Текст книги "The Last Second: A Novella"

Автор книги: Robin Burcell

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THE LAST SECOND

A Novella

ROBIN BURCELL

DEDICATION

Those of us who have friends like Max,

who will stand by us no matter what, we are blessed.

This story is dedicated to those friends.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Now that I’ve completed my first ever novella, I realize it takes a small village to bring it to fruition. To (retired) supervising Special Agent George Fong, FBI, who always ensures that my FBI elements are based on reality. To (retired) Sergeant Dale Miller, LPD, my expert on explosive devices, who has helped me through several books and now this short story to ensure that anything that explodes does so with a semblance of believability. Any factual errors are mine. To Susan Crosby for being my first reader and best critic. To my agent, Jane Chelius, for always cheering me on. To everyone at Harper for all their hard work. And last, but certainly not least, to Lyssa Keusch, my editor. This story is better because of her.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgments

The Last Second

An Excerpt from The Kill Order

Chapter 1

About the Author

Also by Robin Burcell

Copyright

About the Publisher

THE LAST SECOND

Zachary Griffin glanced over at his passenger, then back at the road. He had his reasons for asking Sydney Fitzpatrick to assist him with this case. They worked for two separate agencies. He was a covert operative for ATLAS, an intelligence agency that handled national security threats both domestically and internationally. She was an FBI agent. Typically the FBI would not be working with ATLAS. Very few people even knew his agency existed. But he’d crossed paths with Sydney on more than one case, and, since she was also a forensic artist, her clearance had been raised when they’d needed her assistance.

This investigation, however, was not one that needed a sketch, forensic or otherwise. He’d asked her to come with him as a pretext to discuss a past case he’d worked. One might even say it was a confession. A secret he’d held on to, even though he should have told her before they’d started dating.

Now it was time to clear the air.

What better way to do it than when they were stuck in some small town, two thousand miles away, where she couldn’t simply drive home? Maybe then she’d listen long enough to see things from his point of view.

One could only hope, he thought, checking his rearview mirror, then glancing over at her as she finished reading the case she’d started on the plane. They were now on the road, heading south from Tucson, Arizona. Unlike the gray January skies they’d left behind that morning in D.C., here it was blue and cloudless.

“This guy looks guilty,” Sydney said, turning the page. It was a thick file, but she was nearly finished.

“He probably is.”

“So why are we going out on it then? The guy skipped bail. You really think he’s going to talk to us?”

“Assuming we can find him. If he can give us Quindlen, it’ll be more than worth our while to offer him a deal.”

According to the report, Calvin Walker, a Pocito police officer, was suspected of working with the Mexican cartels. He’d been seen talking with a known gunrunner and ex–CIA agent, Garrett Quindlen, who was under suspicion of running the entire operation. When Walker was stopped on his way home, the Pocito police found a number of guns in his trunk, along with a large amount of cash and drugs. He was arrested, and, for reasons Griffin had yet to determine, was granted bail before any other agencies had a chance to go out and interview him.

Their only hope now was getting to Walker through his sister, Trish, who they hoped might still be in touch with him.

They met Trish Walker at a coffee shop in the next town over. She had short, wind-tousled blond hair. Her blue eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and her skin looked gaunt, as though she hadn’t slept or eaten much the past several days. The restaurant was empty save for two people sitting at the counter, one scanning the paper, the other the waitress, who was reading a book. The three took a seat at a table near the window, and the waitress got up to pour them coffee, took their order, then went back to her reading.

“We’re hoping to offer your brother a deal,” Griffin said to Trish. “Information on who’s actually behind the operation in exchange for a lighter sentence.”

“He’s innocent.”

“The evidence speaks otherwise.”

“He’s one of the most honest guys I know. A good cop. Always has been. He would’ve taken this all the way to court to prove his innocence.”

Not wanting to alienate her, he decided to let her pursue her brother’s innocence. “Did he tell you what’s going on? What he thought was happening?”

She shook her head. “He said he couldn’t talk on the phone, but that he didn’t do what they said. His lawyer thinks he’s lucky they even allowed bail.”

“And after you posted his bail, what did he tell you?”

“That they set him up, and he was going to find out what was really going on. He was sure that this man Garrett Quindlen was behind everything. That he’s the one who’s actually calling the shots at Pocito PD. But no one can prove it. He told me he had his suspicions, but warned me about talking to anyone at the PD. He said they’d find out, and I’d end up in a body bag.”

