by C. J. Lyons
But the way Micah looked at her. No. She couldn’t do it. Not with him watching. Because his expression had changed. From horror to disappointment. And she couldn’t bear that.
She wrenched her hands free and rolled off Pete’s unconscious body. Blood had spewed everywhere: over him, over her, over the floor, walls, ceiling, painting the sawdust crimson.
Pete made small, primal noises of pain as his body shuddered and twitched. He wasn’t going anywhere. If he didn’t bleed out through his mouth, her blade had most likely pierced his spinal cord. A lethal blow, once he could no longer use his muscles to expand his chest. Same way they killed frogs in grade school biology, only Morgan hadn’t perfected her technique on frogs.
Pushing herself to her feet, she stood, grabbed Pete’s knife, and approached Micah. “Let me get you down from there.”
He nodded wordlessly, his gaze tracking her movement and the knife. “What you did—”
Her ice-cold fury melted into puddles of lonely dismay sloshing through her veins. For the first time, he’d seen her for who she really was, he knew the full truth.
She moved behind him so he wouldn’t see her face. “You’re disgusted. It’s okay. It’s normal.”
And normal was something Morgan clearly was not. She climbed onto a sawhorse and cut him down. He bent over, massaging his wrists, then turned to her. She should have just run, slipped out and left him, but she couldn’t deny herself one last look.
So she stayed. He lowered both palms to her shoulders then raised them to frame her face, his hands smearing Pete’s blood. He leaned his head down until their foreheads touched, his gaze locked with hers.
“What you did. To him.” He inhaled, and she braced herself for the worst. “For me. That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She waited so long it was painful. Not as painful as the expression on his face. Poor Micah, she hoped he never, ever tried to play poker.
“But…” She prompted.
He hung his head. Looked away—not at Pete’s body, barely moving, not at her, anywhere else.
“But nothing.” Not his real voice, a suddenly fake one she’d never heard from him before. “We need to get out of here.” He was all business, jogging over to where their coats were piled in the corner and searching through his pockets. “Damn, they took our phones. I heard that kid, Gibson, talking while you were drugged. He’s crazy. Wants to blow up a bunch of people.”
“Where are Gibson and the others?” Now that her adrenaline had ebbed, her tongue felt thick and her mouth parched. Damn drugs.
“I don’t know. They said something about that one’s brother and meeting your father.” He didn’t say Pete’s name or look in his direction. Instead, he grabbed his coat and shoved the barn door open without waiting for her. It was getting dark outside. The sun set early this time of year. Probably not quite five, she guessed.
She hugged herself, shivering as the cold air blustered through the barn, bringing with it the smell of fresh blood. Her stomach lurched—the drugs still working their way through her system. “Did they say where? Where are they going? Where are the bombs?”
He stood in the doorway; hands braced against the wood timbers silvered by age, looking out into the gathering night, away from her, and shook his head. “No. Nothing.”
She lurched across the barn’s uneven floor and found her coat—now with straw and mud smearing its pink wool—and pulled it on while his words finally made their way from her ears to the front of her mind. Damn it, she needed to clear her head. She was useless to anyone like this. A smear of blood on her hand caught her eye. Useless for anything except killing.
She wiped it on her coat, too numb to care. Couldn’t blame that on the drugs. It was Micah’s reaction, the knowledge that if he could, he’d leave her right here, right now with a body on the floor cooling in the winter night. She pushed herself to catch up with him, her teeth chattering as she stepped into the cold night air. “Micah, are you all right? Did they do anything to you while I was knocked out?”
Even in the dark, his pale eyes blazed, but for once she could not read the emotions on his face. There were too many of them, colliding, a hit-and-run conflagration of fear, anger, resentment, disgust…
“No. I’m fine. We need to call the cops.”
The wind shifted, spinning around her in a maelstrom that shredded his words, made it hard to breathe, and suddenly she was falling, falling…but Micah didn’t catch her.
