by Dee Davis
She bristled at the protective note in his voice. She didn’t need someone to take care of her. Not even Simon. Hell, particularly not Simon. “Yeah, well, I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re getting at. And it’s Jillian.” She lifted her chin and headed down the stairs, reaching for Simon’s gun. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the feel of the weight in her hands, but considering the things she’d seen, she was damned sure she wasn’t going in unarmed.
At the bottom she stopped, waiting for Simon, who had also drawn his weapon.
“Looks like it’s open.” He nodded at a dark sliver of space between the frame and the door. “Doesn’t look forced.” He inched forward, using the barrel of his gun to push it wider. “And there’s no sign of a booby trap.”
“It’s almost like an invitation.” She frowned as Simon stepped inside, and then, with a slow exhalation, she followed.
The room was dark, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low light. Simon flipped on a table lamp, the pale wash of light doing little to illuminate the room. But it was enough for her to make out the furniture. All of it well past its prime. There was a large lounger in one corner with what looked to be a TV tray in front of it. Across from the chair was a television console straight out of the fifties. She’d seen one like it once on a trip to the Smithsonian as a kid. And sitting against the wall, adjacent to the TV, was a floral sofa covered in plastic.
“Looks like Mr. Ayers wasn’t big on redecorating,” Simon said. “This place looks like something right out of Leave It to Beaver.”
“Without the benefit of Barbara Billingsley.” She ran her finger along the top of the console, leaving a line in the dust that coated the top. “I don’t think anyone has cleaned in here in years. Which makes it unlikely that Dearborn actually spent any time here. Maybe this was just a decoy.”
“What do you say we check the rest of the place out before we jump to any conclusions?” His voice held a hint of censure, and she bristled again.
“Sure. Whatever.” She shrugged, holstering her gun, disliking the feel of it against her skin.
Simon walked into the small bedroom. Like the living area, it looked like a museum piece. A dusty, dirty one.
“I told you there was nothing,” she said, already turning to go.
Simon flipped the switch, and a floor lamp flashed to life, the light spilling out over a long folding table. Clearly new. Simon smiled, a look of triumph flashing in his eyes. “Oh, ye of little faith.”
The table was covered with tools and rolls of wire, along with a length of metal pipe and some plastic tubing. Several open boxes sat on the floor by the chair. Even in the dim light, it was obvious that everything was clean and new.
“This one is full of projectiles,” Simon said, reaching into one of the boxes and producing a handful of small spiked pieces of metal.
“If I’m not mistaken, this one used to house explosives.” She pulled back the flap so that Simon could see the empty containers inside.
“ ‘Used to’ being the operative phrase.” Simon leaned in for a closer look, his breath grazing her hair, his scent tantalizingly familiar. Sensory memory danced across her skin, and she wondered for the millionth time what it was about this man that called to her so deeply. No matter the distance between them, he was still always a part of her somehow. She pulled back, angry at the turn of her thoughts as she forced herself to focus.
“So you think this is where they made the bomb Tyler found in the helicopter?”
“It’s possible. The length of pipe and the wiring would seem to support the idea. But these containers are used for plastique. And the pipe bomb in the chopper used black powder.”
“Meaning there’s another bomb?” Jillian felt a chill run down her spine, the memory of the heat and acrid smell of the explosion at the hospital threatening to swamp her.
“Looks that way.” Using a handkerchief, Simon bent to pick up something on the floor. And as he moved out of her line of sight, Jillian saw a flash of light reflected against one of the rolls of wire.
Frowning, she moved closer, thinking at first that she’d imagined it, but then it flashed again. She reached for the spool, moving it out of the way, her mind screaming caution as she caught sight of a small black box taped to the wall behind the table. A small amber light in the bottom corner flashed on and then off again.
“Simon,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. It was probably just a charger of some kind.
