Текст книги "The Last Second: A Novella"

Автор книги: Robin Burcell

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“I don’t understand,” Trish said. “Why would they need a jammer if no one’s coming in until tomorrow to set up the detonation?”

“A very good point,” Griffin replied. “I think it’s time we find out.” He turned to examine the door.

Trish looked aghast. “Do you really think it’s safe to go in there?”

“No choice. I can’t tell where the biggest threat comes from. The cop shooting at us or in the basement. Any chance you can keep watch out here while Sydney and I check?”

“Sure,” Trish said.

Sydney reached out, touched her shoulder. “Stay out of sight and let us know when anyone else arrives or they start moving this way.”

Trish nodded, then focused on the officer. “He’s just standing behind his door, the rifle pointed this way.”

Figuring they had about ten minutes before reinforcements arrived from town, Griffin examined the door, hoping no one had thought to booby-trap it. Seeing nothing that alarmed him, he gave it a good kick. It flew open, hit the interior wall, then bounced back.

He pushed it wide, took a look in. The place appeared as though someone had started gutting the house, but stopped midway. Walls were torn down, jagged piles of Sheetrock remnants filled one corner, and an extension ladder leaned against the wall in the other. The wood-planked floor was warped, but felt solid beneath his feet. To the right, stairs ascended to the second floor. And to the right of that, there was a partially open door. Before he could determine where it led, the dog bolted forward, pushed through the door, then on down another staircase.

“Max!” Griffin called out.

The last thing they needed was a dog loose in a basement filled with explosives.

He relaxed slightly when he discovered that the door at the bottom was closed tight. Max scratched at it, whining.

“Guess we start there.”

“Right behind you,” Sydney said.

The stairwell wasn’t the brightest, but they weren’t about to see if there was any electrical power in the house. One did not turn on light switches or any other power source in proximity to explosive devices. When he reached the bottom, Max scratched at the door again, then looked up at Griffin.

“Sit.”

The dog obeyed.

Griffin grabbed his collar, held tight, and after a cursory check of the door, turned the knob and opened it. He was glad to see that there was enough light from outside filtering in through the basement windows, and he took a look around before making a move. It appeared they were storing some of their building supplies down here, possibly doing some work. There was a stack of plywood sheets leaning against the wall to his left, and about an inch of sawdust on the ground in front of it.

More importantly, there were four cases of military-grade explosives stacked in the very center of the basement on the concrete floor, between two support beams. To Griffin, it seemed an odd choice for someone involved in illegal trafficking of any kind to store their explosives right where someone could see if they happened to look into any of the basement windows.

“Sydney. Grab Max’s collar and don’t let him move from the doorway.”

She took the dog and he stepped into the room, walked to his right, surveying the floor first, making sure there were no trip wires.

Even though the outsides of the boxes indicated that they were military explosives, he wasn’t about to assume that’s what they contained. The first thing he looked for was signs of crystallization that would indicate any nitroglycerin had degraded.

“Clearly they lied by reporting it as too unstable to move.”

“And you’re surprised by this?” Sydney asked.

“Just stating a fact,” he said, slowly walking the perimeter of the basement. The anticipated timer and detonation device was on the far side, and he stopped short at the sight of bright red coming from the timer. It took a moment before he realized that it was just the sun angling in from the window reflecting on the LED light.

He knelt down. Used his cell phone to take a picture of it and the serial numbers on the closest box of explosives. The serial numbers could be traced back to where it originated, and as long as Griffin’s phone wasn’t blown to bits, and him with it, he’d have some proof of where it came from.

“Can you disconnect it?”

“Too soon to say. There’s a secondary wire on the timer and detonator, running straight down to the floor. It looks like it’s running back underneath all the boxes.”

“Booby trap in case you move them?”

“Maybe.” He got up, continued his path around the room, and realized the wire continued on past the boxes across the floor to the left of the stairwell, then straight underneath the sheets of plywood leaning against the wall. He hadn’t noticed the wire earlier, because of all the sawdust covering it, undoubtedly to conceal it from the casual observer.

He knelt down beside the plywood, noting the space between the bottom of each sheet. No pressure device. “Where the hell is the wire running to?”

“Can’t you just cut it?”

“Not until I know its purpose.” He only hoped it was straightforward, a matter of simply disconnecting the wires, but this setup had him stumped. Careful not to disturb the wire, he lifted the sheets of plywood one by one and stacked them against the wall a few feet away. He moved the last piece and saw a wooden cupboard door about four feet high, barred from the outside and secured with a padlock. The wire ran beneath it. “I’d say something’s in there. The wire isn’t thrilling me, though.”

