In Too Deep: Station Seventeen Book 3

by Kimberly Kincaid

  “Deal.” Speaking of which… “And how are we going to do that, exactly?”

  Captain Bridges moved over the concrete, stopping a few paces from where they stood. “I have Sergeant Sinclair on the line, and Detective Moreno is getting someone from the bomb squad patched in right now.”

  At the mention of Isabella’s name, Kellan flinched. “Tell her I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “You’d better be,” came Sinclair’s voice over the line. “What’s your head count, Captain?”

  “Ten, just like the bomber’s text said,” replied Bridges. “Squad’s riding light with Dempsey on engine, and January had a meeting down at RFD headquarters this morning. She’s safe.”

  “Copy that.” Although Sinclair’s voice didn’t betray him, Luke had to bet the guy was feeling a massive amount of relief that his daughter wasn’t in the fire house right now. “We have to assume our bomber has eyes on the building,” the sergeant continued. “He’s got to be close by, and if he’s smart—which I’m guessing he is—he’s watching all the exit points of the fire house.”

  “We have security cameras at all the doors. If he’s smart enough to potentially tap our cell phones, he might have hacked into the feed,” Quinn ventured from the spot where she stood next to Bridges, and another thought made Luke’s gut heavy with dread.

  “Or he might have an accomplice who’s out there watching.” If Ice was behind this—and really, who the hell else would be—there could potentially be a whole gang’s worth of eyes out there.

  A conclusion Sinclair had obviously reached, too. “We can’t risk cutting the feed and evacuating anyone in case he’s got eyes on the ground. Moreno’s still working on getting the bomb squad on the line, and the RPD has units on the way to block off the street and start evacuating all the adjacent buildings. In the meantime, can you tell me what you see?”

  Gamble edged one hulking shoulder under the shiny bumper lining the back of the engine. “I can get a look at part of this thing, but I’m too big to fit far enough under the engine to see all of it clearly.” For the sheer size of Engine Seventeen, the vehicle really was pretty low-slung.

  “For God’s sake. I swear you boys would be screwed without me,” Shae said, although Luke didn’t miss the shaky inhale that followed as she planted herself on the floor of the engine bay between Kellan and Gamble. “Move over and let me under there.”

  “Shae.” Capelli’s voice was quiet, yet serious enough to make the hair on the back of Luke’s neck stand at complete attention. “You don’t have any experience taking a visual inventory of an explosive device. Stop.”

  “No can do, Starsky,” she murmured. “I hear you, but my team is my team.”

  “Shae,” Gamble started, but she cut him off with one look.

  “Don’t, you big oaf. If you three are out here, I’m out here, too. Plus, it’s not like being in the common room is going to save me if things go tango uniform. The least I can do is help.”

  “Nothing’s going tango uniform,” Luke said, a sudden burst of determination pumping through his chest. He hadn’t come this far to die in a bomb blast, or to let anyone else he cared about die that way, either. Focus. “We’ve got a plan. Shae’s going to take a look under the engine so the bomb squad guys can tell us how to defuse this thing, and we’re all going to walk out of here once we do.”

  He looked at Quinn, holding on to her wide, dark blue stare as he promised, “We’re going to fix this. All of us, together.”

  A beat of silence passed, then another before Bridges said, “Slater’s right. We need to know what we’re dealing with here. But McCullough”—his expression brooked zero argument—“be careful. And don’t touch anything.”

  “Yeah, no worries there, Cap. I’m reckless, not brainless.”

  Palming the flashlight that Kellan had pulled from a nearby storage compartment, Shae slid back over the smooth concrete, edging her way beneath the engine until only her boots showed. She described what she saw in details that scared the hell out of Luke, but he marshaled every last ounce of his energy into keeping his adrenaline in check.

  This was a call, just like all the others they went on. They were a team. They would find the solution.

  He just prayed that happened before Ice blew up the fire house and everyone in it.

  25

  Quinn stood frozen in place among the concrete and cinderblocks, willing herself not to vomit as she listened to Shae describe the bomb strapped to the undercarriage of Engine Seventeen. Her brain twisted with an overload of terrifying questions—how could someone have snuck in here to plant a device that sophisticated and insidious while they’d been inside for roll call? How was that person watching, and could he see them all right now?