“When’s the last time you saw your brother?”

“He was heading out to the old McMahon place. It’s an abandoned house on the edge of town, where he thought he might find some sort of evidence. That’s the last time I heard from him.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three days ago.”

She looked down at her coffee cup for a second or two, tracing her finger along the rim. When she looked back up again, her eyes shimmered with tears. “You have to help me. They killed him. I’m sure of it. He would never have jumped bail. Never.”

Unfortunately, Griffin thought, they were only here to gather information. But he couldn’t leave her like this. “What sort of help are you looking for?”

“I want to clear his name. If I can prove he was killed, I think the townspeople will take a stand and do the right thing. Someone in that police department’s dirty, but it’s not my brother. Right now no one in town will talk to me. They’re all afraid.”

“And how do you plan to prove he was murdered?”

“By finding his body. He was killed at the McMahon place. I’m sure of it. That’s where he was going, and it also happens to be where the police department found that large cache of explosives they say belonged to him. It’s not his. I know it.”

“What makes you think it happened there?”

“Because I’ve finally found the one witness who isn’t afraid to step forward. The only problem is that I seem to be the only person who believes him.”

Now this was possibly something he could use. “And who is this mystery witness?”

“His name is Max.”

“Where can I find him?”

She took a deep breath, clearly uncomfortable with what she was about to tell him. “The thing is . . . he doesn’t speak English.”

“I speak fluent Spanish.”

“Actually,” Trish said, “he doesn’t speak Spanish, either.”

“What language does he speak?”

She gave a hesitant smile. “This is the part you might have trouble with.”

“Try.”

“My witness is a dog.”

“A dog?” He wasn’t even sure how to react to that. Even Sydney looked stunned. “A dog?” he said again.

Trish handed him two photos. The first was of a once-white Victorian mansion on a low hilltop, which, judging from the peeling paint and missing sideboards, had seen better days. The second photo focused on a low wall made of large rocks that surrounded the bottom of the hill around the old Victorian’s perimeter, then extended out about thirty feet.

And there, lying in front of the broken section of the wall, was a brown and black German shepherd, its head on the ground between its front paws.

He showed the photos to Sydney, and she asked, “Whose dog is it?”

“My brother’s dog. Max. He’s been there every day since Calvin went missing. Come tomorrow morning, the police department plans on detonating that cache of explosives they found in the basement of the McMahon house, and they don’t seem too concerned if the dog’s there or not.”

“Why not remove the dog?”

“There’s a high fence around the entire property,” Trish said. “The gates are locked. And now that that dynamite’s been discovered, the police won’t let anyone near it. I’ve tried calling Max out, but he won’t come. That’s what makes me think my brother is buried there beneath those stones. Right where the wall’s broken.”

Griffin focused on the broken section, particularly the rocks in front of it. “Some of those weeds growing around the rocks look more than a week old. The bush growing next to it looks pretty intact.”

Sydney leaned over to get a closer look at the photo. “I read a news article once about this dog that found its way to the cemetery and stayed by its master’s grave for months after the man died. I’m with Trish. The dog must sense he’s buried there, or why stay?”

“Truthfully?” Griffin said. “They blow up that cache, I think the dog is far enough away where it won’t be hurt. We can check the rock pile afterward.”

Sydney picked up the photo and held it in front of him. “Look at his face, Griffin. It’s like he knows. We need to help Trish find the body and get it out. But if the police blow up that place, you can’t guarantee debris from the house won’t hit the dog. He could get hurt.”

“And,” Trish said, “those people need to know what happened to my brother. They need a hero, even a dead hero. Only then will things change around here.”

Griffin eyed the photo. McNiel, his boss, would never allow him to run a rescue mission for a German shepherd. And he seriously doubted McNiel would make an exception to recover a suspected gun smuggler’s body. The moment Griffin gave notification of his intent to help, he’d be shut down.

Black ops agents did not run rescue missions for pets.

But like Sydney, Griffin was a sucker for the underdog, especially when it was a real dog. He slid the photo into his notebook. “Maybe we can get in there posing as the press. I think it’s time the Washington Recorder interviewed the police chief on what is clearly a human interest story.”

“Washington Recorder?” Trish asked him.

“A newspaper we use for our nonofficial cover.”

“I’ll warn you,” Trish said. “He doesn’t like the press. Last thing he wants is news coverage.”