Max whined quietly, and Sydney reached down to pet him.

Griffin found a hammer in a toolbox in the corner and gave the lock a solid hit. It popped off. “You might want to move inside the stairwell.”

“Seriously, Griff? If that stuff blows, this flimsy wall isn’t doing either of us any good.”

“Stubborn as ever,” he said, then pulled open the cupboard.

The moment he did, the dog tried to escape from Sydney’s grasp.

“Easy, boy,” she said.

“There’s a tunnel,” he told her, when she tried to angle over to see. “Meter wide by a meter high.” Griffin hated dark, tight spaces, and this was definitely dark and bordering on tight.

Max pulled Sydney forward.

“Don’t let him go.”

“I’m trying not to,” she said as the dog’s claws scratched at the concrete.

He leaned down, peered inside. The area was dark, and he could just make out the rough-hewn walls of the tunnel. The wire snaked along the bottom off to one side, and he pulled out his phone, turned on the flashlight feature. “Another box of explosives farther in.”

“Why would you blow up a tunnel that is hidden from view?”

“You wouldn’t, unless there was something down there you didn’t want anyone to find.”

The sound of metal hitting metal startled them. It came from outside, somewhere near the gate, Griffin thought.

Max barked, broke free, then scrambled for the tunnel. Griffin dove for the dog.

Max darted to the side, raced past him down the long passageway, right toward the box of explosives.

“Max!”

The dog never stopped. Griffin tensed. But the dog jumped over the explosives, then on past it, disappearing around a corner.

And then Trish called out from upstairs.

“You better get up here!” Trish said. “Some cop just crashed his car through the gate. He’s parked at the bottom of the hill. There’s another car right behind his.”

Sydney looked toward Griffin.

“I need to see what this wire’s for,” he said.

“Be careful, Zachary.”

He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her use his first name before. “You too.”

“Aren’t I always?” And then the sound of her footsteps as she raced up the stairs.

Griffin, phone in hand as his only source of light, entered the tunnel. He took a deep breath, and then another before starting forward. He’d had to train himself to get past the tight spaces, relax enough to let the claustrophobic feelings pass. The tunnel was not going to come down on him, and he kept his eye on the wire to the right, careful not to disturb it. At the same time, there was the box of explosives up ahead, and with the phone angled that way, the light bouncing as he moved, he half imagined there was another source of light shining on the dirt wall near the box in front of him.

He stilled.

It wasn’t his imagination. Nor was his phone the source of the light.

Even worse, the light he saw reflecting off the rocky wall looked suspiciously like it was some sort of digital device flashing in countdown mode.

He doubled his pace, dirt and rocks digging into his palms and knees, and he wondered if the dog had somehow set off a detonator on this secondary device. The box of explosives was nearly in the middle of the tunnel, and he leaned over it to view the timer.

Two minutes, thirty-nine seconds. And counting down fast. A mercury switch. The dog must have brushed against it and set it off.

He heard something. Panting.

Max, he realized, but turned his attention to the detonator, vaguely aware that the air here smelled. Of urine.

Dead men didn’t urinate. Men who were trapped in tunnels did.

Trish’s brother was going to have to wait. He had a bomb to disarm. Using his phone as a flashlight, he examined the device on all sides. Whoever had set this up had used a simple connection. Finally, something going his way. He dug out his pocketknife, then cut the wire. The timer stopped. But then came that millisecond of worry, until nothing more happened. He took a deep breath, sat back, and was about to start down the tunnel again, when he eyed the mercury switch, suddenly getting a bad feeling. Why have a mercury switch and a wire connecting it to the other detonator? The mercury switch on this detonator would have set it off just from the vibration when the main cache exploded . . .

The answer suddenly became clear—fail-secure—and he hurried back through the tunnel toward the basement, jumping out, then racing over to the four boxes of explosives sitting in the middle of the floor. Sure enough, the LED timer flashed down the seconds at warp speed. He cut the wire, grateful it was such a simple device, then stood there, his heart racing at the close call.

Not quite a dead man’s switch. More like a delayed dead man’s switch.

Just when the adrenaline started to leave, he heard Max barking.

Time to see what the dog found.

