“Well, then, trust me on this—explosive material is not interchangeable in this application.” Dragging her leg chain, she pulled over the other kitchen chair, then parked it next to the workbench, backward. She swung her free leg over, rested her folded arms on the back of the chair. “I wonder if Smitty had the same questions—
which would account for the way the components were arranged on his workbench.”
“What do you mean, how they were arranged?”
Keko hadn’t been sure before, but now she reconsidered and came to a conclusion. She stared at the items on the bench. ” Hmm, maybe he wasn’t assembling.
The pieces were spread out like he was examining, not assembling.” She nodded, more to herself. “Did you find notes, workbooks, a laptop, maybe scraps of paper?
Anything?”
“Not that I am aware. He said he kept the schematics in his head. I assumed he was bragging.”
“Well, you killed him too soon.”
She followed the direction her thought associations took her, ignoring the man with the gun.
“For the sake of security, I’m guessing Smitty wouldn’t do anything to attract attention to himself. So, he wouldn’t order materials directly. He probably wrote out a grocery list, then his contact procured the components. However, as it turns out, he assumed that the supply trail was legitimate, from U.S. government sources. Maybe it was, at least at first.”
She turned toward her captor. “So, where did these materials come from? Who supplied the works? Can you backtrack to the supplier, put me in touch? If I could speak directly to whoever has intimate knowledge of the components—”
“Not going to happen.” Captain Perfect’s cool slipped. “I don’t know, nor do I care, who supplied the works, as you call them. You’re wasting precious time. Smith’s untimely death already cost us. Then the local police found the shop too soon, brought in the FBI.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Smitty felt real bad about that, screwing up your timetable.”
I wonder if this asshole was the bozo hanging around Smitty’s, the tracks that Black Crow found. Turning her glance toward him, she decided not. And get his fingernails dirty? His clothes mussed? There must be someone else hanging around. Or, more than one someone. She returned her attention to the items on the workbench. “Something just feels wrong about this stuff.”
The man stood, straightened the creases in his slacks, picked up his gun again.
“Sadly, you’ve become tiresome. I hope your Hawaiian is more cooperative.”
He leveled the muzzle at her torso, which indicated to her that he wasn’t familiar with shooting people. At least, not efficiently. She wondered if he shot her in a non-lethal part of her body, she could survive long enough to scratch his eyes out, or stab him with a screwdriver, before she bled out.
“A shame, really. You’re very pretty. I enjoy exotic women.”
Yeah, but do they enjoy you, numb nuts?
“Hang on a damn minute, Quick Draw. I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it, I’m just saying there might be problems with the stability of the devices. Sheesh, Mr. Crabby Pants. Take a chill pill. And forget any possible mutual attraction. I’m only half Hawaiian.”
Make one grab for me, you sonofabitch, come close enough, and I swear to all that’s holy that I’ll castrate you with my fingernails, then gut you and leave your steaming entrails on the fucking floor.
Keko stepped to the platform that had served as her bed, grabbed the thin blanket, turned the chair around, covered it with the blanket before sitting again. She left enough to cover the floor near the workbench.
“What are you doing?”
“Number one, it’s freakin’ cold in here and my feet are frozen. Number two, I don’t want any metal exposed that could provide an accidental spark or connection.
Number three, I’m not wearing rubber-soled shoes to ground me.”
“Oh. Well, proceed.”
“I hate to bring this up, but I really need to pee. I don’t suppose there’s a ladies’
room available?”
He looked around. “Use the bucket in the corner.”
“Oh, yuck. That’s not gonna happen.” Scoping out the opposite corner, she caught a glimpse of her jacket and shoes on the floor. “Look, I’m chained up, right? I don’t suppose you’d consider opening the door and letting me squat outside? Just promise not to peek.”
To her surprise, he agreed. Okay, so he’s not afraid I’ll be seen. We must be really isolated.
