Lucian hopped to his feet. ” Jeez us jumped up holy kee rist and all the saints in heaven.”
From the waist up, the flesh of Kamaka’s back, shoulders, and the backs of his arms was pockmarked with scars of all shapes, sizes, and colors. “I’d show you my sexy ass, but you already have the idea. A square trash receptacle flew into us, which protected my legs, probably saved me from being hamstrung, or having arteries ripped open. Or even worse.”
Everyone looked solemn. They all knew what an explosive device in such a situation was capable of doing.
“Hold on, let me lend a hand.” Lorelei helped Kamaka get his shirt back on, turned him around, secured the buttons. “There you are, all prettied up again. What happened to Keko? More scars?”
Mac, about to jump in to say he hadn’t seen any scars, held his tongue. Maybe the tattoo hides the damage?
Kamaka beat him to it. “No. Just scrapes from the sidewalk and bruises from me.
I felt the bomb when it went up, had a millisecond to throw myself over her. Pretty much squashed poor boss lady. Then the trash receptacle hit us. A fancy trash receptacle, four-sided and sturdy, imbedded with round beach pebbles. Prevented worse damage.”
Mac felt a chill sprint through his body at what could have been, had Kamaka not acted so quickly to protect Keko. Regardless of what you think of me at the moment, you’re a good man, Charlie Brown.
Adam shook his head. “Damn.”
“Yeah.” Kamaka sat again. “You might say that. Bits of shrapnel from the brick walls and metal window frames, plus lots of glass slivers, still work their way out of my hide. Plastic surgeon dudes said it would continue for the rest of my life. But at least I have a life. So does Keko. We would have been shredded if we’d been inside. Collateral damage. We don’t believe we were included in the original plan. John had to be the intended target. No one waited for ransom to be paid, that’s for sure.”
“None of those details showed up in the news reports.” Mac tapped his pen against the pad on the conference table.
The Hawaiian nodded. “Lots of pull ensured the important stuff didn’t reach the media. The officials leaked the version they wanted, so that’s what was reported. Keko and I checked as many news stories as we could find—the same reports, nearly word for word, skirting around the truth, as we knew it. The bitch of it was that no one took credit for it. That proved the most worrisome.”
Mac tried to get a grip on the situation. “So, upper echelon didn’t want the bad guys to know that the good guys figured out what really happened.”
“Best guess, yeah. NSA, Homeland Security, that crew. We were debriefed until our eyes crossed and our voices gave out, especially Miss Keko. After that, she and I tore the scenario down from every possible angle. The only conclusion that made sense pointed to the device being a prototype.”
“Prototype? For what?” Lucian asked.
“Okay, this is how we saw it. Consider a hypothetical situation. Let’s say a bomb threat is made during a very public occasion, maybe during a big deal fundraiser, or a speech of some political significance. Loads of politicians or military officers or upper level government types, whoever. Doesn’t matter, as long as they’re newsworthy. Pick the best target to create fear and chaos, or take out key leaders. Then, call in the bomb threat. The bomb is found—too easily—and dismantled.”
Kamaka shifted in his seat. “Everyone is pumped up with the success, congratulations are in order, cigars handed out. Assured that the threat is nullified and the white hats triumphed one more time, the party proceeds as planned. The device is surrounded by experts to examine while they wait for a containment unit to arrive.
Seven minutes later, kaboom! The experts are taken out, and so is everyone else in the immediate vicinity. Bad guys win, deal our side a serious hurt. Depending on the size of the device, hundreds, even thousands, could be killed or injured. Another 9/11.”
Lucian raised his hand. “Why seven minutes?”
“Again, best guess? No significance at all. Think of the blast that took John out as a test that just happened to be seven minutes long. As long as the device worked as planned, it could be set for any length of time. Someone would have studied our protocols, gotten a good enough grip to guesstimate how long it takes our people to carry out various procedures. Brilliant, in a sick and demented way.”
Lorelei nodded. “That scenario has merit. Bomb defused. Crisis averted.
