by C. J. Lyons
Damn. The tablets were made of hexamine—a popular detonating agent among amateur bomb makers and terrorists.
“They’ll handle the bomb,” Liz told Jenna. “Our concern is when it was placed. If it was sometime in the past day, we can track the kid’s movements, maybe get a lead on where he was going.”
“Which means a lead on where Clint is.”
“Exactly. If your theory is correct and the kid is our convicts’ conduit to the outside world, then he’s the key to finding them.”
“Except we’re not seeing anything on the security footage,” Andre said.
“Not for today, at least,” Oshiro confirmed, still scrolling through the sped-up footage of the hallway.
“Go back through the entire week,” Liz ordered, but Jenna heard the sigh in her voice. Going into their fourth day of the manhunt—which no doubt meant four days without sleep, proper food, or any hopeful answers, it had to be exhausting.
“In the meantime, we should come at this from another direction. Any word on the girl?” Liz called the question to one of the other cops in the front of the RV.
“Morgan?” Jenna asked. “She’s not in custody?”
“Didn’t have a chance to tell you,” Andre answered, the blur of security footage grainy as it sped past his monitor. “She ran.”
“After we got word of the explosion you were involved in,” Liz added.
“I’d hardly call it an explosion. A few firecrackers, that’s all.” Last thing Jenna needed was the fugitive task force to think she was stupid or careless enough to set off an IED.
“Still,” Liz said, “after Oshiro and Lester called it in, the girl left. No one’s seen her since. We’re not even sure exactly how she got past us.”
“Get used to it,” Jenna said, glad she wasn’t the only one who found Morgan’s propensity to vanish in plain sight irritating. “Morgan does what Morgan wants. She probably got bored and ran off to meet up with her new boyfriend.”
Morgan thought she was being so sly and secretive about Micah—except for the part where she’d asked Andre for advice, and of course, Andre had then told Jenna. Silly man, he’d thought it a sign that Morgan could change, that she had a trace of human feelings.
Andre glanced up at that. “Not a bad idea. We should call Micah. He might know something.”
“You call him.” Jenna had met the kid after Morgan had saved his life and had been barely able to coax two words from him. “He’ll talk to you.”
Andre looked to Liz, who nodded her approval. Leaving the video console in Oshiro’s hands, he stepped to the front of the RV where it was quieter and sat down in the driver’s seat with his phone. He was only gone a few moments when all of the law enforcement comms filled with the tense voices of excited cops. Footsteps pounded past the RV, and men shouted in the distance. Liz turned the monitor feed back to the live action.
The robot had reached the bomb and X-rayed it with its portable unit. The X-ray filled the screen with wires and circuitry that Jenna couldn’t interpret. But there was no mistaking the dismay that filled Oshiro’s face—the fact that he was showing any emotion told her just how bad it was.
Only the bomb tech stayed calm, his voice slow and steady. He seemed a bit impressed by the challenge before him. “Folks, hope you’re seeing this,” he said, not quite whistling in appreciation. “Because this baby is a beauty.”
When she’d worked with the Postal Service, Jenna had dealt with enough cases of mail bombs to know that when a bomb tech was in awe of a bomb maker’s creation it was most definitely not a good thing.
She had the sudden urge to volunteer her and Andre’s services to go on a food run. Anything to get far, far away from the evil contraption whose innards were displayed on the screen.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked, nodding to the chemical composition supplied by the electronic sniffer.
“HMTD,” Oshiro said in a low voice as if worried he might set it off with sound alone. “Hexamethylene triperoxide diamine. One of the most unstable chemical explosives on the planet. Especially in the hands of an amateur. Heat fluctuation, friction, the slightest spark could blow the whole thing.”
“Which means they can’t move it,” Jenna interpreted. “They’re going to have to either defuse it or blow it on site.”
“Any way you put it,” Oshiro added, “if your truant schoolboy built more of these babies for Caine, then we’re in a heap load of trouble.”