When she stepped outside into the damp chill of the early morning, she verified her assumption. The building, constructed of rough-cut lumber weathered to silvery gray, squatted in the middle of a small clearing surrounded by heavy tree cover. The leaves were turning colors, but not yet fluttering to the ground, which left the overhead canopy heavy and lush. Probably impossible to see from the air. A black Cadillac Escalade, which sported D.C. tags, loomed nearby, but a rental agency’s name framed the license plate. Not much dust, no mud—he couldn’t have driven too far into the woods. Next to the SUV sat an older Jeep with Maine tags; dried mud caked the bottom half. Probably Smitty’s. It verified her theory that at least one more man had been around.
The chain wasn’t long enough for her to see around the building.
She took care of her immediate business before her jailer got edgy, then returned inside, to the workbench.
With great caution, Keko began assembling the devices, mimicking each step she took on the first bomb with the second. Smitty, old man, what the hell worried you? What am I missing? What am I not seeing?
“Why are you doing that? Can’t you complete the first bomb, then the second?”
“Look, buddy. I don’t have a schematic to work with, not even a scribbled note with stick figures. I’m assembling these things based on what I remember of the device that killed John, and customary protocols. Plus, a few tricks I know. So, unless you’d rather take over, leave me the fuck in peace.”
“We know that you worked on the bomb.”
“No, Mr. Wizard, your intel sucked. I didn’t build the damned thing, I didn’t even work on it. I disarmed it under the direction of my boss. John pointed; I did what he said. Big difference, sparky. Then the device exploded anyway, and he was blown into a billion tiny pieces. Now go away.”
Keko kicked into professional mode, and the world around her disappeared. Her total focus became the device. As her little gray cells screamed into linear overdrive, her subconscious took an alternate route. She began to process minute data in lateral progression, which her conscious brain was too busy to decipher.
The floor is wooden planks, not concrete. The site is either too far away, or the road too rough, to bring in a concrete mixer to lay the foundation. So, we’re in the woods somewhere, probably off a seasonal road, but his vehicle isn’t encrusted with dirt or mud. The building smells musty, damp, unused. It was late dinnertime when I was grabbed, and it’s still early morning. I’ve been missing maybe nine, ten hours at the most. Probably kept me unconscious while he—or they—moved me and brought in the components. Maybe used small whiffs of chloroform to keep me under. Couldn’t risk an overdose.
Keko’s hands kept moving, doing the work they were trained to do. Her mind segued between the two primary problems. First one, get out alive. Second problem, call in the troops. Smitty was a specialist. What bothered him about the device components?
Okay, the bomb was his design. But, the materials weren’t. What if he discovered the components were substandard? What if he questioned the supply trail? What if the components were not to spec … .? What if, what if … .
Holy deep-fried monkey nuts! What if he knew? What if Smitty knew! Think this through, Larsson. What if Smitty realized the game plan was bogus, discovered that he’d been played? Discovered he was assembling state-of-the-art weapons for the wrong side. Think. Trapped in his backwoods shop with no way to summon help, what if Smith intended the device to go off while it was in the bad guys’
possession? But the faulty components fucked it up. Then John’s death was an accident—Smitty didn’t build in a trick timing device!
MacBride, if you can hear me, I need you in SEAL mode, baby. I need you in SEAL
mode, and I need you to find me quickly, or it’s all over but my eulogy.
* * * * *
Her captor had been gone for a while. By the time he returned, the devices had begun to resemble something more than piles of scrap.
“Yo, buddy, I don’t suppose you can round up something to eat. It must be at least twelve hours since you snatched me off the street, and I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. You really fucked up dinner for me. Braised medallions of duck with an orange reduction glaze, served over a bed of wild rice. Such a waste.” She sighed.
The man settled himself, stretched out in the chair, unfolded his legs to avoid wrinkling his trousers. “Sorry, but you’re quite at fault in that capacity. You left the restaurant and fell right into my arms, literally, without an escort of any sort. By the way, I neglected to tell you how much I appreciated your assistance in that endeavor.
So, the more quickly you finish the job, the more quickly you get to eat. Deal with it.”