Sydney smiled as she poured some cream in her coffee. “I’m pretty sure if he had a choice, he’d take the press over us any day.”

Pocito, population twenty-three hundred, an old mining town, was not the flat, cactus-covered desert Griffin would have imagined. Set in the rolling hills at the foot of the Mule Mountains in southern Arizona, Pocito looked as though time had simply passed it over, stopping in the late 1800s. One almost expected to see the head lawman stepping out of the brick-fronted building with a six-shooter on his hip and a gold star on his chest. He did not, and the past disappeared into the present as Griffin and Sydney pulled open the door of the police department, stepping into a fluorescent-lit lobby where a woman sat behind the counter, typing away at a computer.

Judging from the equipment on her desk, Griffin figured she was receptionist, dispatcher, and phone operator. She smiled expectantly at the two of them.

“May I help you?”

Griffin adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, then nodded in greeting. “Zachary Griffin, Washington Recorder, and Sydney Fitz, my photographer. We were hoping to have an interview with the chief.”

“If you let me know what this is in regards to, I’ll see if he’s in.”

Griffin glanced up at the plaque on the door behind her, the one that read “Chief of Police” on it. “Apparently,” Griffin said, loud enough to be heard through the door, “there’s a dog whose owner abandoned it. Out on some property that’s about to be leveled.”

“The McMahon place,” she said. “I’m afraid Chief Parks is not taking any interviews on that until tomorrow.” She gave Griffin a patronizing smile. “At least not until after the detonation.”

“Too bad,” he said. “Big special interest story. This place will be a zoo once it gets out. Of course, if I can get an exclusive, I’d be inclined to keep it under wraps until tomorrow.”

The door behind the woman suddenly opened and out stepped a tall man, early fifties, wearing a khaki uniform, with a gold badge on his chest and stars on his collar. “It’s okay, Irene. I’ve got time for a quick interview.”

“Yes, sir.”

Griffin followed Sydney back to the chief’s office, where he directed them to the two chairs in front of his desk. “Sorry about that little bit of misunderstanding,” Chief Parks said. “Got me a whopper of a case here, and I told Irene to—well, I’ve been on the phone all morning with the ATF and the DEA over it. Haven’t even had a chance to break for coffee.” He took a seat himself, then looked directly at Griffin. “Afraid I missed the name of your paper?”

“Washington Recorder.”

“Washington. You don’t say? State or D.C.?”

“D.C.”

“Dang. Over a dog?”

“The world’s always looking for a feel-good story.”

“Hard to feel good about a dirty cop working with the Mexican cartels. Guess I shoulda suspected something was up when Officer Walker was suddenly interested in cultivating his so-called informant.”

“Any idea who this informant was?” Griffin asked him, wondering if it might be Quindlen or someone who could lead them to Quindlen.

“No clue. But we did try to find out. Followed Walker on multiple occasions out to the property where we found all that evidence. Then again, if you really want proof, maybe you’d like to see the photos of the dynamite Officer Walker had stored in the basement? And the guns?”

“You have photos?”

“Damned straight we do. Of course, the DEA’s got the guns, but we kept a record.” He pressed a button on his phone, then leaned over the speaker. “Irene, can you bring in the evidence book on Calvin Walker’s case . . . Thanks.” He hung up.

A moment later, Irene walked in, carrying a large black binder. “Anything else?”

“If you got any coffee made, I’d love a cup. For our guests, too.”

“None for me,” Sydney said.

“Already had my cup today,” Griffin replied.

“Just one, Irene.”

She smiled, then left. The chief opened the book, turned it so that it was facing the right way for Griffin, then slid it toward him across the desk. “You know much about guns, son?”

“Enough to know I never want to be on the wrong end of one,” Griffin said, looking up at the chief through the rim of his glasses.

“Expect you reporters don’t get around them much. These here? Extremely deadly.” He tapped a photo of a metal long box containing an assortment of weapons. Off the top, Griffin recognized a couple of AR–15s and some semiautomatic AK-pattern rifles. Below that were at least two dozen more long guns, most of which, due to bad lighting, Griffin couldn’t see clearly enough to identify. The chief tapped the page. “You hear of that bungled operation the Feds were running? Made all the news recently, letting all them guns cross the border into Mexico? Straw buyers and gun walkers?”

“Vaguely. I usually cover the human interest side of things.”

