Fiery Surrender (Trinity Masters Book 11)

by Mari Carr

  Langston took off his shirt and passed it over.

  “Spoilsport,” Rich muttered.

  Mina stood and pulled it on, where it clung to her still-wet skin.

  Rich wished he had time to appreciate the view, but he needed to know what the hell was going on in Langston’s head. It had been a long time since he’d been as wrong about something as he’d been about what was worrying Langston.

  “Let’s get out,” he said.

  Mina scrambled out of the pool, taking Langston’s hand when he offered it. Rich followed them, his dick now soft.

  He and Mina both wrapped towels around their waists, and together the three of them retreated to the table in the shade.

  “Start talking,” Rich ordered Langston.

  “The configuration of the bombs—the one on Guam and the one here—are too similar. Even if they weren’t assembled by the same person, the design came from the same person.”

  “We already knew that much. Well, you did,” Rich said.

  “Yes, but the batteries…the battery in the bomb on Guam still had its wrap.” Langston made a circular gesture with his hand. “The branding that said who the manufacturer was.”

  “The bomb you took apart here just had a plain silver battery,” Mina said

  “Exactly.” Langston slapped the tabletop and looked at them expectantly.

  “Which means…maybe they aren’t from the same design? So they’re not related?” Rich guessed, trying to follow that train of thought. It would make sense that if Langston was now second-guessing his first assessment, he’d be upset, especially since they were staying at property Milo owned. It would be awkward to call the Italians up and say, “Oh hey, my bad.”

  “No. No, no.” Langston shook his head. “If you want to find a bomber, how do you do it?”

  “Figure out how they got the supplies,” Mina answered. “That’s what you just said in the pool.”

  “Exactly. So a smart bomber does their best to hide the key purchases. C4, blasting caps…those are all regulated.”

  “Meaning hard to get and easy to track,” Mina said.

  As a CEO, Rich’s day-to-day life involved relatively little criminal activity, well, at least this kind. Hiding money from the IRS was more a fun game he and the feds played rather than a real crime, so he was starting to feel out of his depth in this conversation.

  “Exactly. But batteries? Batteries are easy. Only really paranoid bombers would bother to strip off the battery wrap. No one is going to try to find them based on buying a Duracell.”

  “You don’t mean paranoid in the casual sense, but the clinical,” Mina breathed.

  “Yes,” Langston nodded.

  “So the bomb we just looked at—”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hold your horses,” Rich said. “One of you, explain why you two both have that look.”

  Mina gestured to Langston. “I think I know what you’re getting at, but you explain.”

  “Explosives are just tools,” Langston began. “Useful for lots of things.”

  “Lots?” Rich asked.

  “Okay, primarily demolition. The point being, there are people like me, who think of explosives as tools. The ultimate demonstration of cause and effect. If I run an electrical current with a nice trigger into this ball of putty, I can blow stuff up.” He looked at them. “Did either of you do experiments in school with circuits? Using wires to make a basic circuit between a light bulb and a battery, and if you did it right, you could turn the light bulb on and off?”

  “I did,” Mina said.

  “Same.”

  “It was fun, right?” Langston asked. “It’s…cool. I know that’s not the right word, y’all…” He shook his head. “The point is, for some people, explosions are more than just a cool chemical experiment, a tool. It’s a religious experience. They’re drawn to the explosion itself or to the damage it does. The sense of power it gives them.”

  “You’re talking about people like the Unabomber,” Mina said.

  “Exactly. Kaczynski was so paranoid that he stripped the casing off the batteries in his bombs, and he also made his own adhesive by boiling down hoofs.”

  Mina scowled. “That’s disgusting, and a whole other level of paranoia.”

  “And that’s my point. The bomb I saw on Guam, it was a tool. Petro had a bomb and a gun when he came to kidnap Nyx. They were both just tools which he used in different ways.”