Oh yeah, like he plans to fork over a Happy Meal after he has the devices in his hot little hands, then release me so I can hitchhike back to Sanctuary. “Sure, fine, okay, whatever you say, sparky. I’m just saying, hypoglycemia is setting in and my hands are getting a bit shaky.”
She selected a wire and stripped the plastic coating from both ends, held it up as an example. “Considering that you’re as close to the explosives as I am, I thought I should bring the problem to your attention.”
His posh attitude dropped. “Woman, you’re a real ball-buster. Has anyone told you that?”
“It’s been mentioned a time or two. Probably bad breeding, or at least bad upbringing. I was a deprived child. And that’s deprived, not depraved.”
He swallowed whatever else he was going to say, then slammed out of the building.
” Ooh, testy sort, isn’t he?”
The man returned in a few minutes with a paper sack and a pint-sized cardboard carton with a pour spout. He handed them to her.
“Thanks. I don’t suppose you have a pair of ladies’ tennis shoes tucked away somewhere, size six? If not, maybe a pair of socks. No shit, my feet are really freezing on this floor.”
From the apoplectic look on his face, Keko was sure she’d finally overstepped Captain Perfect’s patience. Instead, he left again, returning with a new pair of men’s heavy boot socks, still in the packaging.
He threw the socks at her. “Here. This is the last delay. I’m out of fucking patience, which means you’re out of fucking time.”
You mean whoever’s pulling your strings is out of patience, dirt bag. She dragged her chain over to her chair, pulled on the socks. She nearly sighed with relief, but didn’t want to give the bad guy any recognition for performing what could be construed as a charitable act. The food came next—no lie, she was really hungry. The foil wrapper identified the cheese steak sandwich as a Hungry Bear item—it retained a smidgen of warmth; the melted cheese resembled wall spackle. The carton held lukewarm chocolate milk, probably from sitting next to the once-hot sandwich in Captain Perfect’s vehicle.
Sonofabitch, we can’t be that far from town. Okay, guys in white hats, you can rescue me now, any time, without further ado. Please. And hurry!
Chapter Twelve
Thursday, mid-morning
Mac called in everyone he thought would be useful, anyone he trusted to be circumspect. Adam and Lucian arrived. They stayed in touch with surveillance expert Glennon Garrett by satcom link, and he had his international spider web of electronic feelers out.
Although Lucian argued with her—and Adam backed him up—Lorelei refused to remain at the lodge just because she was pregnant. Kamaka stayed by her side, not so much to protect her as to prevent her from causing mayhem.
Abigail managed to track down Bobby Black Crow. Deputy Joe Collins quietly called individuals from the roster of the Catamount Lake police force, first aid, rescuers, and firefighters.
About a dozen and a half people met behind the police department in the cavernous garage, which had been emptied of all vehicles for the purpose of their clandestine meeting.
Mac faced the gathering. “All right, people, this is the situation. We have a missing person. I am not at liberty to discuss the details, other than to say that we strongly suspect she’s been kidnapped by an unfriendly faction. She went missing at about nine o’clock last night from the employees’ parking lot behind The Woodlands.
Lucky for us, one of the kitchen staff happened to be on a cigarette break, observed Ms.
Holokai being put into a black Cadillac Escalade with Washington D.C. rental tags. We determined that lead to be solid.”
He pulled papers out of his briefcase.
“A few of us searched all night, with no results. No GPS in the Escalade, either.
So, let’s try a different approach. Here’s a list of every establishment in town. They should all be opened for business by now. Each of you, pick a section of the list. Check every single business, kiosk, storefront—I want them all covered. Quietly. No fuss.
Don’t get anyone agitated. It’s a long shot, but someone might remember something that stuck in his or her mind that maybe seemed slightly off at the time. Try to hit the known busybodies first.”
He handed the stack of lists to a firefighter, who took one, then passed them on.
“Your cover story can be that we’re doing an informal survey to see how to improve our tourist business. Take a clipboard, act at least semi-official. Tell them anything that sounds plausible, just don’t give away the mission.”