Everyone feels safe. Politicians short-stroke it, everyone does a Snoopy Dance. Guests do their best to ignore it and continue to party on, show they aren’t afraid of a harmless explosive device in their midst. Instead of taking a bigger risk by planting a second device, one bomb could do the job.”
Lucian picked up the thread. “Figure in the logistics. The bad guys estimate it will take the vehicle with the containment device, say, fifteen minutes to arrive, since the bad guys probably have everything timed to the second—distances, traffic, as many variables as possible. They set the delay for eighteen minutes. The experts will check out the device while they wait. Maybe a S.W.A.T. team is hanging around. Boom! Major death and destruction to strategic personnel. Major damage to national morale.”
“All right.” Mac abandoned his notepad, tapped against the top of the table with his pen. “They know the device works.” Tap tap tap. “We know our enemies have their own explosives experts. Why grab Keko?”
Lucian picked up the ball. “Right. Follow me on this one. It’s safer to construct the devices here, rather than try to sneak them into the country. Okay, then. Smitty cops to the game, discovers he’s not working for our own red, white, and blue. He refuses to assemble the new device. The bad guys cut their losses, he’s toast. They set him up as the fall guy, a traitor to his country, if and when the killing is discovered before they sterilize the area. They get sloppy, our police force finds the devices too soon.
“Someone hangs around to observe the direction of the investigation, or maybe they intend to retrieve the components, which cost a pretty penny. Probably leaves the tracks Black Crow found. Lo and behold, another specialist arrives at Smitty’s place—
the same little gal who managed to be photographed at the post office by tens, maybe hundreds, of cell phones and cameras. Surveillance must have been trained on John, to assure they pulled off the assassination, which made Keko visible. Everyone exited the building, except her—she hurried into the building. With their video running, the bad guys would not have missed her and Kamaka in the aftermath.”
“So that’s good news,” Mac said. “They’ll keep her alive for as long as she can stall.”
When his pen resumed its maddening tapping, Lorelei snatched it out of his fingers.
“And you think she’ll be able to stall,” she said.
Mac and Kamaka replied instantly. “Absolutely.”
“Luce,” Adam said, “find Black Crow. If you can’t locate him, track down Abigail, send her after him. We’re going to need them both.”
Lucian snapped to attention. “What are you thinking, hoss?”
Adam kicked back from the table. “I’m thinking our kidnappers didn’t go too far.”
“And I’m thinking our kidnappers needed a backup plan,” Lucian said. “If Keko fails to complete the device, or she majorly pisses them off, who’s next in line if they take her out?”
He stopped Mac with a palm-up hand gesture. “Don’t panic yet. I’m just sayin’, follow the logic.”
Lucian tossed the broken necklace onto the table, turned to Kamaka.
“If what you say is true, the bad guys won’t have fled the area. You’re their fail-safe, big guy. They didn’t go far.”
* * * * *
Keko opened her eyes, but the world still looked black. She took stock. Hands bound behind me, blanket is fucking scratchy enough to sand off my skin. She rolled onto her side, but waves of dizziness and nausea resulted. Okay, maybe not such a good idea. While she waited for the effects to pass, she rubbed her face agai
nst her shoulder. Not blind, only blindfolded. I can deal with that.
A thin but lumpy mattress barely cushioned her from whatever hard surface she’d been lying on. She wriggled a bit and discovered the mattress edge was shoved against a wall. When she felt along the wall with her chin, she identified it as wood paneling, but rough. Maneuvering until she could sit upright against the wall, the feeling of disorientation and the hangover headache began to ease off.
Her clothing appeared to be in order, which was promising, but her jacket was missing. Damn, that bomber jacket is authentic. When the blanket slid off, she felt a definite chill on her shoulders. Her feet were naked. Okay, enough is enough. Who the hell snatched my Christian Louboutin’s?
“What the fuck.” Her voice didn’t echo, so the room wasn’t too large or high ceilinged.
“What the fuck, indeed. How colloquial, Ms. Holokai of Larsson Demolitions.
Nice to see you awake.”