“I see it.” He stepped forward, using the tac-light on his gun to illuminate the box. In the light, Jillian could see what the shadows had blocked. A timer—ticking downward. Ten… nine…
“Run,” Simon yelled, grabbing her hand as the two of them sprinted from the bedroom into the living room, out the front door, and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. As they reached the street, a young man in a khaki flak jacket, carrying a backpack, took off running. Simon started after him, but before Jillian could follow, the apartment exploded, flames shooting out the front window and curling up the stairs, a cloud of ash and smoke gushing out onto the street.
Momentarily blinded, Jillian tripped, the heated smoke filling her lungs as her knees slammed into the asphalt. For a moment, she was too stunned to move, and then suddenly Simon was there, yanking her upward, pulling her out into the middle of the street away from the now burning building.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, gasping the fresh air, her eyes moving to the still visible figure of the man running down the street. “Go on. We can’t afford to lose him. I’ll be right behind you.”
He searched her face for a long minute and then sprinted off after the man, both of them heading for the river. With one last, deep breath, Jillian followed, grateful for the grueling training she’d completed when she’d accepted the job at Homeland Security. Besides, the son of a bitch had almost killed her. And she damn well was going to be there when Simon caught up to him.
The man was fast. Simon had to give him that. They’d been running full out for almost a block. And to make matters worse, the traffic on Water Street was considerably heavier than Fulton. Plus the bastard had caught the light, which meant that Simon was left to dodge traffic, bouncing off the fender of a taxi in the process, his bad leg sending a streak of pain shooting up to his hip.
Gritting his teeth, he vaulted over a parked car, swerving to miss a lady with a baby carriage. He’d lost ground, the man almost disappearing into the surging crowd of tourists heading for the South Street Seaport.
The perfect place to detonate a bomb.
This part of Fulton had been made into a pedestrian mall, the street lined with high-end retailers. And beyond that, beneath the FDR Drive, the old fisherman’s warehouses that had turned into restaurants and shops. And finally there was a large open wharf, housing Piers 16 and 17, where two Circle Line cruise ships sat ready and waiting, as well as a restored clipper ship. And everywhere, tourists. People completely unaware of the potential danger heading directly at them.
The crowd had slowed the runner’s progress, but it was impeding Simon’s as well. He swerved to the far side of the sidewalk where it was less crowded, increasing his pace, careful to keep the guy within sight as he worked to close the distance between them.
There were too many people here to risk a shot, better to try to catch up and incapacitate him somehow. Not an easy task, but the stakes were high, and Simon wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Ahead, the man zagged to the left, into a sidewalk café. Like Simon, he’d realized that it would be easier going.
But just as the runner was picking up speed, a waiter stepped out of the restaurant, carrying several plates on a large tray. The two men slammed into each other, food and cutlery flying. Adrenaline surging, Simon sprinted forward, but as he reached the first table, the man with the backpack sprang to his feet again. Turning, he made a run for the far side of the café, pushing over tables, leaving an obstacle course in his wake
.
Concentrating on staying upright, Simon dodged both people and the fallen furniture, but by the time he was free of the café, the man with the backpack had managed to pull ahead of him again, the crowd surging around him, providing cover.
Simon fought against frustration and anger, his breathing coming in gasps as his leg throbbed. He pushed through the pain, forcing himself to try to close the distance again. The overpass loomed above him as the two of them dashed from the sunlight into the heavy shadow of the FDR. The man sprinted across the street that fronted the wharf and out into the sunlight ahead.
In front of Simon, a large group of tourists stopped as their guide pointed to the warehouses sitting underneath the bridge. Simon pushed his way through the group, screaming for people to move. In any other city, the commotion would have raised all kinds of alarms. But this was New York, and people, even tourists, tended to take it all in stride.
Once free of the tourists, Simon wasted valuable seconds slowing down, his eyes sweeping the wharf until he spotted the khaki flak jacket moving along the side of the pier toward a café overflowing with people.