  “And that battery had a wrap on it…because the person who made it wasn’t paranoid,” Rich said, seeing where this was going.

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Langston said.

  “We already assumed that there were multiple bomb makers,” Mina said. “Well, I mean the Masters’ Admiralty did. This isn’t our case.”

  “Yes, but there are bomb makers,” Langston pointed at himself, “and then there are bombers.” He twirled his finger by his temple. “It’s the difference between a suicide bomber in the Middle East and Kaczynski. Both use—used—bombs for terrorism, but suicide bombers are weapons, effective, horrible weapons used in war. Kaczynski worked alone. He was brilliant but nuts. I mean, how could he not be? The Murray study was definitely a part of MKUltra—”

  “Stop.” Mina held up her hand. “Let’s not fall down a conspiracy theory rabbit hole. I’m not sure I agree with your dichotomy of bombers, but, putting that aside, if you’re right, why is that cause for alarm?”

  Langston thought for a moment, then held up both hands, palms up. “Think about it like this. If you give a tool, let’s say a gun, to an assassin—” He raised his right hand. “That’s dangerous, right? They’ll use the gun to kill the people they’re hired to kill.”

  “Agreed,” Rich said, his stomach tight. This conversation made the relaxed feeling from being in the pool seem miles away.

  “Now you give the gun to a serial killer.” He raised his left hand. “You have two guns, two killers, but who, how, when they kill will be different.”

  “The serial killer will have a compulsion,” Mina said. “Even highly intelligent killers will eventually be caught because their compulsion outweighs their control.”

  “And a smart assassin might never be caught because they’re only going to kill the person they’re hired to murder.” Rich braced his elbows on his knees. “This conversation is fucked-up.”

  “One bomb design,” Mina said. “Two bombs, from that same template, one of which you think might have been created by the serial killer version of the bomber.” She tapped Langston’s left palm.

  “Exactly.”

  “Then you should call Milo,” Rich said immediately.

  “That’s what I’ve been debating. But it’s…flimsy. If I’m wrong, they might take the investigation in the wrong direction, might start looking for people who have psychological issues when they shouldn’t.”

  “But still, it’s worth telling him your theory,” Rich insisted. “More information is never a bad thing.”

  “Or,” Langston said slowly. “I could get even more information and then call him.”

  “You want to go back to that lab and look at the bomb again.”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t need to just look at it. I’d need to run some tests, maybe blow some stuff up. I doubt they’d let me do that.” He grimaced. “But there’s another option.”

  “Your expression says we’re not going to like this option.” Rich’s stomach hurt from dread.

  “I have the bomb. The one from Guam. I brought it home with me.”

  Mina twitched. “You brought a bomb…on a plane?”

  “I took it apart first.”

  Mina covered her face with her hands.

  “You want to examine that bomb again?” Rich asked as he patted Mina’s knee.

  “The adhesive in particular. See if I can trace it. Once I have my results, I can send it to Milo, who can give it to Luca, and they can compare. Just the battery wrap isn’t much, but if we add in comparing the adhesives, we’ll know—
”

  “They’ll know,” Rich interrupted. “This isn’t our fight.”

  “It is, sort of. They had a bomb on U.S. soil.”

  “I’m not afraid of a fight, but we shouldn’t go looking for one,” Rich said.

  Mina dropped her hands, apparently recovered from her horror at learning Langston took bombs on planes. “What information are you hoping to draw from the adhesive comparison?”

  “If the adhesives match, especially if it’s an odd or custom-made adhesive, that will mean that the person who designed the bomb may be the serial killer version, and Petro failed to follow instructions when he left the battery wrap on.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then the bomb designer is an assassin, someone more like me—wait, that sounds weird, but you know what I mean. The designer is sane, but the person who made that bomb we saw, they were paranoid or compulsive enough to edit the design.”

  “Both options are bad,” Rich pointed out.

  “True, but bad in different ways,” Mina said. “And the process for catching a serial killer is very different than hunting a hit man.”