“Well, this here cache of guns, every serial number traced back to that operation. Every one of them was found in the trunk of my officer, Calvin Walker. I’d say that makes him guilty.”

“Allegedly,” Sydney pointed out. “If I’m not mistaken, there hasn’t been a trial yet.”

The chief scoffed. “See, that’s what’s wrong with the media these days. Always so warm and fuzzy.” He glanced at Sydney, then leaned back in his chair and pinned his gaze on Griffin. “There wasn’t nothing alleged about it. What happened is that Officer Walker was moving them guns from his house here in town out to the McMahon property so he could hide ’em. Or he would’ve if we hadn’t caught him. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Walker jumped bail, missed court, and that tells me he probably headed straight to Mexico where his cartel friends are hiding him. Which makes him Mexico’s problem, not mine.”

Griffin turned the page in the book, curious to see what other evidence there might be. One was a picture of the Victorian mansion he’d seen in Trish’s photograph. “This the McMahon place?”

Sydney leaned in for a look. “Impressive.”

“It was,” the chief said. “Back in the day. McMahon and Sons Mining. Old McMahon sold it and moved out of state some years ago. The new owners went bankrupt and the house was repossessed. Been empty so long, had to fence it off as a public nuisance. Of course, you turn to the next page, you’ll see why it’s being detonated in the morning.” Griffin did as asked, and the chief said, “Either of you know anything about explosives?”

Sydney looked wide-eyed, and Griffin replied, “Let’s just say they don’t cover that in journalism school.”

“That,” Chief Parks said, tapping the photo, “is dynamite. Old mining towns, we expect to find this. But not there, in the McMahon basement.”

Sydney moved closer for a better look. “Could it have been left behind by the past owners? For their mining operations?”

“No, ma’am. Because that there basement was empty when the last owners abandoned it. We know, because we rousted a few kids out of there over the years, which is why we had to erect the fence around the property. Too dangerous,” he said, as Irene walked in with his cup of coffee. “Thanks.” He turned his attention back to the binder. “We found that dynamite in a search of the property after Calvin jumped bail. Most officers I know don’t keep cases of explosives around unless they’re up to no good. And now we gotta blow up the place.”

“Blow it up?” Sydney asked, playing the ingénue to perfection. “Why?”

“Wouldn’t take much to set it off. Nitroglycerin’s degraded. Couple of them sticks even rub together and boom!” He slammed his hand on the desk.

Sydney’s brows went up, and Griffin asked, “But what about Officer Walker’s dog? Can’t we at least get in there and take it out?”

“Like I said, too dangerous. Right now, my officers are under orders to arrest anyone who shows up. Afraid I can’t make any exceptions.”

“Even for photographs?” Sydney asked. “For our article?”

“Tell you what,” he said, steepling his fingers together. “You can take all the photos you want. As long as it’s outside the fence line. That’s the best I can do.” He made a show of looking at his watch, then standing. “You two got any other questions? I got a town council meeting I gotta get to.”

“Actually,” Griffin said, “there is one thing. Now, mind you, I’m not the investigative expert here or anything, but we heard rumors that maybe that dog’s waiting on that property because there’s a body buried there somewhere.”

“A body?” He shook his head. “Said it was beneath that rock pile by the broken wall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I take it you been talking to Walker’s sister? Well, dog or no dog, I assure you there’s no dead body beneath that rock pile or anywhere else on the property.” He turned to his computer. “Who knows why the damned dog is there. Now this,” he said, typing something on the keyboard, “is a photo taken a couple years ago, when we decided to fence the house off, due to it being a public nuisance. Last thing we wanted was to be sued ’cause some drunk-ass kid fell in one of them old mine shafts that litter the area, never mind falling down the stairs in the abandoned house.” He waited while the article loaded, then turned the screen so Griffin and Sydney could see it. “You can see the fence crews working in the background. That puts it about two years ago. And there? Same broken wall. Same location. Same configuration. So unless someone went to the trouble of piling it up in exactly the same way, ain’t no way they moved ’em to bury a body there.”

“Is it possible to take a look ourselves? At least to retrieve the dog?”

“Can’t let you do that. Ain’t no reason that dog’ll get hurt where it’s at. Dynamite’s in the basement. Dog’s a few dozen yards away. Trust me. We got experts out there overseeing the whole thing, and they assure me that house is going straight down, not out. Ain’t no one gonna get hurt, as long as they stay outside the fence line.” He walked over to the door and opened it. “But tell you what. You want to be here in the morning when we blow up the place? I’ll give you front-row seats. In the meantime, you leave the explosives to the guys who know what they’re doing and we’ll leave the article writing to you.”

