back to the town of Statenville. Rumors swirled on the street in Seattle, Portland and Salt Lake that there was a small town in Idaho that had a drug plant, which could easily be considered a commercial production. It was replete with a fleet of vehicles to move the product around the Northwest virtually undetected.