  Was Ice watching? With that stare he’d given her the other day and the message on the bomber’s cell phone—die like all ten of you deserve—there was no way he wasn’t behind this.

  Most importantly, how the hell were she and Luke and everyone else she loved going to get out of this without dying right where they stood?

  Easy. Breathe. Luke is right. There’s a plan. Breathe.

  The message got past her fear center, albeit only by a hair. Quinn inhaled, watching closely as Shae slid out from beneath the engine.

  “Okay,” Sinclair said over the two-way. “I’ve got Captain Logan Pierce on the line from S.W.A.T.’s bomb squad. He’s got jurisdiction until the immediate threat has been neutralized. He’s en route to the scene with the rest of his team. The intelligence unit is also headed your way, ETA ten minutes.”

  Quinn’s heart pounded hard enough to make her dizzy. “But you can’t come in. If this guy sees you—”

  “We’re not coming in,” Sinclair assured. “The last thing we want to do is give this guy a reason to detonate that bomb before we can defuse it. But the RPD has to evacuate the block, and S.W.A.T.’s presence is standard operating procedure for a bomb threat of this nature.”

  “Something your bomber likely knows.” Quinn didn’t recognize the masculine voice on the line, which meant it must belong to Pierce, who continued with, “With a device like that, there’s no way this is his first trip to the big dance. We’re not going to break any of his rules, but I’m sure as hell not going to let him blow up your fire house, either. So let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  “Affirmative,” Bridges said, everyone else in the engine bay nodding in unison. “Just tell us what to do.”

  Pierce didn’t pause. “From what you’re describing, this device is pretty complex. It doesn’t mean I can’t defuse it, but walking you through the process is going to take time, and you’re going to need at least a couple sets of very steady hands to make it happen.”

  “That, we’ve got,” Luke said. He sounded so calm, so certain everything would be fine, that the pressure in Quinn’s chest eased enough to allow her half a breath.

  “Good. Two of you have military experience, is that correct?”

  “Affirmative.” Bridges nodded. “Both Gamble and Walker did multiple tours in the Middle East, one as a SpecOps Marine, the other as a Ranger. But McCullough is the only one who can fit all the way under the engine.”

  “That’s okay. I think we can still make this work.”

  Pierce talked Shae through a return trip back beneath Engine Seventeen. Luke lay down on the floor beside the engine’s rear driver’s side tires, holding the two-way as close to Shae as possible so she could communicate with Pierce hands-free. After a few minutes of slow back-and-forth, Pierce gave Quinn a list of tools to gather—all of which were thankfully standard issue for rescue squad and readily available in their vehicle’s storage compartments—and began walking Shae, Kellan, and Gamble through defusing the bomb, step by excruciating step. Quinn’s breath caught with each command, every tool Luke passed over making her pulse race faster and her stomach twist into softball-sized knots. Although it was rocky and definitely not swift, the team seemed to make some tentative progress, Pierce’s
tone lifting with each step in their exchange.

  Right up until an odd buzzing sound caught Quinn’s attention. “What the…” She looked around the engine bay, her heart launching into her windpipe as she realized where the sound had originated.

  She scooped up the cell phone with a shaking hand. Oh…God. “Captain Pierce! A message just popped up on the cell phone that was left with the bomb.”

  “I need you to read it to me, Copeland. Word for word.”

  “It says, ‘Tick tock. Time to die’.” Quinn’s throat threatened to close over the rest, but she managed to shove the words past her lips. “And there’s a timer under the message. It just started counting down.” Her voice trembled. “From five minutes.”

  Silence punched through the engine bay, swallowing all of the air around her until Pierce said, “We’re all just going to keep doing our jobs here, okay? You guys have been great so far and my team is right up the block. I will get you out of this.”

  “Okay,” Gamble grated. “What’s next?”

  Pierce gave them a few more directives each before he said, “Alright. McCullough and Walker, you’re good to disengage. Gamble, I’m going to need you to cut that final wire on my command. But first, we need to clear that engine bay.”