“Well?” Trish asked Griffin, once they were back at the car where she was waiting.

He removed his glasses and tucked them in his pocket. “Guess we’re going to save a dog.”

Sydney reached out, hugged him, and he forced himself to let go when she did. “Thank you,” she said softly, and he hoped she’d remember that there was a good side to him, when they finally did get that chance to sit down and discuss his past. “What made you decide?”

“He’s lying through his teeth. At least about the dynamite.”

“I’m not the expert you are,” Sydney said. “But I was under the impression that nitroglycerin is very unstable once it degrades.”

“It is. And like he said, I’d expect to find long-forgotten dynamite in an old mining town like this. But what I saw in that photo happened to be military-grade explosives, which is made without nitroglycerin. The military designed it specifically for its stability. So either there’s another dirty cop who fed Chief Parks a line of bull about what sort of explosives are down in that basement, and he’s clueless, or he knows exactly what it is, and he believes we’re clueless.” He looked over at Sydney as she slid into the passenger seat. “Guess which scenario I’m banking on.”

Sydney smiled. “Score one for the mild-mannered reporter.”

Griffin started the car, then pulled away from the curb.

“So,” Trish asked. “Where do we go from here?”

“The old McMahon place,” Griffin said. “Seems to me if the chief’s so hell-bent on keeping us out, that’s the first place we need to check.”

Assuming no one was hurt in the operation, the worst thing that could happen if he and Sydney got caught was that they’d be punished for using government resources in a nonsanctioned, nonvital operation. They could be suspended without pay for such a move.

Then again, they could both be fired.

Least of his worries right now.

Ten minutes later outside the fence line, as Griffin eyed the dog through his binoculars, he told himself that he didn’t care if what he was doing went against the rules. In his mind, this was one case where it was better to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission. And if they took down a corrupt local government while they were doing it, all the better. “Exactly how did you plan on getting in there past the patrol officers guarding the place?” he asked Trish.

“There’s a gate on the perimeter fencing around the back. It’s locked. But there’s also a hole near the gate where the dog got through. I think it’s big enough for us.”

“What sort of patrols do we have?” Griffin asked.

“A uniformed officer drives the outer circumference, checking on the property about every thirty minutes, making sure the gates are locked. Ever since they discovered the explosives, they haven’t varied their schedule.”

“Beyond the chief, you think the officers are in on this?” he asked her.

“I don’t know. I never got the chance to ask my brother.”

“And the agents who they turned the guns over to? Could they be in bed with the corrupt police?”

“I don’t think so. The biggest problem with them is they’re too by the book. At least according to my brother.”

Of course, Griffin thought, there was one thing neither he nor Sydney considered when they set out on this mission. “What happens if we find your brother’s body? Any chance the police chief’s going to let us waltz out of here with it?”

Sydney gave him a sardonic look, but any quip she might have uttered died at the sight of a dust cloud in the distance.

Apparently the road coming from the south wasn’t paved. “That’s probably the patrol.” He checked his watch. “Now we know their schedule. Nice of them to make it easy for us.”

A minute later, the vehicle drove past the gulch where they hid. It stopped, the red dust settling as the officer got out, checked the chain on the gate, then stood there a moment, looking in their direction. Although they were hidden in the brush, Griffin felt Sydney tensing next to him. But then the officer turned away, got back into his vehicle, and drove off.

They waited until the trail of dust was long gone before they got up, moved to the gate. Trish showed them where the dog had gotten through, a hole beneath the chain link. Griffin lifted it, allowing first Sydney, then Trish in, before sliding under it himself. Sydney and Trish climbed the hill toward the house to have a look around, while Griffin, using the shrubs for cover, worked his way to the end of the broken wall, where the dog rested.

When he reached the break in the wall, the dog turned toward him, his sad eyes looking suddenly hopeful as he raised his head, then wagged his tail hesitantly. In that moment, had all the forces of Washington, D.C., ordered him off, Griffin knew without a doubt that he couldn’t walk away.

“Hey, Max,” he said quietly, not wanting to scare the dog. “C’mere.”