He reentered the tunnel, noticing that it widened at the curve just before he saw a thin stream of light filtering in through the grille overhead. Undoubtedly where the rocks covered the grille opening he’d seen from above. The shaft, slightly more than a half-meter wide, allowed enough light to see the dog at the feet of a man who sat with his back against the tunnel wall. The dog looked up, his tail wagging. The man merely watched him, perhaps trying to decide if he was there to help or hurt.

“Calvin Walker?”

“Yes—” He cleared his throat. “Who . . . ?”

“A friend of your sister’s.”

“Any—” He stopped. “Sorry. Laryngitis . . . Shouting.” And indeed his voice was raspy. He held up his handcuffed wrist, the silver marred with his dried blood from trying to pull out of it. A long chain snaked from the handcuff to a large eye hook anchored in the rock wall of the cave. “Key?”

Griffin examined the locking mechanism. Standard handcuff, double locked, which made it more difficult to open, but not impossible. “No. But I have the next best thing.” He pocketed his phone, took out his wallet, removing the money clip, which, had anyone examined, was noticeably slimmer than what came with the wallet. About the thickness of a large paper clip, its end turned up slightly. In his line of work, it wasn’t a good idea to carry around a handcuff key, especially when working undercover. Too often identified with law enforcement, whereas a lock pick designed as a money clip was usually overlooked.

“How’d you end up here?” Griffin asked, inserting the tool into the lock, fishing it around to get a feel inside.

“Politics.” Calvin gave a weak smile. “I refused to join the chief’s party.”

Griffin found the double-lock mechanism, turned the tool, and heard a click. Now for the main lock. “Who’s behind this?”

“A guy named Quindlen.”

“You know him?”

“Met him a few times. He’s a friend of the chief. I think they got to my informant, killed him. Haven’t seen him since my arrest.”

“So why keep you alive down here?”

“Quindlen’s idea. Harder to explain a bullet hole in an autopsy. Hence the water,” he said, holding up an empty bottle. “Don’t want your body—if it’s found—dying of dehydration. But an explosion? It fits the scenario they cooked up.”

“Quindlen’s behind this?”

“He’s behind everything here. But someone’s behind him. Someone big. Don’t know who.” The lock popped open, and Calvin rubbed at his wrist. “Thanks.”

Griffin replaced the pick into his wallet. “So this big investigation they have on you?”

“Set up by Chief Parks and Quindlen.” He reached out, scratched Max behind his ears. “Never saw it coming.”

“Any idea where Quindlen’s operation is based out of?”

“Unfortunately no. But it can’t be too far from here, because I see him in town a lot.”

“Can you crawl out, or will you need help?”

“I can do it. Perhaps not quickly . . .”

The sharp crack of gunfire echoed down the air shaft. The patrol officers were taking shots at Sydney. “Sorry. Gotta go.”

Calvin, one arm resting on the dog’s back, nodded. “We’ll get there.”

Griffin ducked back into the passageway, hurried through the tunnel. Just as he emerged from the basement, he heard several rapid shots coming from outside.

Sydney . . .

Griffin took the stairs two at a time. The ground floor was empty. Sydney had propped the extension ladder against the front door, undoubtedly to serve as a warning should someone try to enter—she’d hear the ladder falling and know the entry was breached. Knowing she’d go for high ground, he raced to the second floor, found her in a front bedroom, her weapon gripped in her right hand. She stood next to the window, peering out through tattered curtains, yellowed with age.

“What’s going on?” he asked, taking the position opposite her and drawing his own gun.

“They’re aiming at the ground down by the wall. Three officers, fully automatic weapons. Considering they thought we were reporters, and don’t even know we’re armed, why not just shoot us? Spray the house with gunfire? There’s not a lot to stop it.”

“Good question.” He thought about what Calvin said, about no bullets being found at an autopsy. “If I had to guess, they want to blow us with the house. Make it look like an accident.”

The two of them stood like that for several seconds, watching, waiting, when she suddenly turned to him. “I wasn’t planning on dying this weekend.”

“Same here.”

“Any last words in case we don’t make it? You said you wanted to talk about—”

He heard Max and Calvin enter the room, and was grateful for the timely interruption. Calvin ordered Max to stay, then he crouched down next to him in the doorway, keeping his head below the level of the window.

“That would be Calvin,” Griffin said. “Trish’s brother.”

Sydney turned, stared at the man for a full second. “Oh my God . . . Trish? Get in here.”

A moment later, Trish was barreling down the hallway. “What’s wrong? Did—?” Her face crumpled when she saw her brother, and she dove into his arms. “I thought you were dead  . . .” She started crying. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I’m sorry.”

A smile lit Sydney’s face and she looked over at Griffin. “Nice job, Griff.”

