“Come on,” O’Reilly ordered, gesturing for Romo to join him and the other agent as they headed for what proved to be a conference room with a podium at one end and a long table. There were already a number of other Cell members seated at the table, a disparate half-dozen men who were very different in their outward appearances, ranging from a slick business type to a big guy who borderlined on thug territory. Romo was surprised to see Fairfax at the far end, looking paler than his usual tough-guy routine, and sporting a line of stitches along his scalp, but seeming otherwise okay. Romo sketched a small wave, got an even smaller, cool-eyed nod in return and figured he’d have to be satisfied with that.
If Sara’s friends had been inclined to be angry with him for dumping her, he could only imagine how they felt about him now. But at the same time, he wasn’t planning on letting that stop him from going after what he wanted. Not this time. He wanted all this to be over so he could go to her, sit her down and clear the air. Yes, he needed her to be flexible, but he needed to give her a better reason to take that chance. Simply demanding it wasn’t enough, he’d realized.
He only hoped he hadn’t realized it too late.
After O’Reilly closed and locked the door, and turned on some sort of scrambler apparatus that sat in the center of the long table, the meeting began. There were no introductions made, no real explanations before the slick-looking guy got up at the front of the room, pushed a couple of buttons and brought up a schematic that made Romo freeze in place. He was admittedly no expert, but the picture looked an awful lot like a large air-to-ground missile.
Slick said, “Based on our heuristic analysis of the transmissions Detective Sampson was able to decrypt, we believe the terrorists have acquired an incendiary bomb, and have placed it in the tunnel system very near the prison.”
O’Reilly cursed bitterly. “Why are we just now hearing about this?” Then he shook his head. “Never mind. The how and why isn’t important right now, not on this tight a timeline. Tell me what we know, and what we’re going to do about it.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, Slick—who Romo learned was actually named Wilson—went over the sparse details the Cell had managed to amass, which summed up to a very grim picture. The device, if it was what they thought it was, would crater the hell out of the tunnel system and the prison, killing everyone within either location. Al-Jihad had apparently named his successor within his terror organization, and a transmission intercepted only minutes earlier suggested that, in the event that the jailbreak failed, al-Jihad intended to martyr himself while making the explosion look as if it had been part of an FBI attack on the tunnel system and the prison itself, thereby inflaming the passions of terror leaders worldwide, and achieving his desired end of uniting America’s enemies against her.
The concept was all the more chilling because none of the gathered agents was willing to say it wouldn’t work.
Soon, the meeting moved into a response planning phase, and it became clear why O’Reilly had wanted Romo sitting in. He asked about numbers and thought processes, and about the men Romo had met personally during his months stuck in the crummy little apartment. If the senior agent had asked him going in whether he’d be able to help or not, Romo would’ve said no. But it turned out that he knew more than he thought, and the small details the Cell agents managed to pull from him helped shape the beginnings of a planned attack on the tunnel system. Other groups—including the FBI and BCCPD—would be brought in when the time came, of course, but for the moment, O’Reilly made it very clear that the plans stayed within that one room, period.
At the hour mark, once things had gone well beyond his areas of expertise, Romo held up a hand. When O’Reilly acknowledged him, he said, “No offense, but I don’t think you guys need me here for this. I’d like to take another crack at the files on the flash drive, see if I couldn’t find something we’re all missing, some reason why al-Jihad would want to ensure that he got the copies back before launching the attack.”
“Of course. The laptop is back in my office.” O’Reilly tossed the key card to his office and waved him from the room, calling an absent thanks as the Cell members returned to their strategizing.
Romo found his way back to O’Reilly’s office, used the key card to let himself in and sat back down at the computer. But he’d be damned if he could see what he was missing. There had to be some reason al-Jihad let him live as long as he had.
Staring intently at the files he’d pulled from the terrorist leader’s computer, he muttered, “What if—”
A digital burble sounded, interrupting his half-formed thought. It took him a moment to remember the disposable phone he and Sara had been using. He pressed the button to answer, remembering that they’d only used it to call Sara’s friends, and O’Reilly himself. The phone lacked caller ID, but since O’Reilly was just down the hall, Romo had to assume it was Fax’s fiancée, whom Sara had called on the phone the day before. “Hello?” he said into the small unit. “Chelsea?”
There was a long pause before a soft voice said, “Romo, I’m in trouble. I need you to listen carefully and not freak out. Okay?”
It was Sara. And her tone left no doubt that there was something very badly wrong.
Adrenaline surged through Romo, jolting him to fight mode in an instant. There would be no “flight” this time. He only had “fight” left in him when it came to her. But, mindful of what she’d said, he marshaled his immediate response, “I’m listening. Go ahead.”
His heart drummed against his ribs in the seemingly endless silence that followed his words. Then, finally, she said, “The men who were supposed to be taking me to the safe house were loyal to Jane Doe. Do you understand?”
He closed his eyes on a spear of panic so acute it was like pain. “I understand.” She’d been taken. She’d trusted his word that she’d be safe, and she’d been kidnapped instead. Damn them.
“You need to come to the tunnel entrance. If you’re not here in an hour, I’m dead.”
