THE MOON HAD moved from high overhead to low in the night sky. It would be dawn in a few hours. I wasn’t thinking clearly and had no right to be out chasing leads. My decision-making would be hindered, and in a violent confrontation, that could be catastrophic. But like Wicks said, the odds were that the Muscle Max would lead to a dead end. I trusted his opinion. I just needed to be doing something, anything. Why not rule it out as a lead and move on?
I played the game as if it were real and walked past the strip center not looking directly down the center between the two buildings with the parking area in between. I acted as if uninterested. Instead, I took several peeks at the parking lot checking for the RV as I continued to walk past.
It wasn’t there.
I’d kept the 9mm down by my leg and put it back in my waistband under my shirt next to the Bulldog. I moved around to the back of the corner gas station and into the alley. I peeked over the fence to see into the rear of the strip center.
In the moonlight the hulk of an RV cast a giant shadow. At first, I couldn’t believe what I saw. It couldn’t be that easy. Relief washed over me.
Could it be just that easy?
Could it be a different RV? There were thousands of them in Southern California. Wouldn’t that be too big of a coincidence for another one to be parked back here? I walked along the fence line to get a closer look. When I came to a spot I thought was parallel, I did another quick peek.
I froze when I saw the tire mounted on the back with the tattered cover. My heart jumped into my throat.
This was it. They were there in the Muscle Max. Olivia was there. For a fleeting moment, the right thing to do flitted across my thoughts. I should go back to the gas station and call it in. Get backup. Surround the place with forty or fifty cops all with long guns and then call them out of the building.
That thought lasted a microsecond. If I did that, it would turn the whole mess into a hostage situation, the hostage being Olivia. I nixed it and moved on to what any father would do under similar circumstances—bull my way in and rescue my daughter. I had the training. I had the experience.
I raised my Smith and Wesson and went over the fence as quietly as I could just as someone came out of the building. I crouched in the shadows next to the fence and held my breath.
A big dude—a huge dude about thirty years of age, wearing shorts and a tank top—carried an armload of shoeboxes out to the RV and climbed into the back. The RV canted one way then the other as the guy stepped inside. The suspension of the vehicle was shot. Derek had been right about one thing—no one would’ve looked twice at this rolling hideout. No wonder Borkow had successfully evaded the hundreds of cops looking for him.
After a few seconds, the muscle head came out of the RV, not bothering to look around, too intent on the task at hand. He disappeared into the building.
I moved up to the door he’d disappeared into and peeked inside. The lights were on and the place smelled of swimming pool chlorine. Quiet. No noise escaped outside. Farther down, along the outside of the building, it looked as if a large section of window had been knocked out.
I stopped suddenly and stood up straight. A random thought hit. My God, was that why Olivia kept saying she was sorry when Borkow put her on the phone? Was she apologizing for what she thought was her mistake of getting pregnant? My poor little girl; how blind I had been. I’d make it up to her. I had to make it up to her.
The sadness and grief of that thought quickly flashed to anger, an anger so pure and hot I wanted to tear down the entire building barehanded. I stuck my gun out and followed it inside through the open door, ready to gun Borkow as soon as he came into view.
Down at the end of the hall, the muscle head turned left and disappeared through an interior doorway. I hurried to the door, hesitated, and then peeked inside. It was a weight room with free weights and machines, lots of them everywhere. Off to the right against the wall sat a dead man, his head caved in. I recognized him. Frank Robbins, aka Stanky Frank. One of the escapees from the jailbreak.
Then I saw Olivia sitting on a chaise lounge, her mouth and hands taped with duct tape. Dried blood, some of it still wet, covered the bottoms of her naked feet.
My heart skipped. She was all right. She was safe. I wasn’t too late.
Borkow stood close to her, his back turned, watching the huge man gather up another armload of shoeboxes from a tall stack along an interior wall.
I stepped in and moved toward Borkow, my sights lined up on his head. I needed to get close enough for a clean shot. I wasn’t familiar with the gun, the accuracy of the sights.
I’d made it halfway. I still needed to be closer for an accurate pistol shot when a Hispanic male appeared through a doorway at the other end of the room. He didn’t startle, he simply said, “Boss?”
Borkow looked at him and followed where he was pointing. Borkow turned and looked at me. I froze. He didn’t look scared at all with a gun aimed at his forehead. Instead he smiled.
The man was a psycho.
A knife appeared in his hand from out of nowhere.
He moved quickly.
I fired, the sound loud and intrusive, a sound that banged around off the interior walls. White smoke billowed out.
I missed him. I couldn’t try again; he’d moved too close to Olivia. If I’d had my other guns, the .357s, I wouldn’t have missed.
He put the knife to Olivia’s throat. “Nice try, Bailiff. You fire again and I guess I’ll just have to fall on my sword, if you know what I mean? Don’t take another step.”
The muscled man dropped the shoeboxes and stood up.
Borkow said, “Careful with those, you idiot.”
The Hispanic, who had to be Cortez, the one called Payaso, didn’t move any farther into the room. He didn’t pull a gun either. He just watched. He’d been the one to kill Lizzette and Bleeker with a hammer. Frank Robbins had died in the same manner, head trauma—brutal, and unconscionable murders.
Borkow chuckled. “Looks like it’s a Mexican standoff.”
Olivia’s eyes pleaded with me.
“It’s okay, baby, I’ll get you out of this. Everything is going to be okay, I promise you.”
“Oh, how sentimental. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Bailiff. There are three of us and only one of you.”
I looked up at Borkow. “You’re right. I’ll wait here if you want to go get two more of your cronies—that should make it a fair fight.”
Borkow laughed. “You hearing this, Payaso, the balls on this guy? Get your ass in here.”
“I’m good right here, boss. I wanna see how this plays out.”
Borkow stopped laughing. He lowered his voice. “Chickenshit.” Then at me, “Drop the gun, Bailiff, or I draw blood.” He stuck the knifepoint to Olivia’s scalp.
“Okay, just hold it, don’t do anything you’re going to regret.”