  “Captain—” Bridges argued, but Pierce cut him off in less than a breath.

  “Time is of the essence here, Captain Bridges. As soon as Gamble cuts that wire, I want everyone to fall out through the front door of the fire house. S.W.A.T. is standing by in an armored personnel carrier at your ten, and that’s your rendezvous point. We have less than three minutes left. It needs to be now.”

  Bridges blew out a breath, turning his chin into the two-way on his shoulder. “Copy that. Hawkins, get squad to the primary exit and prepare to evacuate to the APC on Pierce’s command.” Lowering his hand from the radio, he spun his stare from Quinn to the rest of the crew on engine. “Everybody but Gamble out.”

  “Go,” Gamble said, cutting off any would-be arguments from the rest of them at the quick. “No time for fucking around. Let’s get this done.”

  Quinn looked at the lieutenant, tears pricking at the backs of her eyelids. Shae, Kellan, and Luke did what he said, though, moving from the engine bay floor to the doorway. But two steps shy of the threshold, Luke turned back.

  “Gamble. I owe you that story and a beer at the Crooked Angel.”

  “Don’t worry, rookie,” he said, the brief flash of emotion in his dark stare sending Quinn’s heart into a full corkscrew. “I intend to collect.”

  The group hustled from the engine bay to the front lobby, where Lieutenant Hawkins met them all with turnout gear at the ready. The coats were a small precaution in the face of the big-ass bomb beneath the engine—don’t think about it, don’t think about it—but they were better than nothing against the heat of a potential blast.

  “Breathe, baby.” Luke’s whisper found her ear, and he grazed a kiss over her temple even though they were in plain sight of every firefighter at Seventeen, save Gamble. “We’re going to be just fine.”

  “Okay.” Reaching down, Quinn grabbed his hand, gripping tight as they listened to Pierce give the command to cut the last remaining wire in three…Oh God…two…watch over me, I know you’ll watch over me…one.

  Gamble’s voice sliced over the line. “The wire is cut and the timer is dark. I repeat, the timer is dark.”

  “Fall out, fall out, fall out!” Pierce yelled.

  Everything that happened next was on fast-forward, a jumbled blur of images and sounds. Quinn surged through Station Seventeen’s front door, pushed on a tide of firefighters and adrenaline, still clutching Luke’s hand. She ran as fast as she could, her boots stabbing into the pavement and her muscles burning with exertion. Bright late-morning sunlight threatened to fry her vision, but she didn’t stop running. With every slam of her feet, she expected the full-body impact of an explosion less and less, and she chanced a glance behind her just in time to see Gamble clear the front door of the fire house, the building still intact.

  Holy shit. Holy shit.

  Everyone was out. Everyone was safe.

  They’d done it. They’d defused the bomb meant to kill them all.

  Even though the fire house hadn’t exploded and the normally busy block had been emptied of traffic and bystanders, chaos still rippled around her. Quinn had lost hold of Luke’s hand in the frenzy, but a pair of well-armed S.W.A.T. officers were guiding the firefighters toward a large, armored vehicle sitting in the middle of Washington Boulevard. Sweat bloomed between her shoulder blades as she hustled alongside her station-mates, but a flash of a familiar face caught in her peripheral vision, a hard prickle of dread following in its wake.

  There, standing among the smattering of people either brave or stupid enough to be standing behind the bright yellow RPD road block barriers, stood Ice, staring her down from beneath the brim of his baseball hat. Only this time, he wasn’t smiling.

  This time, his dark, soulless stare pierced right through her, and it promised nothing short of murder.

  Everything in Quinn’s brain screamed at her to freeze, and her feet clattered to a sloppy halt on Washington Boulevard. Her survival instinct shrieked at her to run, to find Sinclair, to give in to the cold, sharp fear daring her to break down and fall to pieces right there on the street.

  But she didn’t do any of those things.

  Instead, she snatched her cell phone from her back pocket and started snapping pictures.

  An hour later, Quinn’s adrenal gland was still firing on all cylinders. She was safe; hell, between the S.W.A.T. team and the intelligence unit, she was probably surrounded by enough grit and firepower to protect a small nation. Still, from the near miss of the bomb scare to the way Ice had tried yet again to intimidate her with his stealthy presence, her nerves had pretty much gone through a blender.