Jesus. If the man detonated now…
Years of training kicking in, Simon assessed his options, choosing a gangplank that led up and onto an empty tourist vessel. Ignoring the crew’s cries for him to stop, he sprinted along the deck, running above and parallel to the man with the pack. Leg screaming in protest, Simon pushed himself harder, his lungs burning with the effort. Just a few more feet.
For a moment, he thought the guy was going to pull away from him, but three women in high heels holding margarita glasses came out of nowhere, forcing the guy closer to the side of the ship.
Sucking in a deep breath and summoning every ounce of his strength, Simon leaped from the side of the boat, tackling the man from above, grateful that he hadn’t hit anyone else in the process. The two of them drove to the ground, hitting hard, but the man with the flak jacket was nimble, slamming his fist into Simon’s jaw as they rolled over, each of them fighting for control.
Simon tried to pin him to the pavement, but the guy was strong and managed to break the hold, though not before Simon got in a punch, satisfied to feel his fist connect with the side of the man’s head. The guy went limp, and just for a moment, Simon thought he’d managed to knock him out.
But before he could secure a hold, the man was moving again, this time flipping them over, breaking free and pushing to his feet. Simon grabbed the guy around the ankles, but the man managed to regain his balance, taking a swing at Simon, who ducked to avoid the blow. The move gave the man the opening he needed, and with a grunt of satisfaction, he pulled free again.
Simon scrambled to his feet, but the man had already managed to skirt the crowd, running back the way he had come. A couple of yards away, Simon could see the backpack. He hesitated, torn between retrieving the bag and giving chase. Seconds ticked by, and then J.J. appeared from out of nowhere, scooping up the backpack and yelling for him to go.
Adrenaline surged, and Simon ran after the man, who was just rounding the edge of the wharf to head back under the FDR. Simon’s leg and jaw throbbed in rhythm to his pounding feet. And he was gratified to see that the man was favoring his right leg as well. Gritting his teeth in determination, Simon pushed himself forward, forcing himself into an out-and-out sprint.
As he passed under the highway, the shadows of the bridge overtook him, and he blinked, for a moment losing sight of his quarry, but then he saw him, heading down the street toward one of the old warehouses, one that hadn’t yet been turned into a high-dollar tourist trap.
As the guy dashed inside, Simon slowed, pulling his gun. If there was going to be a showdown, he wanted to be prepared. At least the guy had lost the backpack. Still, he’d proved himself a formidable opponent, and Simon knew better than to make the mistake of assuming he could easily obtain the upper hand. Never underestimate the enemy.
Even after the gloom of the highway overpass, the warehouse seemed dark, most of the casement windows high above him obscured with soot and grime. A single beam of light fell across the floor like a white gash, streaming from a broken windowpane on the east wall. Off to his left, near the door, Simon could see a stack of crates fronted by a large iron pillar, rust leaching into the paint, making it look like some sort of macabre barber pole. The cement floor was wet and cracked. And the place smelled of salt, sea, and dead fish.
Ahead, somewhere in the shadows, Simon heard a footfall. Calling on years of training, he pushed aside fatigue and pain, moving on silent feet to crouch behind the stack of fallen crates. Momentarily secure in the relative cover provided by the wooden boxes, he peered out into the darkness. At first he thought the man was gone, or that he’d managed to find a place to hide, but then the guy stepped into the beam of light near the far wall.
Seeing an opening, Simon grabbed his gun and pushed to his feet, but his elbow caught the edge of a crate, and before he had time to react, it fell, slamming into the concrete floor. The man jerked around, whipping open his jacket, the light hitting the explosives taped to his torso.
Everything shifted into slow motion, Simon trying to gauge the distance as he leveled his gun. Too far, even for him. But from where he was standing, he could see the man’s craggy face split into a grin as he lifted an arm, his gaze reaching for Simon’s across the expanse of the warehouse. And then, in what was probably less than a fraction of a second, the man pressed his thumb onto something he held in his hand.
