Page 46 of Undercover
I shut the door silently and jogged into the lot, hugging the edge where more trees offered some cover. Three cars sat in the lot, all parked by the main building.
And that changed things. I paused, considering, and then pulled up my email to look at the background check I’d run on Whipley.
And my hunch panned out. Yeah. That license plate was registered to Adam Whipley. One of the cars was Gabe’s; I hadn’t been in it, but I’d seen it in his assigned spot at his building. That left the other for Dave. To be sure, I checked the plate on that one against the info I had for him, and confirmed it.
Dave had called Gabe, but Gabe hadn’t mentioned Whipley.
Which meant nearly anything could be happening in there—and it wasn’t likely to be good.
I pulled out my phone and shot off a quick text to Brickell, telling him to upgrade my backup to four units instead of two, and that my suspect was confirmed to be here along with two possible hostages.
And then I pulled my weapon and double-timed it along the edge of the lot. Maybe Adam was the type of criminal to whine and argue when confronted; maybe Dave had found out what he’d been doing and they were negotiating terms for Adam resigning and walking away without police involvement.
Fuck, I hoped so, but I doubted it. The amount of product someone—Whipley—had moved over the past few months pushed him from hobbyist dealer to full-on international felon. He’d be aware what kind of hard time he’d be looking at, and in a federal prison. A gust of breeze gave the front door a push, making it swing slightly.
Unlocked. So they’d gone in that way—or someone had. I could follow.
But I heard a motor running, and it sounded like it was coming from the back. It had to be; there wasn’t anything else around for a few hundred yards at least, and I could see the front and sides of the place.
I slipped around the side of the main factory building, along the service driveway. It probably led to a loading dock. A truck engine, or a boat engine? Whipley might be planning to escape in either, but my money was on his yacht. He could get to Canada and disappear, and if he’d been smart and stashed most of what he’d made in cash somewhere, he could get out of North America completely and kiss the consequences of his crimes goodbye.
And he might not have wanted to leave any witnesses.
I couldn’t think like that.
Heart pounding, I crept up to the corner of the factory, pressing myself against the rough bricks and listening. An engine, footsteps—and voices. Shouting. “…take me instead, you asshole! Leave Gabe alone!”
Dave’s voice.
I peeked around the corner. Whipley’s yacht was moored about twenty yards down the dock between two other boats, with a boarding ramp laid out from the deck down to the dock. Two men on the ramp. Gabe, his bright purple hair fluttering in the breeze and waving around his face, with his hands in front of him. Something silver around his wrists: duct tape, it looked like.
And behind him marched Whipley, a gun in his hand pointed right at Gabe’s back.
For a moment, time slowed down, and my blood felt like it went viscous in my veins. If he got Gabe on that boat and took off, Gabe wouldn’t make it. The Shelburne PD had to be right behind me; they’d surely arrive any minute. And we’d call out the Coast Guard, and we’d almost certainly catch Whipley, but he might kill Gabe in the meantime. Even if he didn’t, the chances of getting Gabe back safely in some kind of marine standoff were basically nil.
I had to stop him from leaving, bottom line. No matter what.
Without a tac vest, which I’d left in the hotel like a fucking moron, I’d be vulnerable as hell when I stepped out of cover. I doubted Whipley had the skills to make a head shot at this distance, but if he hit me at all, I’d go down.
So I had one try at this. At the very least, I could buy enough time for the locals to get here and pin him down, hopefully.
Gabe looked around wildly as Adam prodded him in the back, forcing him onto the boat. I caught the glint of his eyes in the sunlight, the pallor of his face.
I stepped out. “Whipley!” I shouted, taking aim. I could make the shot from this distance, but I had the sun half in my eyes. If I miscalculated even a little, he’d shoot Gabe too. “Drop the gun, hands over your head. You’re surrounded!”
His head jerked around, but the gun didn’t waver. His mouth dropped open in something between shock and the snarl of a cornered animal. My finger tightened on the trigger.
And then he grabbed Gabe by the hip, hustling him off the ramp and down into the boat. I broke into a run, booking it flat-out toward the dock. If he popped up over the side and took a shot at me, I’d be a moving target, but I had no cover at all.
A thump, and a cry, and then he did pop up, both arms outstretched, his gun pointed right at me.
He fired, and I dived to the side, and the bullet pinged off the concrete a couple of feet from me. Whipley shouted something I didn’t catch with the echo of the report in my ears, aimed again—and something bright neon green came out of nowhere and clocked him upside the head. Whipley staggered, shouted, and turned. Almost there. I clattered up the ramp just in time to see Gabe, bound hands wrapped around a rolled-up green yoga mat, whack Whipley in the face again, hard.
I leaped from the top of the ramp and landed on Whipley’s back, flattening him onto the deck with a crack and a thump that half knocked the wind out of me. He writhed under me, shouting, trying to buck me off. I grabbed his wrist, twisting it and beating it into the deck. His gun went flying, skittering across the deck.
I shoved my own gun back in its holster, caught both of his arms, and wrestled them behind him, sitting up and pinning him with my weight.
Whipley fought hard and nearly knocked me off, but once I got a knee in the small of his back, that was it. He subsided under me, his face pressed to the deck, a little blood seeping out from under it. I’d probably broken his nose when I slammed him down face-first, and I couldn’t bring myself to feel even the tiniest bit bad about it.