More gunfire erupted.

Griffin saw the dirt flying up at the base of the hill. Sydney was correct. They were purposefully shooting low.

She pressed herself against the wall, away from the window. “This might be a good time to brainstorm, because I’m out of ideas.”

“I could give myself up,” Calvin said. “I’m the one they want dead.”

“No,” Trish said, burying her face in her brother’s shoulder.

“If I did, they might let you all go.”

“I doubt it,” Griffin said, “since they’re expecting to blow the house sky-high and us with it. I’d just like to know what they’re waiting for.”

“Just be grateful they are waiting,” Sydney said, then eyed Griffin. “You did disarm the bombs?”

“Twice.”

Her brows went up.

“Technical glitch. Right now, we may have a bigger problem.”

“Like what?” she asked, turning her attention back to the window.

“Anger issues. Like what happens when they shut off the jamming device and the bombs won’t detonate.”

“Oh good. Because death by long-range automatic weapon is much preferred. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re outgunned and outmanned.” She glanced down at his Glock. “With thirty-two rounds between us, I don’t think we’re going to last that long, even if they did move into range.”

“You have a better idea?”

“Get the phones working and call in the damned cavalry.”

“It would have been nice to know we needed the damned cavalry before we got here,” he quipped.

“Like they would have come?”

She had a point. Their only evidence had been a dog sitting by a broken wall.

He glanced out, eyed the wall where he’d first seen the dog, then his gaze moved to the shed where the jamming device was probably located, far enough away to prevent injury if the explosives were detonated, and close enough for him or Sydney to shoot, if the men approached. But they hadn’t approached. And Griffin was certain it had nothing to do with them thinking that he or Sydney was armed, or they’d be taking better cover than they were. Undoubtedly they still considered the two of them as reporters. And yet, had any of the officers wanted to, they could still move closer, probably shoot right through the walls . . .

“They can’t switch off the jamming device until right before they detonate,” Griffin said. “Or they risk us calling for help. That means they’re waiting.”

“We’ve established that,” Sydney replied.

“But not what they’re waiting for.”

Calvin extricated himself from his sister’s arms, then joined them at the window, looking out. “The chief’s not there. They won’t make a move without him.”

“Maybe he really did have a meeting,” Sydney said. “That’s what he told us when we left his office.”

“Town council?” Calvin asked.

“That’s what he said.”

Calvin actually laughed as he peered through the curtains. “No wonder. After the meeting, Parks usually heads to the massage parlor for the chief’s special. I understand it involves handcuffs, leather, and a safety word, and he turns his police radio off.”

“This wouldn’t constitute an emergency?” Griffin asked. “Wouldn’t they call him on his cell phone?”

“Trust me. You do not want to be the guy who interrupts that. See the officer in the middle? He did that once. Lucky to still have a job. Probably wouldn’t, except it’s hard to find good sheep in cops’ uniforms these days.”

Griffin parted the curtain slightly, surveying the area. “So how long does Parks’s little interlude last?”

Calvin looked at his watch. “He keeps a pretty regular schedule, which means he’s probably on his way here.”

“Sydney?”

“God knows there’s enough explosives down there. Can’t we use that to blow the cops up?”

“No way to get a bomb from here to there, without them sweeping us with gunfire.”

“So how do we draw them closer without making us targets? At least then we could shoot them.”

“Just a thought,” Calvin said. “But couldn’t we let them blow up the house, then let them think we’re dead?”

“How?” Griffin asked.

“Use fewer explosives than they had wired up. We hide in the tunnel, the house goes down, they leave. We emerge unscathed.”

“Too risky. The blast will carry into the tunnel.” He peered out the window, his gaze following the length of the wall to the end, where he’d first seen the dog waiting . . . “What we need to do is get closer.”

“How?” Sydney asked.

“The tunnel. We use the ladder you found to climb out.”

“Will the ladder reach?”

Two eight-foot extensions . . . Unfortunately he hadn’t paid too much attention to the height of the tunnel, but he didn’t think it was much more than fifteen feet. “I think so.”

They agreed. Sydney stood guard at the front door, while the three of them and the dog retreated below.

Griffin carried the ladder, but it wasn’t until he slid it into the tunnel that it occurred to him the thing might be too long to get around the curve near the air shaft. One way to find out. He grabbed one end, Calvin the other, both trying not to let it hit the ground or make noise. When they reached the curve, Griffin turned, pulling the ladder with him.

It fit. Barely.