Chapter 20
THE FIRST THING Morgan noticed was the stench. Fresh vomit. Probably hers. She tried to blink, but all she managed was to peel her eyelids back far enough to trigger a wave of vertigo. She quickly closed them again.
How long had she been out? Probably not too long—Clint’s formulas hit fast but didn’t usually last longer than an hour or so; they always ended with a wicked hangover. When she was growing up, she’d been his guinea pig, forced to try each variation, but she had forgotten just how awful the aftereffects were. Nothing to do but ride it out.
Eyes shut, she took a rapid mental inventory: knives gone, barrettes with their lock picks and shims gone, coat gone and along with it her cell phone, and worst of all, her sunglasses. Could have used them right now—as actual sunglasses. She knew from past experience that as soon as she did open her eyes for good, the slightest bit of light would spike through her skull with the force of a sledgehammer.
That’s what she didn’t have. What did she have? She was still dressed—yeah for the home team there, as the very idea of Gibson’s grimy hands on her body made her want to retch. Also, no new injuries; the damn cable noose was gone; she was sitting on what felt like a fairly old rickety wooden chair, no arms, slats along her back, not very tall, but wide enough that her shoulders hurt with the strain from her arms stretched behind her, wrapping around the outside of the chair…and the zip ties. Tighter now. Legs not restrained. Nice.
Okay, that was her. What else was going on? She listened carefully, heard heavy breathing from a man—no, make that two men. Micah? She resisted the urge to call to him, ask if he was all right. How stupid was it that she even had that reflex? No way in hell was he all right, and what good would her asking do except alert their captors that she was awake? Must be the drugs, still muddling her brain.
A creak and rasp filled the air. Some mechanism that needed oiling. She sniffed. Sawdust. Mold. Rotting wood. Burnt something…it wasn’t fresh, not like burning wood, more like at the dentist, but no, not organic…metal? Now that was interesting.
She’d run out of reasons to stall and slit her eyes open gingerly. The tiny amount of light slicing between her eyelids and the loose hair that had fallen over her face was still more than enough to threaten to crack her skull apart. She waited for the roaring in her head to settle and tried again. This time the roar was no stronger than standing on a roof during a thunderstorm while holding a lightning rod. Progress.
Her eyes slowly focused. A man—not that kid, Gibson, this was a grown man, broad shoulders, muscles on top of muscles—was hoisting something using a pulley system. She inched her gaze up. Rafters. They were in a barn.
At first the man blocked the view of whatever hung from the pulley, but then he tied it off and stepped aside. It was Micah. Dangling, his toes dragging in sawdust, arms stretched overhead, face etched with pain. Despite all the movies that used that position, she knew for a fact that it was slow torture: first shoulders dislocating, then the chest muscles giving out, leading to eventual suffocation.
It had been one of her father’s favorite forms of restraint. Once he hung them like that, no fish lasted very long before surrendering. Not unless they wanted to end it all—which of course, Clint never let them do. When they died, it would be on his terms and at his bidding, no one else’s.
Micah’s face was blotchy with the strain, but no fresh bruises or obvious injuries other than a split lip and swollen, bruised cheek. As much as she wanted to keep her eyes on him, she forced herself to look away, keep s
earching. She slid her gaze sideways and saw a wall for tools, hand-drawn outlines for various hammers and wrenches. Most of the tools were missing, but the few that remained were clean and shiny, well maintained. Not a barn for animals, some kind of workshop.
Explained the sawdust and the metallic smell—burnt machine oil and distressed metal. Which meant…she edged her gaze in the other direction and was rewarded with the sight of a row of saws.
Handheld saws hung from hooks on a pegboard along with a pair of safety goggles hanging from the wrong spot. Then a row of powered equipment. She recognized a band saw and a lathe, wasn’t sure what the next two machines were designed for, but finally came a sturdy looking table saw, its circular blade snapped, leaving behind a silhouette like an animal’s claw.
