Not Our Daughter

Eight

Agent Burns sat in the front passenger seat of a black Chevrolet Tahoe as it sped away from Denver International Airport and headed toward the mountains on its way out to Winter Park. GPS said it was an hour-and-a-half drive. He’d instructed his local driver to get there in half that time. They had a red, swirling police light up on their dashboard, letting others on the road know their speedy zigzagging was official business. The red light was bright against the backdrop of night. His fingers felt jittery with anticipation. A thirteen-year pursuit was about to finally come to an end. Three FBI agents rode in the vehicle with him: Agent Davis and two others from his DC team who’d traveled with them. Like him, they all wore standard dark-blue FBI jackets. Ready for action as soon as they arrived. Another six local FBI agents were behind them in a matching Tahoe—also racing down I-70.

Burns felt like ten FBI agents should be plenty to make the arrest. This was only one man, his wife, and their teenage child. They weren’t a gang of criminals. While Greg and Amy Olsen had certainly committed a violent crime thirteen years ago in the stabbing death of Candace McGee, there had been no other official reports of violence from them in the days and weeks after that event. The couple had not gone on a killing spree to aid their escape. Burns had determined McGee’s death was a crime of passion from two overly distraught individuals who’d momentarily lost sanity. Of course, he took nothing for granted. The couple could lose control once again when they suddenly felt cornered.

He studied a digital map of Winter Park on his iPad. There was a pin placement for their home address, and he’d noted four different exits in and out of the neighborhood. If all hell broke loose, they would need to cover them all. He swiped his screen left and once again examined the surveillance photos of the couple they’d captured earlier that day. The FBI’s tech team said Cole and Lisa Shipley didn’t exist before ten years ago. They just suddenly appeared in Colorado—undoubtedly from Greg Olsen’s expert hands. Burns wondered how many different identities they’d used in the years directly after their disappearance. Both had official driver’s licenses, according to the Colorado Department of Transportation. But there was no record of US passports. The couple didn’t have plans to travel outside the United States. Or they had fake passports under other aliases. Burns was still working on getting access to all their financial accounts.

He looked out the window. They’d exited the main highway a few minutes ago and were now driving on Highway 40, where they’d started the climb up the mountain. The city of Winter Park was nestled in the Fraser Valley on the other side. The permanent population was around a thousand people. But with the ski resort, that could easily triple, depending on the season.

“How much longer?” Burns impatiently asked the driver.

“About thirty minutes. Just gotta go up and down the pass, and then we’ll be there.”

Burns checked his watch. That would put them there by 9:45. Every minute felt like an hour right now. He heard Davis pick up a phone call in the seat behind him.

“Yeah, let me put you on speakerphone,” Davis said, then leaned forward to the front. “Sir, this is Agent Haskins, our local guy who’s been trailing Cole Shipley all afternoon.”

“What is it, Haskins?” Burns asked.

“I think we’ve got a problem here.”

“What problem?” he barked, not wanting to hear that right now.

“Sir, I believe Cole Shipley is onto me. He, uh—”

“Spit it out already!”

“Well, sir, I followed him into a grocery store a few minutes ago. But then I couldn’t find him anywhere. I think he intentionally ditched me. Because when I went back out to the parking lot, his truck was already gone. Not only that, but my back tire was flat. I think he somehow let the air out.”

“You’re kidding.” Burns cursed. “Where are you now?”

“Just changed the tire, about to drive back over to their residence.”

“Get there ASAP. And do not let him out of your sight again. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m serious, Haskins. I’ll have your ass. This will be the end of your career.”

“I understand.”

Burns hung up, cursed again. This was so damn bad.

He turned to the driver. “Can’t you go any faster?”

“Not without flying off the mountain, sir. These switchbacks are hell.”

Davis spoke up from the back seat. “We need to call in backup, boss. We can’t chance it. If he suspects he’s found, they’ll immediately bolt. They’ve done it before.”

Burns checked his watch again. He’d originally wanted to handle this whole matter on their own without involving any local police. In his experience, small-town police could really muck up an investigation. They were too loud and obvious. They were not trained like the FBI for this type of covert situation. But Davis was right. If Cole Shipley knew he was being followed, an escape plan was no doubt already in motion. These were not dumb people. Quite the contrary. He’d found them to be incredibly smart. They could be gone in minutes. Burns could not allow them to get any kind of jump start. He had no choice right now. He needed as many local cops as possible surrounding the Shipleys’ house before it was too late. He turned back to Davis.

“All right, call local police. Get them moving!”