She faced the direction of the voice. Male. Cultured. Possibly British, but more probably American. She needed more, to determine nationality for sure. “And you are?”
“Your captor at the moment, my dear.”
Definitely American. Urbane. Cocky. Hmm, also sounds familiar.
“At the moment. I see. Does that imply the relationship may change?”
“Possibly.”
“From what to what?”
“From captor to executioner.”
“Forget I asked.”
“As the lady wishes.”
” Uh huh. I don’t suppose I could bum a drink of water. Chloroform leaves a nasty taste and burns one’s mouth.”
“Clever girl. Of course.”
The floor creaked under him. Wood planks? Old house? He twisted the top on a plastic bottle—she heard the plastic crack as he broke the seal. New bottle, probably safe to drink, not drugged. He moved closer, touched the opening of the bottle to her lips.
“It would be easier to drink if the blindfold was off and my hands weren’t tied.”
“No doubt. But then you might feel honor bound to try to escape, and I would be equally honor bound to kill you.”
“Good point.” She sighed.
He put the bottle to her mouth again. This time she drank.
No sense pissing him off. Yet. “Thanks.”
She sniffed the air without moving her head, tried to get her bearings. Musty.
Damp. “So, is there a point to all this, or are you simply terribly attracted to me, but too shy to ask for a date? I’m really not that unapproachable, y’know.”
“Not that an evening with you is an unpleasant thought, considering your attire, but we do have business that requires our attention.”
Aha. Finally. “And what business might that be?”
“The one thing we have in common, my dear.”
“The desire for a really good medium rare rib-eye cooked over flaming coals?”
“Bombs.” He sounded piqued.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know, bombs. Explosives. Devices of destruction. Bombs.”
She wiggled around until her legs were in front of her. “Sorry, can’t help. I seem to be fresh out of bombs at the moment. However, I’m willing to hold out for a well-grilled open-faced Reuben with very tender corned beef, light on the sauerkraut, lots of melty Swiss cheese, loads of Russian dressing. Rye bread, but no seeds. Seeds get stuck in one’s teeth. Very unattractive on a date.”
“For such a small person, you seem surprisingly food motivated. Also, as enjoyable as this badinage is, after dealing with fanatics and mindless drones for far too long, I have a deadline, and you are wasting my time.”
“I see.” Sanctimonious asshole. She tested her bonds. Shit. Duct tape. Wrestling with duct tape would be a lesson in futility.
The floor creaked again, followed by a metallic sound, something being dragged.
Maybe a chain?
“I do apologize, but I simply cannot allow you the opportunity to escape.” He snapped a cuff around her left ankle, the harsh metal rough against her skin.
Shit, not even fake fur lining, the barbarian.
“I will release your hands, but I must warn you that I’m armed. Please don’t try anything heroic. When I give you permission, you may remove your blindfold. You cannot work if you cannot see.”
Work? Work at what?
He cut through the tape that bound her hands, then the creaking floor indicated he’d moved away. “You may remove your blindfold.”
Oh well, thanks a fucking lot, fella. Self-righteous prig. Once she pulled the hood off, her eyes smarted and burned until they became accustomed to the light, better able to focus.
A fairly long section of what appeared to be a shiny, lightweight tow chain tethered her to a metal ring newly bolted to the old wooden floor. Her prison looked like a small garage, or large workshop. Black roofing paper covered all the windows.
The overhead door looked wide enough for a vehicle to fit through. Probably a smallish vehicle, nothing as large as a hefty truck or SUV, definitely not a tractor-trailer.
Recently built from new lumber—the pine smell was still fresh—a long, sturdy-looking workbench ran along the opposite wall. Recently installed banks of fluorescent lights hung overhead. Two sets of bomb components were laid out on what looked like parchment paper, in the identical pattern as the unassembled device had been in Smitty’s workshop, before the FBI messed with it. Before she and Kamaka messed with it. Aww, for fuck sake. I can’t get away from these freakin’ things.
“I see you’ve deduced the state of affairs. Two sets of components, two bombs.