She lolled her head forward, peering below the saw with the broken blade. It sat not six feet away from her in a pile of sawdust. She pieced together the story in her mind: convicts, Gibson driving them here, still in restraints—standard handcuff keys wouldn’t work with maximum security restraints, and maybe they didn’t have time to steal keys from the guards they killed? Whatever went wrong, at least one of them needed his restraints removed and had been idiot enough to try to use the circular saw instead of just picking the locks.
Thank you, God, for the gift of stupidity, she prayed as her gaze caught the glint of broken metal nestled in the sawdust. Shards from the broken saw blade. Perfect for escaping zip ties. And then killing the man preparing to torture Micah.
She began to cough and gag, retching as if she was going to be sick, rocking her body and the chair.
“Looks like your girlfriend’s gonna puke again,” the man said. Instead of moving toward Morgan, he stepped back, out of range. Vomiting had that effect on people, made controlling the gag reflex a handy skill to have.
Morgan dry-heaved—perfect word for it as she threw her body to the side and toppled her chair so that its back came to rest in the sawdust. As her body writhed, wracked with gagging, her fingers stretched, searching for the bit of metal.
“Do something,” Micah pled. “She’s going to choke to death.”
“Nah, she’s fine.”
Where was it? Morgan pushed her body along the floor, now actively expelling what little bit of stomach juices she had left. She recoiled forcibly, this time sending her chair skidding back, and was rewarded with the bite of metal against her fingers. She snared the broken saw tooth. It was jagged and sharp, curved at one end, flaked metal at the other, small enough to palm easily.
She rolled her head up, drool escaping down the side of her chin, sawdust now plastered to her hair and face. The man leered down at her from what seemed an impossible distance—the drugs distorting her depth perception.
“Help me,” she croaked.
He laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. It was the kind of laugh that grated nerves and made her lips curl in disgust—a year ago she would have killed him simply to stop the world from ever being forced to hear that laugh.
Now was not a year ago. Now she had a role to play—if she was going to save Micah.
The man moved behind her, bent down, careful not to touch any of her vomit, and lifted both her and the chair back in place, almost without effort. The chair legs smacked the wood floor hard, rattling through her, setting off another wave of pain in her head.
“Who are you?” she gasped even as her fingers rotated the saw blade into position. She made her voice high and frightened, then finished with a cough and a head bob as if she was still too weak to sit up straight on her own.
“Friend of your father’s. Pete Kroft.” He circled in front of her, leering down.
She blinked in confusion. “My father’s here?”
“No. But he sure as hell will be coming back. As long as I have you around, he’s going to do exactly what I tell him to.”
He obviously did not know Clint as well as he thought. No matter. She strained to raise her head, finally focusing on Micah. She channeled every B-list actress from every B-list thriller she’d ever seen. “Micah! Are you all right? What did he do to you?”
Pete laughed, obviously enjoying his own role. Didn’t he realize what happened to the B-list serial killers in the end?
“Let him go, and I’ll do whatever you want,” Morgan pleaded. She was telling the truth—as long as whatever Pete wanted was to die a painful death.
He didn’t take the bait. “Clint told me you were a tough cookie. That you were like us. He even warned me that taking a hostage might not move you at all.”
Pulling out a knife—long, thin, with a wicked hook at the end, the kind of knife you’d use to gut a deer—Pete strolled around Micah, stroking him with his blade.
Morgan felt her blood turn to ice as she imagined exactly what she would do to Pete with that knife.
Pete ended his stroll facing her, one arm draped around Micah’s waist, swinging him closer, his other hand holding the knife against Micah’s ribcage. Not directly over the heart where an amateur would aim, rather slightly below the ribs, angled up where it could do the most damage.
“Clint said you might even kill a hostage. Just to get them out of the equation. Said you didn’t like playing by anyone’s rules except your own.” His smile turned into a sneer. “Said that was why you had to learn a lesson. That I was free to do anything I wanted. As long as it doesn’t leave a permanent scar.”
Morgan drew herself up. Clint didn’t tell Pete any of that, even though it was true. She’d bet it was Gibson. Feeding Pete’s fantasies. How long had he been in prison?