Chapter 21
IT TOOK ALMOST two hours for the bomb squad to examine and render the IED in the school safe. Afterwards, the lead bomb tech came to the command center RV to shed his heavy bomb disposal jacket and helmet and rehydrate after his long hours sweating in the heat of the protective gear.
“What’s your call, Olsen?” Liz asked. Jenna inched closer, listening in. Not like she had anything else to do—Andre and Oshiro were analyzing the data from Gibson’s gaming console for the third time, but they had nothing new.
“Let’s just say, I’d be very happy if this was a one and done.”
“Sorry to say, kid has plenty of supplies. His house clear?”
“My team’s been through it twice, both with the e-sniffer and the dogs. Even let the city guys give their K-9 a try. It’s clean.” He hesitated, shifting his helmet to his other hip. “I’d stand my guys down, but…”
“Yeah. I feel the same. This is building to something.”
“This kid knows we’ve limited resources. He wants us chasing our tails, getting tired, frustrated, sloppy. Thanks to the media, he’s probably watching our response, learning more about us than we are about him, sad to say.”
“Problem with playing defense. We’ve no choice but to react to whatever card he plays.” She straightened, met Jenna’s gaze as if she’d known all along that Jenna was eavesdropping. “Good thing not everyone has to play defense, right?”
He followed her gaze, obviously not following her line of thought, then shrugged and left her and Jenna alone.
“Not everyone has to play by the rules, that’s what you really mean?” Jenna said. She kept her voice low. Andre and Oshiro were head to head a few feet away.
Liz’s eyes went wide. “Of course not, Ms. Galloway. I’m a professional. Would never suggest that any civilian make use of their freedom to take action outside the constraints that law enforcement is bound by. I’m shocked that you would think such a thing.”
“Sorry, my bad. But if you weren’t an officer of the law, what would you do? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
Liz pivoted to lean against the counter beside Jenna, her back to the men in the rear of the RV. “Well…for starters I might reach out to Clint’s daughter. I mean, I didn’t get to talk to her for very long, but it was pretty obvious that she knew more than she was saying. And that she was reluctant to become part of the official record. Now…” She raised a hand as Jenna opened her mouth to argue against any deal offered to Morgan. “I’m not saying she won’t someday have to answer for anything she might have been involved with in the past. I’m just saying that right here and now, I have my hands full with an active investigation that very clearly has the possibility of severely impacting public safety. I don’t have time to open any old cans of worms, so to speak.”
Jenna considered that. She almost wished they did have something they could arrest Morgan for. But Liz had a point. Stopping Clint and Gibson and their partners, the brothers Kroft, had to take priority. “I’ll give her a call.”
“Good. Let me know if there’s anything I should know. From any source.”
“Will do.” Liz moved down the narrow center aisle to join Oshiro and Andre at the back of the RV.
Jenna slid her phone out and dialed Morgan. No answer. A sharp knock came on the command center’s door, and she turned to open it.
“We got something,” a patrol officer said, his tone unable to mask his excitement. He climbed into the RV and walked past Jenna to hand Liz an evidence bag. “Found i
t in the kid’s locker.”
Liz glanced at it then handed it to Oshiro, who immediately got on his phone even as he began typing on a computer.
“What is it?” Andre asked.
“Receipt,” the uniformed officer gushed. “Was with a couple of burner phones.”
“Thanks,” Liz said, opening the RV’s rear door and letting a gust of air inside. Jenna shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. The air was clammy as if it was about to rain. Not quite cold enough for snow, not yet.
“But,” the officer resisted Liz’s hint, “you can track him with that, right? It’s got the serial numbers of the other burner phones. One of them has to lead to him.”
“We’re on it. I’ll let you know as soon as we find anything.” Liz peered at the young officer’s nameplate. “Officer Wentworth. Keep up the good work.”
He nodded and left, closing the door against the chill and first splatters of rain.
