“Don’t!” the escort shouted.
Then the county hack staggered backward, a bewildered expression on his face, as Pell repeatedly shoved a filleting knife into his belly and chest. Bleeding in cascades, Baxter fell to his knees, trying for the pepper spray. Pell grabbed his shoulders and spun him around as the huge escort fired the Taser. It discharged but the probes went wide.
Pell shoved Baxter aside and leapt at the escort, the useless Taser falling to the floor.
The big man froze, staring at the knife. Pell’s blue eyes studied his sweaty black face.
“Don’t do it, Daniel.”
Pell moved in.
The escort’s massive fists balled up.
No point in talking. Those who were in control didn’t need to humiliate or threaten or quip. Pell charged forward, dodging the man’s blows, and struck him hard a dozen times, the knife edge facing out and extending downward from the bottom of his clenched right hand. Punching was the most effective way to use a knife against a strong opponent willing to fight back.
His face contorting, the escort fell to his side, kicking. He gripped his chest and throat. A moment later he stopped moving. Pell grabbed the keys and undid the restraints.
Baxter was crawling away, still trying to get his Mace out of his holster with blood-slicked fingers. His eyes grew wide as Pell approached. “Please. Don’t do anything to me. I was just doing my job. We’re both good Christians! I treated you kind. I—”
Pell grabbed him by the hair. He was tempted to say, You wasted God’s time praying for yourcar keys
?
But you never humiliated or threatened or quipped. Pell bent down and efficiently cut his throat.
When Baxter was dead, Pell stepped to the door again. He covered his eyes and grabbed the metallic fireproof bag, where he’d gotten the knife, just outside the door.
He was reaching inside again when he felt the gun muzzle at his neck.
“Don’t move.”
Pell froze.
“Drop the knife.”
A moment’s debate. The gun was steady; Pell sensed that whoever held it was ready to pull the trigger.
His hissed a sigh. The knife clattered to the floor. He glanced at the man, a young Latino plainclothes officer, eyes on Pell, holding a radio.
“This’s Juan Millar. Kathryn, you there?”
“Go ahead,” the woman’s voice clattered.
Kathryn…
“I’m eleven-nine-nine, immediate assistance, at the fire door, ground floor, just outside the lockup. I’ve got two guards down. Hurt bad. Nine-four-five, requesting ambulance. Repeat, I’m eleven-nine—”
At that moment the gas tank of the car nearest the door exploded; a flare of orange flame shot through the doorway.
The officer ducked.
Pell didn’t. His beard flared, flames licked his cheek, but he stood his ground.
Hold fast…
Chapter 4
Kathryn Dance was calling on a Motorola, “Juan, where’s Pell?…Juan, respond. What’s going on down there?”
No answer.
An eleven-nine-nine was a Highway Patrol code—though one that all California law enforcers knew. It meant an officer needed immediate assistance.
And yet no response after his transmission.
The courthouse security chief, a grizzled, crew-cut retired cop, stuck his head into the office. “Who’s running the search? Who’s in charge?”
Sandoval glanced at Dance. “You’re senior.”
Dance had never encountered a situation like this—a firebomb and an escape by a killer like Daniel Pell—but, then, she didn’t know ofanybody on the Peninsula who had. She could coordinate efforts until somebody from MCSO or the Highway Patrol took over. It was vital to move fast and decisively.
“Okay,” she said. And instructed the security chief to get other guards downstairs immediately and to the doors where people were exiting.
Screams outside. People running in the corridor. Radio messages flying back and forth.
“Look,” TJ said, nodding toward the window, where black smoke obscured the view completely. “Oh, man.”
Despite the fire, which might be raginginside now, Kathryn Dance decided to remain in Alonzo Sandoval’s office. She wouldn’t waste time by relocating or evacuating. If the building was engulfed they could jump out of the windows to the roofs of cars parked in the front lot, ten feet below. She tried Juan Millar again—there was no answer on his phone or radio—then said to the security chief, “We need a room-by-room search of the building.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He trotted off.
“And in case he gets out, I want roadblocks,” Dance said to TJ. She pulled off her jacket, tossed it over a chair. Sweat stains were blossoming under the arms. “Here, here, here…” Her short nails tapped loudly on the laminated map of Salinas.
Gazing at the places she was indicating, TJ made calls to the Highway Patrol—California’s state police—and the MCSO.
Sandoval, the prosecutor—grim and dazed—stared at the smoky parking lot too. Flashing lights reflected in the window. He said nothing. More reports came in. No sign of Pell in the building or outside.
None of Juan Millar either.
The courthouse security chief returned a few minutes later, his face smudged. He was coughing hard.
“Fire’s under control. Limited pretty much to outside.” He added shakily, “But, Sandy…I’ve gotta tell you, Jim Baxter’s dead. So’s the Capitola guard. Stabbed. Pell got a knife somehow, looks like.”
“No,” Sandoval whispered. “Oh, no.”
“And Millar?” Dance asked.
“We can’t find him. Might be a hostage. We found a radio. Assume it’s his. But we can’t figure out where Pell went. Somebody opened the back fire door but there were flames everywhere until just a few minutes ago. He couldn’t’ve gotten out that way. The only other choice is through the building and he’d be spotted in a minute in his prison overalls.”
“Unless he’s dressed in Millar’s suit,” Dance said.