“You win.” She rocked the chair, trying to appear agitated when really she was whittling down the last bit of zip tie that bound her. “I surrender. I’ll do anything you want. Just please don’t hurt him.”
Pete turned to her in mock surprise. “Surrender? Without a fight? Without any threats? You’re not even asking me to let lover boy here go? What’s the catch?”
Despite his skepticism, he did exactly what she wanted. As he taunted her, he moved away from Micah and toward Morgan.
“Don’t you dare touch her,” Micah shouted. He kicked his legs, trying to get enough leverage to strike Pete but ended up only twirling helplessly from his restraints. “What’s wrong? Not enough of a man to face someone your own size? Coward.”
Pete stopped, made a tsking motion with the knife. “Want to see how much of a man I am? You get to watch everything I’m going to do to your girl.” He crouched before Morgan’s chair, caressing her hair with his blade. “Pay attention. Because she’s never gonna be the same once I’m through with her.”
He grabbed her hair in one hand, twisting it so hard the chair tilted onto the two back legs. Perfect position for gravity to help her when she was ready to make her move. His body slithered up hers, between her legs, pressing against her until his face was directly above hers, staring down into her eyes. “Clint said you were still a virgin. Said as far as he knew, you’d never even been kissed.”
He slammed his lips against hers. His hand with the knife he kept between them, sliding the blade up and down her sweater. He pulled harder on her hair, forcing a gasp from her, and thrust his tongue into her mouth.
Morgan closed her eyes. He saw that as a sign of surrender and clamped his mouth over hers with bruising force. Her back was arched so far the chair began to teeter. She snapped her wrists outward, breaking the zip ties, and wiggled the fragment of saw blade so that the sharp, hooked end now faced out between her fingers.
Pete deepened the kiss, practically choking her with his tongue, forcing her head back even farther. She relaxed, letting her head roll to the side, freeing herself long enough to take a breath.
He laughed and sheathed his knife, using that hand to squeeze her cheeks and force her to face him again while his other hand twisted her hair with cruel abandon. He was totally off balance, one knee halfway up her thigh, the other foot planted on the floor, holding her weight and the chair upright, still tipped on the back two legs.
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She made a small noise, one that he mistook for pleasure as he probed her mouth even farther, his tongue almost gagging her. The movement finally put him right where she wanted him, exposing his throat.
With one swift movement she whipped her hand up and plunged the steel into the back of his neck. Simultaneously, she gnashed her teeth, biting through his flesh, tearing into his tongue and lower lip, shaking her head to do as much damage as possible before she released it.
He made a noise that would have been a scream if not for the blood gushing from his mouth and the fact that most of his tongue was gone. He didn’t even remember to grab for the knife as he arched back, fighting to get free of her embrace.
Which only impaled the serrated teeth of the broken blade deeper. She released him, shoved him back, sending her chair to the floor but she rolled her body free before it hit the ground. Now both his hands were flailing at the back of his head, trying to reach the saw blade, as he staggered away from her. His face was contorted with pain and horror, blood flying through the air with every gasp and gurgle.
Morgan spat out his tongue and part of his lip then lunged at him with a snarl. She launched a kick to his groin that dropped him to his knees, followed by another to his gut that lifted him back into the air before he fell facedown to the floor.
She jumped onto his back, grabbing his hair, twisting his head back at an unnatural angle, ready to tear out his jugular with her teeth, when through the roaring in her head, she heard a voice.
Micah. Shouting. “Morgan. Stop. He’s done. Just stop.”
Looking up, she saw herself reflected in Micah’s expression. He wore the same look of horror her father’s victims had when they realized the truth of who Clinton Caine really was: a monster.
“Morgan. It’s okay. He’s not going to hurt anyone. Just let him go now.” He spoke slowly, carefully, as if scared she’d turn on him next.
She felt her hands choking the life from Pete, felt his body go limp beneath hers, and she didn’t want to stop. She knew what came next, that delicious rush of power that came from taking a life. God, how she missed that.