Chapter 44 BREE

Chapter 44

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Heart pounding, Bree walked away from the maintenance closet where she'd been hiding to watch the meeting. She approached Dutton, gun in hand and aimed directly at his center mass. "Sheriff's department!"

In her peripheral vision, she saw Mercy, Todd, and Juarez converge on Dutton from three different locations in the trees, AR-15s raised and ready. Their vehicles were parked in the woods, out of sight. Three more patrol units were down the road and would be here in a few minutes.

Dutton had walked right into their trap for a change.

Don Dutton is TheMaster.

She wasn't at all surprised. Instead, a sick feeling rolled around in her gut. The deputy who'd been watching Dutton's house had reported when he'd left his home twenty-five minutes before.

After the conversation with Detective Bolton, Mercy and Bree had messaged DaisyMae455 from their fake profile. They'd convinced her to call the sheriff's department. Once she'd learned she could be communicating with a murderer, she'd gratefully agreed to cooperate. She'd given them the details of her proposed meeting with TheMaster, and Deputy Zucco had taken her place.

Mercy had informed SAC Martinez that the sheriff's department had set up a meeting with the man they believed was the real killer. Martinez had insisted the FBI was building a strong case against Ken Wells. Martinez had refused to allow the Albany office to join the sheriff's action. Then he'd told Mercy—again—to go back to Oregon.

Instead she'd joined the hunt. Bree respected the hell out of Mercy's decision to disobey orders and put finding Paige over her own career.

Bree studied Dutton as she and her team closed in. His palms faced Zucco in a standard surrender posture. A plastic zip tie dangled from one hand. His pockets bulged. He was probably carrying a weapon or two. He hadn't moved, but his eyes were tracking each of their movements. He licked his lips. What was he thinking? Was he plotting a counterattack? Planning an escape?

Didn't matter. They had him.

Zucco didn't waver. Her Glock stayed level on Dutton. "Put your hands on your head!"

Dutton slowly moved both hands and rested them on his scalp. Bree's pulse kept hammering. She would not relax until he was in handcuffs and behind bars.

A bell dinged. Tires ground on gravel. Bree's heart stuttered. Someone was coming. Shit.

A boy yelled, "Woo-hoo!"

A woman called, "Timothy Andrew Stafford, get back here."

Everyone froze as a bright-blue, child-size mountain bike shot out of the woods. A heartbeat later, two adults emerged from the narrow trail. The boy was about seven or eight years old. With his head bent low over the handlebars, he pedaled like an Olympic cyclist. Spider-Man decals adorned his helmet. His parents' faces locked in shocked, horrified stares as the boy cut right through the center of the deputies.

Bree and her team stood helpless. None were close enough to intercept him. All they could do was watch the child pedal into a circle of drawn weapons—straight at a serial killer.

Dutton lunged at the boy and yanked him off his bike. The bike clattered to the blacktop while Dutton clutched the child to his chest, using him as a shield and backing toward his Dodge Charger.

After an initial squeal of surprise, the boy screamed and kicked. His sneakered feet flailed against Dutton's legs. "Let me go!"

Dutton pulled a gun from his pocket and pressed the muzzle under the kid's chin. "Stop it, or I'll shoot you."

The boy went limp, his skinny legs dangling. A wet stain spread across the front of his khaki shorts. Tears and snot ran down his face, and his pallor went ghostly white. His lips moved in a silent Mommy.

Panic crushed Bree's heart. She pictured her niece, maybe a year or two older.

Fuck fuck fuck.

"Put him down!" Bree shouted. Everyone still had their weapons trained on Dutton, but they didn't dare shoot him for fear of hitting the boy.

"Back away. All of you." Dutton held the boy close.

The parents threw their bikes to the ground. The father charged.

"Don't do it!" Dutton warned. "I'll kill him."

The father skidded to a stop, his face a wild blend of fear and rage. Just behind him, the mother wailed. "No! My baby!"

Dutton whirled, his gaze darting around. "Nobody move, or the kid dies." He continued to shuffle toward his car.

Bree held her breath. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears. In her peripheral vision, she saw Mercy, Todd, and Juarez all following Dutton's movements with their weapons.

Dutton set the boy's feet on the ground and whispered something in his ear. The boy's face turned even paler. He didn't move, except for the visible trembling of his entire body, as Dutton reached behind him and opened the car door. Dutton backed his ass into the driver's seat, keeping the boy in front of him.

In a single breath, he moved the gun and fired one shot around the child's body. Juarez went down. Then Dutton pulled the boy onto his lap, closed the door, and took off with the screech of tires on pavement.

Bree yelled into her radio mic. "Shots fired! Officer down!" After requesting an ambulance, she warned her nearby deputies, asked for assistance from all surrounding local, county, and state police agencies, and provided a description of Don, his vehicle, and the boy for an Amber Alert.

Bree waved Todd and Zucco toward Juarez. The young deputy was down, a bloodstain spreading rapidly on his thigh. Zucco knelt next to him, her palms overlapped, pressing on the wound to stem the bleeding. Todd raced for the woods. His vehicle—and first aid kit—were hidden in the trees about fifty feet away.

"He's bleeding too much." Bree hesitated. She wanted to stay with Juarez, but Dutton had a child. Her heart stumbled again.

Juarez waved a weak hand and spoke through pain-gritted teeth. "You have to save the boy."

Kids come first.

"We've got him," Zucco said, her hands and uniform covered in Juarez's blood, her eyes fierce. "Go get that motherfucker."