  “I’m so sorry to have to leave like this. Just when…” Langston sighed and looked around the lovely garden, the Italian sunlight warm and golden, before looking at them. “I have to go to Charleston. You know I don’t know all the rules, so I’m not sure if that means…”

  “If you leave, we leave,” Mina agreed. “Trinities are supposed to stay together during the time between the binding ceremony and marriage.” She glanced at him, and Rich shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to coach Langston about what he should say to dissolve their trinity. There were far bigger issues at play.

  Rich rose. “I’ll get us a flight. It might have to be commercial if we want to leave tonight.”

  “The sooner the better.” Langston rose, too. “I’m really sorry about…about everything.”

  “We’ll deal with this later.” Mina gestured between the three of them. “Right now, people’s lives may depend on you, Langston.”

  He nodded once, and together they walked into the house. Three hours later, they were packed and on their way to Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino Airport.

  Chapter Eleven

  Langston wasn’t ashamed of where he came from, or his home, but as he turned the rental car onto the long gravel drive, he twitched a little. Rich had more money than God. He’d known that from googling him after their disastrous binding ceremony, but seeing him disgruntled because they had to fly first-class commercial—each ticket had cost nearly eight grand, he’d seen the confirmation email—brought home to him just how different they were.

  Langston didn’t bother to mention that, before learning about the existence of the Trinity Masters and Masters’ Admiralty, he’d never stepped foot on a private jet or flown first class. He was an economy-class, but upgrade-for-legroom-out-of-necessity guy.

  He wasn’t sure about Mina’s financial situation. She had a normal job, after all—she currently was a state prosecutor in Illinois, and a former New York prosecutor—but he had the feeling that her family came from money. She was a Trinity Masters legacy, and based on what he’d been told, joining basically guaranteed professional success, and therefore wealth. More wealth than a mixed-race boy from the south would have attained on his own, no matter how smart he was or how hard he tried.

  The kind of wealth that was passed on to kids.

  His kids? Their kids?

  Fuck. He shut those feelings down hard. It was way too soon to start thinking about marriage and kids and forever.

  Although…maybe it wasn’t. After all, they were married…or engaged…or bound…or whatever the fuck this honeymoon limbo was. At some point, he was going to have to see if Mina and Rich would be willing to explain just what the hell they were to each other.

  But he couldn’t focus on that right now. Not until the issue of this bomber was taken care of. He was barely keeping his head above water with the two of them as it was, so he wasn’t touching the issue of their relationship until whatever was facing the Masters’ Admiralty was addressed.

  If it was just him, just them, maybe he’d be able to shut down the part of him that was truly bothered by what he’d discovered in Italy. But Sylvia was there…she was a member of the Masters’ Admiralty, and that’s who the bomber was targeting. His kid sister—as well as his brothers—were everything to him.

  Shutting down the uneasiness, he turned his attention to their surroundings, let the familiarity and comfort of home sink deep into his soul. To the left of the long driveway was a row of trees that marked the property line. Fences weren’t common in this part of South Carolina, not out here in the still fairly rural countryside outside of Charleston.

  Ahead of them, set fifty yards back from the road, was the small white house he’d grown up in. His parents no longer lived there. They’d moved into Charleston when Sylvia started school at Exeter, to be close to her. They’d kept this house, and the land because it had been in his mother’s family forever, he and his brothers each building their own homes on the property.

  The driveway extended past the house on one side, and he kept going, watching out of the corner of his eye as Rich, who’d claimed the front seat in order to accommodate his long legs, turned to look at the house as they went past.

  “That’s where I grew up,” Langston said softly. “There’s a lot of land. Back here, behind the house, used to be the farmyard, but my brothers and I took it over.”

  Directly behind the house was a copse of trees that hid the rest of the property from view. Once they cleared those, the rest of what could probably technically be called a compound came into view.