Extending it, however, was another issue altogether. The ratchet mechanism rattled the aluminum and the sound echoed up the chamber.

“Slow,” Griffin said. “One click at a time, then wait.”

Calvin nodded. The dog wagged his tail.

“I’m going to get Sydney.”

He left Calvin and his sister to finish extending the ladder, then crawled out the tunnel, through the basement, before calling up the stairs to her.

She hurried down.

“Any sign of the chief yet?”

“No.”

Turning back, he eyed the boxes of explosives sitting in the middle of the basement. “Shame to waste it,” he said, then proceeded to gather the detonator and the length of wire from beneath the boxes.

“What are you doing?”

“Contingency plan, Sydney,” he said, rolling the wire as he moved toward the tunnel entrance. “Grab a few sticks on your way.”

“How many?”

“Four to six should do it.”

The others were waiting in the chamber, the ladder fully extended.

Max sat, his tail thumping, undoubtedly glad to be with Calvin.

Griffin wrapped the wire around the sticks as well as the detonator, outlining his plan to the others when a high-pitched squeal followed by the sound of tires on gravel echoed down the chamber from the ground above.

Everyone froze.

“Chief’s here,” Calvin whispered. “That’s his car.”

Griffin placed the bomb onto the ground, then took hold of the ladder. “Everyone know what to do?”

At their collective yes, he started up the ladder, with Sydney following. Calvin and Trish held the ladder steady. At the top, Griffin lifted the heavy grate, metal hitting rock as he set it to one side.

“You hear that?” someone from outside said.

Griffin’s heart pounded. He reached for his gun, listening for a sign that someone was walking toward them.

After what seemed an eternity, he heard Parks say, “Probably that damned dog of Walker’s that’s been hanging around. If I didn’t think the town would lynch me for putting a bullet in its head, I’d a done it a long time ago. Now what the hell’s going on in that house?”

“Those reporters showed up here snooping around. We’ve got them cornered inside. No one shot, just like you said.”

“That right? Where are they?”

“Saw them upstairs a few minutes ago.”

“Apparently they didn’t believe me when I told ’em there weren’t any dead bodies. Boys? I think it’s time to move up that detonation from tomorrow to now. Guess that dynamite’s a lot more unstable than we thought.” Some laughter, then, “Richie, shut off the IED jammer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The rest of you boys take cover. Don’t want any debris to hit you.”

Griffin heard gravel crunching beneath booted feet, the sound moving away from them. He climbed out, grateful that the broken wall shielded them from view. Sydney handed him the wired explosive device. After he helped Sydney climb out, they dropped down behind the broken wall and Griffin peered through the bush, seeing an officer walking toward the shed, his AR–15 slung across his back. The chief, his attention on the house, stood by his car, holding a remote in his hand, his sidearm still holstered. One officer was crouching behind the trunk of the chief’s car, the other behind the car nearest Griffin. Both had their rifles aimed toward the house.

Perfect.

Griffin signaled to Sydney, then pointed at the nearest officer.

She nodded, and together they approached, careful not to disturb the gravel.

By the time the man realized they were on top of him, it was too late. His eyes widened as Sydney shoved the nose of her gun to the back of his neck. “You talk, you die,” she said quietly. “Now stand, slowly.”

As the officer complied, she reached around him, grabbed the AR–15, and slung it over her shoulder, while Griffin removed the man’s sidearm from his holster.

“Back up slowly,” Sydney said.

The moment he did, Griffin slapped the sticks of explosive against the man’s chest. “Hold tight. Because if you let go, boom!”

The officer looked down, would have dropped to his knees had Griffin not been holding him.

He walked the uniformed man toward Parks, who was fingering the control in his hand. Parks looked up, saw Griffin. “What the—”

“I wouldn’t press that remote if I were you.”

“Except you’re not. So I think I will.”

“Your funeral.” Griffin pushed the officer forward, and he stumbled toward the chief, still holding tight to the makeshift bomb.

Parks took a step back. “What the hell . . . ?”

“You know anything about explosives?” Griffin asked him.

It was a moment before Parks drew his gaze from the officer and what he was carrying. “You’re asking me? Who the hell you think wired that rig down there?”

“Then you undoubtedly recognize the remote timer that used to be connected to the initiator on those four cases of military-grade explosives.”

“I’m just trying to figure out how you got it off without getting blown up. What the hell kind of reporters are you?”

“The kind that work for the U.S. government.”