“To be that young again,” Liz sighed even as she turned to Oshiro. Andre stood, giving her his seat at the computer console.
“We were never that young,” Oshiro muttered. “Folks like us, we’re born old.” Then he nodded, held his phone away from his ear, and tapped the speaker on. “Say again.”
“We have a confirmed sighting of Caine,” a man’s voice came from the phone. “And it’s at the same area where one of these burner phones is pinging to.”
Oshiro and Liz exchanged glances, their eyes going wide with anticipation.
“Where?” Liz asked, already standing.
“The arena. At the Pitt basketball game.” There was a pause. “Caller said Caine was accompanied by another male, fits the description of Gibson Radcliffe. Said they were carrying silver fire extinguishers, dressed in fire department uniforms. Should we evacuate the game?”
Liz leaned forward. “We’ll call you back in a minute.” She hung up. “If we evacuate and they see it, they might trigger the bombs.”
“Not to mention the fact that it’d take a helluva lot of time to clear tens of thousands of people.”
“Why would Clint target a basketball game?” Jenna asked. “What’s he have to gain?”
“No idea, but we can’t risk it. We’re going to have to coordinate a full EOD response along with an evacuation—the brass is going to love this. Hope you didn’t have any plans for the night,” Liz said to Oshiro.
Then she nodded to Jenna and Andre. “Thanks for your assistance, but we can’t bring civilians along on this one.” She pushed the doors open and jumped out of the RV, calling to Olsen, the bomb squad leader, before Jenna could protest.
“Aw, hell,” Oshiro said, pushing back from the computer. “There go my brackets.”
Chapter 22
MORGAN’S EYES FLUTTERED open, and she strained to focus. She was lying on something soft…a couch? And she was inside. Not the barn. A proper house. “What happened?”
“You fainted.” Micah’s voice came from the haze above her.
“I don’t faint.”
“Okay, then. You abruptly fell unconscious so quickly that I couldn’t stop you from hitting the ground. I carried you in here. Then you passed out again.”
Ouch. That explained the sore jaw. And the headache. Stupid drugs. She felt flushed and freezing at the same time. And thirsty. Very, very thirsty. “Water?”
She squinted across the room. Micah crossed her line of sight as he walked into a kitchen. Between the kitchen and the living room where she sat on a couch covered in roses bigger than a plate was a formal dining room. The table was littered with dirty dishes and soggy, grease-stained pizza boxes and carry-out bags.
Micah reappeared, carrying a bottle of water. He sat beside Morgan, supporting her as she drank eagerly. She choked and sputtered as she gulped it down but couldn’t help herself, it felt so good, she was so damn thirsty. He took the bottle from her until her coughing stopped. He stroked the back of her neck with a damp cloth.
“You’re burning up. Maybe we should take you to a hospital?”
She shook her head and immediately regretted it. “No. I’ll be fine. Clint likes to mix MDMA in with his rohypnol and ketamine. Just a bit dehydrated.”
“MDMA—as in Ecstasy? And Rohypnol, that’s the date rape drug, right?” He sounded aghast, as if being drugged was the worst thing that had happened to either of them today.
Morgan looked around, searching for a clock. Had she passed out again? Felt like she’d missed something Micah said, but she wasn’t sure. “What time is it? How long was I out?”
“Almost six o’clock. And which time?”
She blinked, her question already half-forgotten in the fog that consumed her. She smacked her lips: they felt dry and chapped. Then she noticed the blood on her hands. A rush of memory stampeded over her.
“The barn…you were…I…I…killed—” Regret overwhelmed her as she remembered the look on his face when she’d killed Pete. “You saw. You saw me…”
He nodded, his expression grim. “It’s okay. Just drink. Everything will be okay. The landline’s disconnected, and that man…his phone, he landed on it when he hit the ground. It’s dead.”
That spiked through her confusion. “Are we safe? Did you clear the house? Check to see that there’s no one else here?”
