Every Second

78

Coyote Mountains, New York

Twenty minutes after the jackass had pulled away from his checkpoint, Trooper Larry Mattise was still pissed.

Something about that guy troubled him, beyond the fact he was a jerk. He kept staring at the five suspects on his phone: Blaine, Patterson, Kimmett, Spencer and Ghorbani.

Todd Dalir Ghorbani, of Springfield, Massachusetts.

He looked harder at the last man-examining his mouth, his chin and ears.

That’s it!

That trooper looked like Ghorbani. A lot like him, now that Mattise thought of it. But it couldn’t be him. People looked like other people all the time. He was talking about another cop here, not a suspect. He was just pissed at the guy. He needed to calm down, let it go so he could focus on the job.

A patrol unit eased up alongside Mattise.

“Larry,” the trooper at the wheel said, snapping his gum. “Sarge sent me to spell you for a short break.”

“Roger that.”

“Go make a coffee run. I like mine black.”

Mattise started his car, slid the transmission into Drive and rolled off.

He had two choices for coffee. Mumford’s gas was down Birch Creek, but would likely be swamped from all the search activity in that sector. Jenny’s was down Red Hawk a bit farther, but Mattise decided it would probably be quicker if he avoided the search crowd.

Along the way, his unease about the new trooper came back.

I couldn’t read his patrol number, his troop or his zone. Nothing marked on his car. Was he a special? Or with the governor’s detail?

Mattise had noticed the guy’s plate and thought he’d check it out as he drove. He punched it in, requesting dispatch to run it.

It still bothered him that the cop had insisted on going down Red Hawk. Why give him so much trouble?

And, damn it, he looks like one of the suspects.

The dispatcher responded to his request.

“Negative on your tag.”

Mattise keyed his microphone: “What’d you mean?”

“Nothing comes up, Larry.”

“Is it a special or something?”

“Negative. That plate is not registered with the state.”

“Thanks. Ten-four.”

Mattise took a breath, tightened his grip on the wheel and, for the next few miles, tried to downplay what was building in the back of his mind. Then he came to the section for Jenny’s Mountain Gas & Diner, which stood at the roadside about sixty yards away.

“Holy crap, I don’t believe this!”

He braked hard and pulled to the shoulder, using a large rock formation and group of pine trees for cover. There, in the lot with the tour bus, the cars and pickups, was a marked state police unit with its hood up.

A trooper was looking at the engine.

That’s gotta be him.

Four civilians were next to him.

Mattise reached under his passenger seat for his binoculars, raised them to his eyes and adjusted them. The trooper was the first face that came into view. Mattise scrutinized the mouth, the chin, the sunglasses.

Is that Ghorbani? Damn, it can’t be him!

Mattise steadied the binoculars and focused on the other men one by one, checking them against the images on his phone.

His stomach knotted. It’s them.

The view went dark for several seconds as a car passed by on a long angle, blocking Mattise’s view. Then he saw the men walk into the diner with their backpacks. He took the tour bus and other vehicles into consideration. His breathing quickened as he sent his dispatcher a secure text.

Five suspects sighted at Jenny’s Mountain Gas & Diner, on Red Hawk Way, Mile 35. Request SWAT and backup to secure building ASAP. Potential hostage situation. Maintain radio silence.

The dispatcher acknowledged.

Mattise knew Columbia County’s SWAT team and Ulster County’s Emergency Response Team were near.

A moment later the dispatcher alerted all law enforcement involved in the search of a report that the suspects had been sighted, followed with the location and an advisory for marked units to stay clear of the hot zone.

Mattise’s cell phone rang.

“This is Billich,” his lieutenant said. “You’re certain you’ve sighted the suspects? All five of them, Larry?”

Mattise sat a little straighter.

“Yes, sir, pretty certain.”

“Pretty certain? Listen up. We’ve just received a report that the two hostages, the mother and the son, have been rescued on the Bearfoot River in Fox Ridge. We’re concentrating our SWAT people in that sector, so if you think we need to divert resources, you’d better be more than ‘pretty certain,’ do you hear me?”

Mattise understood there’d be hell to pay if he was wrong here, but his gut told him he was doing the right thing.

“I swear to you, sir, it’s them.”