A second stack followed, copies of a color photo of Keko with all her stats. “These are for your eyes only. We don’t want questions, nor do we need folks to jump to any sort of conclusions. We don’t want to tip our hand to the bad guys, just in case.”
One of his deputies raised his hand. MacBride shook his head in response, before the question could be voiced. “I know, Lou, I know. It’s tourist season. Lots of weird stuff goes on. The problem is that we’re running out of time. Keko—Ms. Holokai—has already been missing for about twelve hours. We have reason to believe the kidnappers have not left the area. However, our window of opportunity is dwindling by the second.”
Mac checked his watch. “We’ll meet back here no later than one hour from now.
If we don’t have something by then, we probably won’t have anything at all, and we’ll need to come up with a different plan of attack.”
He turned to leave, then remembered something. “I don’t need to remind everyone not to take action on your own—if you turn up anything at all, contact me immediately. Assume we’re dealing with an individual, or a group, who will be armed and dangerous. Don’t attempt any heroics.”
He responded to Adam’s hard look. “Not that you can’t handle any bad guys, but we need intel. It’s tough to question a corpse.”
Lucian grinned at Adam’s disgruntled expression. “Hoss, he has you pegged.”
* * * * *
One hour and five minutes later, Joe Collins directed everyone’s attention to the large township map permanently affixed to the garage wall. He tapped the map with a long, rubber-tipped, wooden pointer. “Buggy Adderson’s place. It’s the only site that fits.”
Lucian looked over the entire section of Catamount Lake proper, then the site Joe indicated. “That’s not far from town at all. Are you sure?”
“Best guess, with the intel we gathered.” Joe held up the sheets everyone turned in, before they left for their sleep shifts or day jobs.
“Adderson’s old fishing camp. Buggy is currently chasing elderly ladies around the Pine Knoll Rest Home in his wheelchair. He still has the camp property, handled by a local realtor. Two weeks ago, the realtor had a single inquiry about renting the place, offered to p
ay a bonus if the realtor could get him situated. Fits our time frame. The camp is so far off the beaten path, you’d never find it without a map. The access road is nearly grown over, not much more than a game trail now. Buggy hasn’t used it for at least a decade, just rents it out once or twice a season.”
Adam stood. “Two questions. One, could the kidnappers get vehicles back there?
Two, can we get behind the camp to flank them?”
Game Warden Abigail O’Connell took Deputy Joe’s pointer and traced a path from the nearest main road to the site. “Yes, and yes. The access road is overgrown, but with brush, not trees. If you don’t mind scratching some paint, vehicles can make it without a problem. In its heyday, the dirt access road was actually filled in with highway stone and gravel, so it isn’t totally deteriorated. Passenger vehicles should be able to handle it. Last time I was through there, the cabins and outbuildings were moldy and falling apart, but still standing.”
“All right, so Adderson’s place is still our strongest possibility.” Mac turned.
“Bobby, can we flank them without being seen?”
Bobby Black Crow traded places with Abigail and took up the pointer. “Yep.
There are game trails here, here, and here. Boulders and thick scrub brush for cover here and here, plus heavy stands of trees. Can’t get close with any sort of full-sized vehicle, though, trees are too tight. ATVs make too much noise. Horses could get through, but I’d be worried about snorts and neighs—plus, it’ll take too long to trailer them in. Whoever goes in will be on foot for about, say, half a mile.”
Lucian hopped off the table he’d been using as a seat, snapped a smartass salute to the sheriff. “Sir, Marine scout-sniper team at your service, sir. We already grabbed our gear.”
Mac nodded. “All right. Adam and Lucian with me. Bobby, bring us in from the secondary road, then pull back and stand down, in case we need to relocate in a hurry.
Joe and Abigail, station yourselves in the woods near the head of Adderson’s trail, close to the road. Do not take any action. Observe and advise. Lorelei, can you staff the satphone link at the Sanctuary com center with Kamaka? Good. Everyone: earwigs only. We don’t need any com equipment crackling or voices being overheard. You know how sounds can travel in the woods.”
Bombshell - Men of Sanctuary Series, Book Three Page 15