Your job is to assemble them, and assemble them correctly. If you find that impossible to do, your use to me comes to an end. Unfortunate, but that’s the way it is.”
After scoping out her surroundings, Keko finally turned to her kidnapper . The man made no effort to hide his features . Which means I’ll survive about thirty seconds longer than it takes me to complete the devices.
“Well, well, well. If it’s not Professor Simms, the tourist with the bad sense of direction and poor fashion taste.”
He inclined his head.
“Nice disguise. Well done.”
“Simple, really. False teeth, wash-out hair coloring, glasses, a bit of makeup, appropriate wardrobe. People see what they expect to see.” He nearly preened with the thought of his cleverness.
“How did you ID me, just for the sake of curiosity? It’s not like I’m on Facebook, nor do I tweet or blog.”
Moving closer, but staying outside the reach of her tether, he pulled an iPod-type device from his front pocket, turned it toward her so she could see the screen. He scrolled through digital photo after photo. She and Kamaka exiting the post office building. Segments of the actual explosion. People running, bleeding from the shrapnel.
Parents dragging children away from the devastation. In the aftermath, zoomed-in close-up shots of a bloody Kamaka, belly down, secured to a gurney, then being loaded into an ambulance. A full body shot of Keko from the back, her clothing ripped, her long ponytail very visible. Then she must have turned, and a full, clear face shot stared back at her, her green eyes wide with grief.
“And just to make sure, we backed it up with facial recognition software. I must say, you weren’t easy to find.”
“Maybe not, but it appears someone was very thorough.”
He gave a half-bow. “We do try.”
In spotless, sharply creased sand cammies, without the touristy guise, the man was tall, tanned, fit, football quarterback handsome in the blue-eyed, square-jawed manner of the confident and well bred. His hair must have been jet black in his youth, now sprinkled with silver in all the right places, cut military short.
She would take bets that Joe Jock never saw one iota of front line action. Faker.
Wannabe. Poser. She immediately hung a nickname on him: Captain Perfect.
“And if I don’t?”
“Ms. Holokai, let’s not
play games and waste even more time. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll be forced to kill you now, then bring in the B team. Your Hawaiian co-worker is our … my … second choice. He’s good enough for the FBI to bring in, he’s conveniently close, and time is an issue.”
Oh fuck. Again.
“He’s just a friend, came along for the ride to keep me company.”
“Ms. Holokai, you saw the photos. Let’s not get off on the wrong foot by insulting my intelligence.”
“I’m just saying … .”
“My dear, the decision is yours—but you have less than a minute to decide.” He checked his expensive-looking watch. “Forty seconds.”
” Fine, whatever. Exactly what am I supposed to do?” Keko sat on the edge of the mattress and swung her shackled foot.
“We already covered that. Let’s not pretend.”
She dragged the chain over to the bench. “This is no time to be guessing. I need to be sure. You do realize my co-worker, as you call him, never saw the device. And you do realize there are flaws in these materials, right?”
“I warned you … .” He took a semi-automatic pistol from the top of the old Formica kitchen table, next to which he’d been sitting.
She held up both hands in a defensive posture.
” Whoa now, sparky, let’s not be hasty! Pay attention, fella. This isn’t a stalling tactic, this is a potential technical difficulty. I noticed it at Smitty’s. My Hawaiian, as you call him, noticed it as well. I don’t particularly wish to get blown to smithereens working with this shit.”
The gun went back onto the table, within sight, but out of her reach. “All right, I’ll concede your expertise. What sort of flaws?”
“I’m not sure. The gauge and covering of the wires aren’t consistent, and the C-4
is either contaminated or from a totally unfamiliar vendor. I never saw C-4 that color.
Plus, it smells weird.”
“Can you substitute Semtex instead?”
And what are you going to do, asshole? Pop down to the local market and grab a block of plastique off the shelf? “Are you a demolitions expert?”
“No, it’s not my forte. That’s why we … I … have you.”
Bombshell - Men of Sanctuary Series, Book Three Page 14