“No. I was taking care of you.” He blinked, glanced past her to a staircase. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait. I’m coming with you.” She staggered to her feet, drawing the knife she’d taken from Pete. Not like he’d be needing it anytime soon. The room swirled, but she hauled in a breath, and it steadied.
“Keep your hand on my elbow,” she told him. He thought he was supporting her, but in reality, she wanted to keep track of his movement and stay in front in case they did find anyone.
They found no one. Also, no phones or laptops or any other means of communication, short of emptying a few tins of baked beans and tying the cans together. A bunch of dirty laundry, food wrappers leaving a trail from the first floor up to the bedrooms and back again, discarded newspapers, a cache of weapons—Morgan selected a folding knife to replace her Kershaw and felt better once she slid it into her boot. She also took a 9mm semiautomatic pistol after making sure the magazine was full. Debated on grabbing one of the long guns—there was a nice shotgun—but Micah pulled her away. “That’s evidence. We shouldn’t touch it.”
Like they were going to call the police. She’d made sure she hadn’t touched anything that she wasn’t taking with her—other than the broken saw blade she’d left behind in Pete’s neck. Her DNA was all over him as well. Damn. There had to be some kerosene or gas around, she could douse the corpse and burn it. The house as well, since Micah hadn’t been as careful as she’d been…
“Morgan?” Micah was talking, and somehow they’d made it back down to the dining room. She glanced up at him. “Did you hear me? I said we need to go get the cops.”
She rummaged through the papers on the table. Nothing that told her where Clint was or when he’d be coming back. She debated waiting, setting a trap for him, Gibson, and Pete’s brother. But what to do with Micah?
“You need to go,” she told him. “I’ll take care of things here.”
The bought her a frown. “No. I’m not leaving you. We need to tell the police about that kid and his bombs. And the man in the barn. And we need to get you to a doctor.”
She waved his concerns away and tried appealing to his self-interest. “Micah, you’re still on probation. If the cops know you were here, they’ll send you back to jail.”
“They can’t do that. We’re the victims.”
“Until I killed a man.” She blew her breath out. He wouldn’t leave her, she realized. Best to leave together, and she could grab a car, come back on her own. “Okay, let’s go. We’ll figure it out on the way.”
He followed her out to the car. It was fully dark now, clouds scudding thick and low across the sky, the scent of snow in the air.
Even though he held the door open f
or her just like he always did, she noticed that he took care not to stand too close, and he didn’t touch her or help her into her seat like usual. In fact, he hadn’t really touched her at all, not since she woke.
She settled herself into the passenger seat, pulling her coat tighter, shivering as he climbed in and started the car.
“That guy was going to rape you. It was self-defense.” He leaned forward, squinting through the windshield as they reached the end of the drive. Finally, he turned left. “And the drugs. They made you go crazy, lose yourself. Ketamine, that’s Special K on the street, causes psychosis, right?”
“It wasn’t the drugs. I didn’t lose myself. And I wasn’t defending myself.”
“What? Sure you were.” Doubt tainted his voice.
“Micah.” His name was a sigh that left an empty ache in its wake. “I was absolutely myself. The purest, truest part of myself. I was defending you. I killed him to save you. It didn’t matter what happened to me. But he would have killed you—slowly, painfully. I couldn’t let that happen.”
He was silent for a long moment. Too long. “What he said, about you killing a hostage to take them out of the equation—”
“I took him out of the equation, instead.”
“But if you had to, you would have, you could have—”
How to explain it? “I could have, I would have—past tense. Not now. Not with you.”
“Because I’m special, but anyone else is cannon fodder?” His frustration mirrored her own, except his was also charged with the aftershock of almost dying.
“No, no.” Was he purposefully twisting her words to make it easier for him to leave her? “That’s not what I meant. I meant—what I’m trying to say—I’m not that person anymore.”
“Earlier you said you were. Said I shouldn’t be with you. Morgan, you practically tore that guy’s face off. With your bare teeth.”