Sydney raised the AR–15 and pointed it at the chief. “Actually, the impatient kind. Drop your weapons to the ground. Everyone!” The other two officers hesitated, until Sydney aimed right at them. Both AR–15s went down, followed by their handguns.

“You know what I think?” Parks said, making no move to unholster his gun. “I think you’re not stupid enough to connect that firing switch to the detonator. I think that wire is wrapped around it just for show.”

“Feel free to take a closer look. But like I said. Your funeral.”

Sydney gave a frustrated sigh. “I’ve got plans for the weekend. How about I just shoot him?”

“Remote on the ground,” Griffin ordered again.

Parks glanced at Sydney, as though wondering if she might actually pull the trigger. When she lifted the rifle higher, he held the remote out, slowly placing it on the ground.

“Now the gun,” Griffin said. “On the ground, then kick it forward.”

Sydney leaned in, probably wishing the chief would make a wrong move, but he tossed the handgun to the ground, then kicked it toward them.

Griffin removed the makeshift bomb from the first officer’s arms, then set it on the ground. In short order, they had all three officers and the chief cuffed. Once they were secured, Griffin sat each man on the wall. “So which one of you men wants to tell me where we can find Garrett Quindlen?”

The three officers stared at their feet. Chief Parks spit on the ground, then glared at Griffin. “You’re insane if you think any of us will talk. We’d be dead in a heartbeat.”

“Even if we made a deal?”

“Especially if we made a deal. It’s his boss that pulls the strings, and even I don’t know who that is.”

“Somebody really high up,” one of the officers said. “Brooks.”

“Shut your trap, boy,” Parks told him. “You’re gonna get us all killed.”

Brooks was a name Griffin had heard before, an aka. What they needed to know was the identity of the man behind it. All Griffin knew was that he was rumored to be a very large player in the Network, the criminal organization suspected of running the drugs and guns. And that made a lot more sense than someone like Quindlen, a low-level ex–CIA agent, pulling the strings. Quindlen was obviously running one arm of the operation from here, not the whole show. But now they had a link between the two names. A step in the right direction, he thought as Calvin Walker and Max emerged from the house, followed by Trish. Calvin was talking on Griffin’s phone as he and Max walked down the long drive, then over to the wall where the officers waited.

The three officers looked down, as though ashamed for their part in what happened. The chief continued glaring as Griffin asked Calvin, “You get ahold of my partner?”

“I did,” Calvin said, holding out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

Griffin took it. “Tex. I take it you heard the news?”

“I did. Border Patrol’s sending a helicopter to pick up the prisoners. You get the information on Quindlen?”

“Just that he’s involved.” He stepped a few feet away, not wanting to be overheard by Parks or his men. “One of the officers said that Quindlen was working for Brooks. The chief shut him up. Said they’d all be dead if they talked.”

He heard Tex talking to someone else, probably their boss. A moment later, he was back on the line. “McNiel wants you and Sydney back here at once. If this is Brooks’s operation, he’s bound to find out even before you get to Quindlen.”

“My understanding is he lives nearby. We should at least—”

“Sorry, Griff. The boss says back here for debriefing. If there’s any chance we can get Brooks, last thing we need to do is spook him by going after Quindlen. You’ll get him later.”

He disconnected, walked up to Sydney, saying, “We’re heading back. Today.”

If she was bothered, she didn’t show it. Or maybe it was more that her attention was focused on Max as he stopped suddenly, refusing to move forward, when Calvin was walking past the officers on the wall. The dog eyed Parks, lowered his head, then growled.

Parks inched back. “Should’ve shot it when I had the chance.”

Calvin grabbed Parks by his arm, pulled him to his feet, his free hand clenched, shaking.

“What’re you going to do, boy? Hit me? While I’m cuffed?”

“I should.”

“You always were a coward. And you smell like piss.”

Griffin reached out, grasped Calvin by his shoulder. “Not worth it.”

Calvin hesitated, then lowered his fist. He walked Parks to the patrol car, pushed him into the backseat, then slammed the door shut.

Unfortunately the window was rolled down and Parks leaned out, apparently not knowing when to shut up. “Pissed your pants like a coward! I should’ve killed you and your dog. You stink, boy!”

Sydney slung the AR–15 onto her back, then picked up the remote and the bomb Griffin had made. “Calvin? Get Trish and the dog and leave out the gate. Now.” And then she walked over to the patrol car where Parks sat. She set the bomb on the front dash with the timer facing toward him. When she was certain he saw it, she held up the remote so he had no choice but to look. “What was that you said about cowards?”