The bald pronouncement speared through him, though of course that was the terrorists’ modus operandi. “I’ll be there,” he promised, knowing damn well the location was closer to two hours away driving the legal limit. “What do they want me to bring?” he asked, still thinking he’d misconstrued al-Jihad’s reference to wanting information from him.
“Nothing. Just yourself.” Her voice was fading and strengthening, wavering, though he didn’t know whether it was because she was injured or because someone was holding the phone to her mouth at an inconsistent distance. “Don’t tell anyone where you’re going or why. No messages, no clues. Just get up and walk out now. You’re being watched.”
A chill raced through him alongside confusion, but he didn’t dare ask for clarification. Her voice and his own gut instinct told him they didn’t have much time left on the call. “I’ll be there, sweetheart.”
He practically choked on the last word. Maybe it was a bad move calling her that, as it would clue any listeners in to their relationship. But he needed her to hear it, needed her to believe in him, in them. And besides, al-Jihad had been a step or two ahead of law enforcement all along. He had to know she was important to Romo.
Forget “important,” he thought angrily, realizing he was once again minimizing his feelings for the sake of his own emotional safety. The terrorists already knew he’d do anything to protect her. She was the one who needed to hear it from him. “I love you, Sara,” he said finally, his voice catching on the words. “Do you hear me? I. Love. You.”
There was no answer. The phone had gone dead.
Chapter Eleven
Silent tears tracked down Sara’s cheeks as Jane snapped the phone shut and tucked it into the pocket of her suit, which was navy, fitted and totally at odds with the tan fatigues worn by the three heavily armed men who had escorted them to the tunnel mouth for the phone call.
The day was sunny and cool, the sky a deep, cloudless blue. Sara stared up as a hawk passed overhead, and panic lumpe
d in her throat at the sudden certainty that once she went back down into the tunnels, she wouldn’t ever be coming back out.
“Come on.” Jane headed back down into the tunnel, trusting the armed guards to bring Sara and not caring whether she came willingly or had to be dragged kicking and screaming. The former covert operative had already made it very clear to Sara that she didn’t care what it took as long as the job got done. In this case, the job consisted of getting Romo out to the tunnels, though Sara wasn’t clear on why that was so necessary. From what she’d seen inside the tunnel system in the hour or so since she’d awakened from her drugged stupor, the terrorists were horrifyingly well organized, well funded and well stocked for the planned attack on the ARX Supermax. What did they need Romo for?
When the guards closed in on Sara, she raised her hands in surrender. “I’m going.” She’d tried resisting when they’d come to bring her to the surface for the phone call, and one of the men, without changing his expression an iota, had slammed his rifle butt into her stomach. While she’d been doubled over, retching, he’d grabbed her arm and force-marched her along the tunnel. Having no desire to waste her strength repeating that futile effort at rebellion, Sara followed Jane along the corridor-like tunnel that had been bored into the earth itself. The tunnel was lit by fluorescent lights bolted to the rock ceiling at regular intervals, and conduits and wires ran along one side, bundled together and branching off into each intersecting tunnel they passed.
Sara was following orders, but she was also waiting for her chance to run. She might be nothing more than a doctor who—as Romo had unkindly but accurately pointed out—hadn’t even had the guts to treat living patients, but she damn well wasn’t going to sit by and let the terrorists destroy her home. Not if there was anything she could do to prevent it.
Her mother had eventually come to grips with her sham of a marriage and the wounds it was inflicting on Sara. She’d gotten a divorce, and met and married a sturdy, good-hearted man who would give her the world if he could. Sara had been grateful for her stepfather, and had maintained a relationship of sorts with her father, who hadn’t remarried, but instead floated from affair to affair. Her parents had found their places eventually.
Maybe she had, too.
The problem was, she didn’t have a clue what to do, or how. She needed help. She needed Romo, she thought, on a mix of fear and wistful hope that he could somehow manage to slip a rescue past Jane and the agent who was supposedly still acting within the antiterror group Jane had once led, feeding her information on Romo’s progress and movements. But there was little hope of that, Sara knew. And if he tried some sort of heroics, Jane had said, Sara was dead. The ex-agent turned traitor was an elegant woman in her early forties, made up and well put together. But she was icy cold, and all but radiated purposeful evil. Sara didn’t doubt her word for one second. If it came down to it, Jane would kill her without hesitation.
The knowledge was a hard knot in Sara’s stomach, but she forced herself to hold it together, trying to keep track of the tunnel’s turns they made on the way down from the surface. Just in case.
Men—and a few women, but only a few—moved through the tunnels with quick, purposeful strides. Some wore tan fatigues, others street clothes. Most were armed. None met Sara’s eyes.
The realization brought a renewed chill.
Focus, she told herself. Look for things you can use, things that might be important. She had to keep thinking about her escape, keep planning for it, because if she didn’t, she thought she would break down.