The warehouse was suddenly swallowed in an eruption of light, the man disappearing as a massive ball of fire mushroomed upward, ripping through the warehouse’s roof as if it were made of paper. Above him, Simon heard concrete and metal buckling and groaning as the explosion tore through the overpass.
And then as his mind struggled with the reality of what was happening, the fireball expanded, rushing straight at him. In its wake, windows shattered and the floor buckled, giant pieces of concrete crashing to the ground.
Simon’s brain was screaming for him to run, but his feet seemed to have forgotten the drill. Then suddenly, something hit him hard, driving him to the ground behind the pillar and the fallen crates. The roar of the blast and the heat of the flames rushed past, searing the wooden boxes and melting the paint on the pillar, but then it was gone. Debris from the building and the overpass still rained down from above, but despite all of that, he was alive.
Next to him, something groaned. And his mind shifted into gear. Not something—someone. J.J.
She lay next to him, one arm still thrown protectively across his shoulders. She’d been the one to push him to safety. She groaned again and then shifted beneath the rubble of a crate. Alarmed, he sat up, pulling bits of debris off her. Dazed, her gaze moved to his face.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. But what the hell did you think you were doing coming in here like that? You had to have seen him. Seen the bomb.” He knew his anger was irrational. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Christ, J.J., you could have been killed.”
“Well, you would have been killed if I hadn’t come.” Her voice was colored with an emotion he wasn’t sure he could identify, but there was something in her eyes that held his. Something that suddenly seemed more important than breathing. He leaned forward, not sure exactly what he planned to do, losing himself in the azure depths of her eyes.
But then a piece of metal clattered to the ground, startling them both—the moment evaporating, almost as if it had never been there.
And as the sound of sirens filled the air, he stood up and held out his hand.
“You saved my life.”
“No big deal.” She shrugged as she pushed to her feet, ignoring his outstretched hand. “I was just returning the favor.”
It was exactly what he would have said had the situation been reversed. And considering their past, it was better that they keep it professional. The moment of—whatever the hell it was—was best forgotten.
CHAPTER 8
Be still or you’re going to have a scar,” Hannah said, taking another stitch as Jillian winced.
“At least it’s not anywhere anyone is going to see it.” The gash was just above her waistline. About three inches long. Deep and fairly jagged. And just at the moment, despite an anesthetic, it hurt like hell. Actually, if she were being honest, everything hurt. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes. But she wasn’t about to admit it. Not even to Hannah, who on the whole had been pretty sympathetic.
Jillian had spent the last couple of hours at the bomb site with the team. Answering questions and dealing with the fallout. And then finally, she and Simon had been allowed to come back to the brownstone, where she’d opted for Hannah’s care over losing another four or five hours at the emergency room.
At the moment, she was sitting on a stool in the kitchen while Hannah worked. Simon had disappeared upstairs, presumably to change clothes and take a shower. They hadn’t really had a chance to talk about what had happened. But Jillian figured that was probably for the best.
“Yeah, well, if you ask me,” Hannah was saying, drawing Jillian’s attention back to the present, “you should have gone to the hospital and let them stitch you up. I’ve got rudimentary training, thanks to a couple of training courses and Lara. But at best, this is nothing more than a field dressing.”
“It’s just a cut.” Jillian shrugged. “I would have done it myself, but I couldn’t see it. And you can bet your ass Simon isn’t up there calling a doctor for himself.”
Hannah shot her a look over the top of her glasses, the frames a pale green with multicolored stripes. “It’s not a competition. From what you’ve said, it sounds to me like the two of you are lucky to be alive. Simon in particular.”
“It was closer than I would have liked.” She closed her eyes as Hannah took another stitch. “I’ve had the training, and I’m more than qualified to be here. It’s just that when I took the job with Homeland Security, I didn’t figure on being on the front line.”