  “Hey.” A bottle of water appeared in front of her, and Luke along with it. “Drink this. You need to stay hydrated.”

  “You do know that if I was going to go into shock, I’d have done it by now, right? Plus, the paramedics from Station Twenty-Nine gave me the all-clear, just like everyone else.” Quinn lifted enough of a brow to mark the words as not entirely serious. Too bad for her, Luke didn’t bite.

  “Yep. And you know I’m going to worry about you regardless of how many medical facts you throw at me right now, right?”

  Fair enough. After all, she’d blatantly listened to Luke’s exchange with the paramedics who had done his assessment to make sure they’d done a thorough job. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

  “Good. Then drink up.”

  Taking a healthy sip of water, Quinn looked around the interior of S.W.A.T.’s mobile command post, which had been situated two blocks south of the fire house for safety’s sake. The last of A-shift had just earned a green light health-wise, and they’d all been shepherded into the S.W.A.T. team’s tour bus-like vehicle along with all the members of the intelligence unit. Although the firefighters wore no less than a hundred questions apiece in their stares, they waited as Sergeant Sinclair finished privately talking to both Captain Bridges and Captain Pierce in the back of the vehicle.

  “Okay.” Sinclair walked to the center of the space, taking everyone’s attention with him. “Let’s get the most important information out of the way. Captain Pierce’s team has confirmed that the bomb has been fully disarmed. They’ve obviously got a task in front of them in getting the device thoroughly dismantled and safely disposed of,” he added. “So until then, Station Seventeen—and the entire block—will be shut down. RPD’s crime scene unit will also be working in conjunction with S.W.A.T. to gather any evidence from the scene that will point us in the direction of the perpetrator.”

  “But you have a theory about who did this,” Gamble said, and Quinn had to hand it to him. The lieutenant wasn’t just tough and gruff. He was also sharp as hell.

  “We do,” Sinclair said slowly, looking first at Captain Bridges, then at he
r and Luke. “As most of you have probably guessed, it’s our feeling that Station Seventeen was chosen as a specific target for today’s bomb threat. While the investigation is ongoing and we can’t disclose a lot of details as such, here’s what we can tell you right now.”

  Quinn’s heartbeat accelerated as he gave a bare-bones account of her and Luke’s kidnapping, along with the intelligence unit’s belief that Ice was ‘a person of interest’ in both the assault on Carmen as well as today’s bombing. She felt her station-mates’ shocked stares on her throughout the debriefing, but she did her best to keep her fear over what had happened today far from her face.

  Ice might have tried to hurt everyone she cared about, but they’d been stronger. Smarter. And the intelligence unit would catch him.

  They had to.

  “So obviously, we’re going to need to proceed with caution now that the threat level has increased,” Sinclair finished.

  Lieutenant Hawkins was the first person to break the two-ton silence that followed, leaning forward to brace his forearms over the tops of his navy blue uniform pants. “Just tell us what to do, Sarge. Copeland and Slater are two of our own. We’ll do whatever it takes to keep ’em safe.”

  Sinclair nodded, and Quinn’s heart went for broke against her ribs. “I appreciate that, Hawk, but it’s going to be a matter of keeping all of you safe. A-shift is obviously done for the day while the S.W.A.T. team and the crime scene unit work,” the sergeant said. “We’re actively pursuing several leads in this case, and we’re not going to stop until Ice is behind bars. That said, until we get him, we have to ask that you all keep a low profile. Walker and McCullough”—he paused to pin each firefighter with a stare—“because of your living arrangements, you’re obviously covered. But the rest of you will have to check in at twelve-hour intervals, and no unnecessary outings for anyone, especially not alone. If anything around you looks suspicious, don’t wait. Call it in. Any questions?”

  After everyone shook their heads, Sinclair continued. “We’ve got officers standing by who will escort you safely home. Copeland, Slater.” He slid a steely glance at the two of them, his expression making her breath and her pulse play a full-contact game of tag, you’re it. “If you could stay behind for a word.”