She counted hallways, saw hollowed-out chambers containing piles of equipment, one filled with a strange piece of machinery that looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Before she could fully register the apparatus, Jane continued onward, but waved for the guards to peel off. They prodded Sara into the same chamber she’d awakened in. The vaguely rectangular room seemed to have been part of an offshoot tunnel at some point, but now was capped off at either end with huge steel plating that extended from floor to ceiling and was set into grooves on either side. There was a door in one of the slabs; after pushing her through, the guards stepped out and locked her in, leaving her alone.
She stumbled to the far side of the room, where there was a single folding chair and a half-full bottle of water that had been that way when she’d awakened. At the time, she’d been disgusted by the thought of drinking a stranger’s backwash. Now she downed the liquid gratefully, replenishing the hydration lost to the drugs, and the weakness of tears.
Those tears were done with now, she told herself. She needed to pull it together and figure out her best course of action. She hated that Jane was using her to bring Romo to the tunnels, where God only knew what would happen to him. But she had an hour, maybe less, before he arrived. What if she could get free before then, meet him at the entrance with information on the tunnels, manpower and equipment?
It might be an unlikely scenario, but it was one that gave her a buzz of hope. She needed to believe that she would see him again, that they would have a chance to talk about what had happened back at the hotel. Not just the lovemaking—though she had a few things to say to him on that score—but what he’d said about her needing to want him enough to find a way to forgive him. Maybe that wasn’t exactly what he’d said, but that was what she’d taken away from the fight, and that was what she’d thought about after she’d regained consciousness, while she’d huddled in the chill, sparsely furnished room accompanied only by her thoughts.
She’d thought about Romo. And she’d realized he’d been right. Not about all of it, certainly. But he’d been right about enough of it that she’d been forced to admit he hadn’t single-handedly destroyed their relationship. She’d played a part in its deconstruction, too. And in the end, if fidelity had been a test for him, then commitment had been a challenge for her. She’d held part of herself away from him, as though she’d been waiting all along for him to make the mistake he eventually had. Yes, he’d deliberately chosen to do something he knew she wouldn’t be able to forgive…but she’d let him know in so many little ways that she was waiting for it to happen. In the end, while that didn’t make his actions right, it did make her fears something of a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Neither of them had been blameless, by a long shot. And in reality, maybe that was the take-home of their former relationship. Maybe they hadn’t been ready for what they’d found together. She might’ve thought she was at the time, but she hadn’t been, not really.
She was now, though. In losing him she’d found a part of herself that had been missing before—the part that now told her she had to fight for him, no matter what it took. Which also meant fighting for Bear Claw, because there was no way the two of them could move forward unless Jane Doe, al-Jihad and the others were brought to justice, once and for all.
“Which sounds great in theory, but is going to be hard as hell to pull off in practice,” she said aloud. Nonetheless, she had to do something.
Gritting her teeth, she lunged to her feet, grabbed the folding chair and slammed it into the wall. She screamed as she swung, not caring who heard her, not caring what they thought. The impact reverberated up her arm and stung her hands as the chair crumpled and dented. She ignored the discomfort and swung again. And again.
On the fourth swing, one leg started to tear free, leaving a jaggedly pointed end. On the sixth smashing blow it came free, and she had herself a pry bar. And a weapon.
Heart pounding, she set to work, hoping to hell that she and Romo wouldn’t miss each other again. Their timing had been off before. She didn’t intend to let it be off again, because this time, getting it wrong could get both of them—and many innocents—very dead.
A few months ago, that knowledge would’ve sent her into hiding. Now it just made her work faster.
ROMO SLIPPED FROM THE BUILDING where the Cell was headquartered, took a cab to the lot where he’d left his truck days earlier and considered himself lucky to find the vehicle
still waiting for him, keys hidden where he’d left them. Inwardly, he was on the brink of panic. Outwardly, he forced himself calm, made himself do what needed to be done. He paid the cabdriver, got in the truck and navigated out of the city, moving fast but keeping it close enough to legal that he didn’t find himself pulled over.
Sweat prickled across his shoulder blades, itching along the stitches. His mind raced as he tried to figure out al-Jihad’s plan. The terrorists didn’t care about the flash drive anymore, that much was plain. But why did they want him? Was there yet more vital information locked behind an amnesiac block? He didn’t think so—he felt as though he’d gotten it all back, remembering what he’d needed and wanted to remember. Was it a case of simple revenge? Al-Jihad might be seeking to maintain face at having been taken in by an undercover operative who not only wasn’t trained for undercover work, he wasn’t even a true operative, merely an internal affairs detective who’d gotten an offer he’d told himself he couldn’t refuse.
That scenario played, he supposed. But it didn’t offer much hope for his or Sara’s safety.
Romo cursed under his breath as he cleared the city limits and hit the gas, spiking the odometer well past eighty miles per hour, edging toward ninety as he headed hell-bent for the tunnel entrance. What do they want? he kept asking himself. More, how was he going to get Sara to safety without hinting to the terrorists that the Cell and other agencies were strategizing an attack?
He didn’t know, and the lack of a plan had him beyond worried. He’d done his best to alert O’Reilly that there was a serious problem, leaving the senior agent’s office in disarray on his way out. He hadn’t dared leave a note, because he had to believe that there were still more conspirators within the Cell. Which meant there really wasn’t anyone he could trust at this point, didn’t it?
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