  The barn was red with white trim, though it had been a few years since he painted it or the horse stable and small covered arena beside it. He’d taken over both those buildings, the barn for his house and workshop, the stables for storage, and the covered arena was where his baby, a Tesla coil, lived.

  There were two houses, both just slightly too large to be considered cottages, painted the same white as the front house. The one with a huge satellite dish mounted in a patch of concrete beside it, and tons of wires running into the roof, was Oscar’s. The other was Walt’s, though he was so rarely home that they’d closed it up. Occasionally, if fumes from his workshop filtered up into the hayloft of the barn, Langston would go sleep in his brother’s bed until his home was habitable again.

  Besides the barn, stable, and houses, there were also half a dozen freestanding garages and sheds that he and his brothers had put up as needed to house various hobbies, projects, or supplies.

  He tried not to be embarrassed by the piles of what the uninformed might call junk sitting around the front door of his barn as he pulled the car up, parking the rental beside his 2005 Chevy Silverado. He’d made Oscar drop him off at the airport when he went to Boston, and they’d rented a car when they landed. Vaguely, he was wondering when and how he was going to drop off this rental, but it was a distant worry.

  He turned the car off and sat back in the driver’s seat. Mina leaned forward, but besides that, none of them moved.

  “Is anyone else exhausted?” she asked quietly.

  They’d left Italy in the late afternoon, managing to get a flight to Charleston, with a layover and transfer from JFK to LaGuardia. Thanks to the time change, even with getting through customs and driving to his house, it was technically only five hours later than when they’d left, but his body was telling him it was well after midnight.

  “We should sleep for a few hours,” Rich said.

  “You two go ahead. I’ll get you set up in my place.” Langston opened the door. “It’s not very fancy, but…”

  Mina smiled sweetly. “Langston, we know you weren’t expecting to have to host us.”

  “And when I said ‘we should sleep,’ I meant you, too,” Rich added.

  “We didn’t fly all this way so I could take a nap. I need to get into my workshop.” He climbed o
ut, and Rich followed suit, opening the back door for Mina.

  “You’re not going to work with explosives when you’re tired,” Mina declared. “That’s stupidity bordering on idiocy.”

  Langston rubbed his eyes. He didn’t have the kind of machinery and testing equipment a forensic lab or even full chemistry lab would have had. The kind of machines that could have a sample inserted and then be left to run. No, this testing was going to be him, a chemistry set, and an experiment variables logbook. Oh, and the distinct possibility of fire.

  Honestly, if it had been just him, he might have risked it. But if Rich and Mina were going to be sleeping upstairs, and therefore at risk if he caught the workshop on fire, he had to play it safe.

  He dropped his hand and looked at Walt’s house. It would be stuffy inside, but he could go over and air it out, put some sheets on the bed. They could sleep and he could go right to work.

  Rich’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Sleep. You won’t be able to help anyone if you’re so tired you’re making mistakes.”

  “That’s true. I’ll nap.” Langston grabbed his backpack from the trunk, then pulled his keys from one of the inner pockets.

  As they approached the door, Rich’s phone rang. He frowned at the screen, then motioned them to go ahead as he answered.

  Langston opened the door, toeing aside a small pile of boxes that Oscar must have put inside for him. To the left, mounted against the inside of the front wall, was a simple wooden staircase that led up to the loft. There was no foyer or entrance way to speak of. He heard Mina’s small sound of surprise when he turned on the lights, illuminating his vast lab. It wasn’t exactly messy, but it was a bit cluttered. He knew where everything was, which was all that mattered.

  Tables and benches were placed in seemingly random spots. Industrial lights hung on chains from the rafters that supported the floor above. Along one wall he had some larger pieces of equipment—a homemade bomb box, water tank for firing guns into—he’d bought that so he could use it to test-fire the 3D-printed plastic gun he’d designed. After six months, he’d had a working design, but the FBI had confiscated the plans and yelled at him. Sons of bitches.