Max stood, but didn’t move, watching with a wary expression as Griffin neared. He looked thin, his coat dull from the dust.

“Max.” Griffin took a few more steps, held out his hand, then clicked his tongue. “C’mere, boy. Come.”

The dog remained steadfast.

At least he wasn’t growling. Griffin took that as a good sign, talking softly, moving forward, slow, steady, until he was just two steps away.

“Good dog.” He reached out, allowed the dog to smell the back of his hand. “Where’s Calvin?” The dog’s ears perked up. “Where’s Calvin? C’mon, boy. Show me.”

Max gave a slight whine, then jumped down and started digging in the hard, sandy soil, right beneath the foremost rock.

Griffin might still have doubts about Trish’s theory on the location of Calvin Walker’s body—he saw no signs of a fresh grave, nor smelled the stench of decaying flesh that in this climate was a sure sign. But this dog was trying to tell him that something was beneath there.

He crouched down next to the dog, looking at the rocks, and the dog pushed his nose against Griffin’s arm, as though urging him forward. Max jumped so that his forepaws were on the rock. He barked twice, and Griffin wondered if perhaps there was a murder weapon, or something that belonged to his master that would explain why the dog had steadfastly remained in this one spot of all places. He leaned forward to peer into the shadows cast by the bush growing right against the break in the wall.

What he didn’t expect was to feel air moving against his face. Or a sound coming from beneath the rocks. Like the noise a seashell makes when you hold it to your ear.

The rocks weren’t there to cover up a grave. They were there to cover up an old mining shaft.

“Anyone down there?”

No answer.

Griffin pulled one of the rocks off and it rolled down the pile. Then another, until he partially exposed a metal grate covering the shaft. He cleared the remainder of the rocks from it and saw it was a little over a half meter in diameter. The bush growing next to it blocked the sunlight and he couldn’t see how deep it went. Someone certainly could have dropped a body down there, but after three days, there would have been some smell of decay—unless it was too deep. “Calvin Walker? Are you there?”

He couldn’t tell if what he heard was a raspy faint response or an echo of his last word. The dog, however, whined. That was proof enough for Griffin, and he started to lift the grille when Sydney called out to him. He looked up to see her and Trish on the porch.

Sydney pointed toward the service road. “The patrol car’s coming back around.” Sure enough, there was a growing cloud of dust, which suddenly settled, indicating the car had stopped a couple of hundred yards out.

Sydney turned her binoculars back to the road. “Getting out of the car . . . Gun!” She pulled Trish down onto the porch a second before the first shot rang out. Bits of rock and dust went flying past Griffin’s face.

Griffin dove to the ground, on the far side of the rocks. A second shot rang out. Max gave a sharp cry.

Unsure if he was hit or simply scared, Griffin called him. “Max! Come!”

The dog obeyed. Griffin grabbed him by the collar, so he couldn’t run off. Although Griffin couldn’t see the officer, he wasn’t about to poke his head up over the low wall to look, so he held the dog to the ground next to him. From that distance, it had to be a long-range rifle. “Sydney! Visual?”

“Clear! . . . Run!”

Gripping Max’s collar, he sprinted up the hill to the house, onto the porch where Sydney and Trish hid. Sydney was standing behind the trellis, the thick, leafless vines giving her cover as she watched.

“What’s he doing?”

“Backing up, I’m assuming so he can call in reinforcements.”

“We could use some big guns of our own,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. Tucson’s FBI field office was the closest. Only one problem. “No signal.”

In fact, no one had a signal, and Trish said, “Come to think of it, every time I’ve come, I haven’t been able to get service on this hill. I just thought it was my phone.”

“They must have a jamming device,” he said.

“What does that do?” Trish asked.

“Used by the military to block radio or phone signals that might detonate a remote-controlled improvised explosive device. A good idea if you’ve got something wired to blow.”

“That,” Sydney added, “is a mighty sophisticated piece of equipment for a two-bit town like this. So where do you think they have it?”

Griffin looked around the property, eventually spying an old wooden shed about fifty yards down the hill. “Probably in there.”

“We could always shoot it. The wood looks like it’s ready to fall off anyway.”

“Not a good idea when you’re sitting on top of who knows how much explosives. Right now, the jamming device is a good thing.”

“One of us could leave and call for help,” Sydney suggested, and he knew she meant Trish, hoping to keep her safe.

Unfortunately there was not enough cover between there and the gate. “Too risky.”