by Mari Carr
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.
To the right, he had four rows of metal shelving, each shelf filled with machines in various states of disassembly. Spread all that out on a table and it would look like a second-year college electrical engineering lab, where students worked on circuits in everything from computer towers to radios. Compared to his brother Oscar’s office—which looked more like a NASA command center—his lab was mayhem.
“I know it’s a hot mess in here, but this room is supposed to be functional, not pretty,” he said. “Upstairs, my apartment, is cleaner.”
“You’re a mad scientist.” Mina smiled at him, though the smile didn’t quite reach her tired eyes.
“This way.” He motioned to the stairs and preceded her. It would have been polite for her to go first, but he couldn’t remember the exact state he’d left the place in.
At the top of the stairs, he opened the unlocked door and slid in. In place of light switches, he’d wired the lights to a control panel beside the door. He tapped it, then keyed in commands for the lights, illuminating the living room only. He rarely hung out there unless to watch TV, so he was fairly certain it would be clean.
“You have stage lighting?” Mina asked.
“Not actual stage lighting. It’s just a custom lighting-control installation and app. Why don’t you have a seat while I just…check a few things?”
With most of the massive open loft shrouded in darkness, Langston moved by feel, his eyes adjusting so that by the time he reached the bed, he was able to see well enough to snatch the dirty clothes off the floor and bed, tossing them into the freestanding wardrobe and shutting the door. He yanked open a drawer and pulled out a set of clean sheets.
“Need help?” Mina called out.
“No, I’ve—crap.” He’d turned around and banged his elbow on the wardrobe door, which had popped open, thanks to the pile of clothes he’d shoved inside.
“Let me.” Mina’s voice was closer, and he turned, sheets in his arms, to see her walking toward him through the gloomy darkness.
She glanced at the sheets, then his bed, and without a word, started stripping the mattress.
Until that moment, Langston didn’t realize a person could feel horrified and horny at the same damn time. He loved having Mina in his bedroom—Jesus, she was the sexiest, funniest, smartest woman he’d ever been with—but watching her change the sheets in his less-than-impressive loft was making him feel something he’d rarely suffered from before—insecurity.
Together, they put a fresh fitted sheet on the mattress. He left her smoothing out the top sheet and went to turn the rest of the lights on.
Mina plumped the pillows as she put them back on the bed, and then turned, eyes narrowed as her gaze adjusted to the increase in light. She blinked, and he watched her expression soften.
“Langston, this is beautiful. Did you do all this yourself?”
“Most of it.” He felt himself relax.
The floor of the loft was the original aged wood, but he’d stripped and refinished it. He’d insulated the walls and had used reclaimed shiplap to create the new inner walls, preserving the feeling of the building. The kitchen was simple—one long poured-concrete counter in the center of the side wall, a heavy farmhouse table he’d made, again from reconditioned wood, that served as both extra counter space and a dining area. He’d installed a long, narrow window above the kitchen sink. The view from there was a green pasture where cows grazed and, beyond it, the roofs of a recently built housing estate.
His couch was low and long, perfect for napping or those times he came up here so tired that the bed felt too far away, he’d just collapse on the couch. There were also three craftsman-style recliners with wooden arms. One each for him and his brothers so they could hang out and watch the TV which he’d mounted on a large swinging arm.
The white walls and honey-colored wood flooring served as the backdrop for the grays, blues, and browns he’d stuck with for decorating. Sylvia had helped him pick everything out when he’d decided, several years ago, that an old couch and lawn chairs were no longer acceptable furniture. There came a time in every man’s life when enough was enough, and he had to buy some damned rugs.
“The bathroom is through there.” He pointed to the only door inside the loft, which led into the ten-by-ten bathroom he’d created in the far corner, near the bed. He turned and went to the kitchen, opening the fridge. He quickly closed it. “Don’t open that. The yogurt may be sentient.”
Mina laughed. “Water?”
“The tap water is drinkable. We have a filter system on the well.”
“Perfect.” Mina walked into the bathroom, and Langston waited until the door had closed to race around the loft, picking up a few odds and ends, like a half-drunk cup of tea on his desk—Jesus, what the hell was growing on top of that?—and a pair of socks in the kitchen.
When he had those things stored, and the stupid wardrobe firmly closed, dirty clothes inside, he sat on the edge of the bed. He toed off his shoes and let his shoulders slump. He really was exhausted. He still had his backpack on, and he took it off, pulling out his phone and setting an alarm for two hours. No, to hell with it, make it three. Even if he just closed his eyes for a few minutes and didn’t actually sleep, that would be okay.
Langston lay back on the bed, intending to just rest his eyes for a few minutes until Mina came out of the bathroom. He threw an arm over his face, his body melting into the bed.
I should have slept on the plane. Then I could be downstairs working.
But he hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane. He’d spent the whole flight going over and over what he knew about the bombs. And when he wasn’t worrying about that, he was thinking about his spouses.
Spouses?
He hated how little he knew about the Trinity Masters. About the rules he apparently didn’t know, the binding ceremony, the trinities.
Oscar had been right to hold off on joining.
He kept his arm over his eyes to block out the light and his phone. Distantly, he heard the sound of a door opening, followed by heavy footsteps.
Rich.
Another door, softer footsteps, without the click of a shoe.
Mina.
Barefoot. In his house.
“Langston?” Mina asked softly.
He grunted but didn’t move. He’d get up in a second, make sure they were comfortable. He had a king-size bed, but it would be tight with all of them.
He’d sleep on the couch.
Just as soon as he got up.
“Get some sleep,” Rich said.
“Mm-hmm,” Langston murmured as he sank into slumber.
The last thing he heard before he was out like a light was Mina asking, “Who was that on the phone?”
And Rich’s tense reply. “The Grand Master.”
Chapter Twelve
Five hours later, Langston finished jotting a note on the pad beside his workstation and stood to stretch his back.
It was technically three a.m., but his body no longer had any sense of time. The three-hour nap he’d taken upstairs had been as restful as ten hours of sleep. He’d woken up feeling refreshed, confident, and ready to set some shit on fire.
When his alarm had gone off, Mina—pressed against his side—had mumbled in her sleep, and Rich had started slapping the nightstand on the other side of the bed, apparently trying to kill an alarm clock that wasn’t there.
He’d snuck out and left them sleeping. It was still risky experimenting with them upstairs, but he’d rearranged part of the lab so he could set up a workstation under the industrial vent hood with the
fire-suppression system that he usually used only when working with highly reactive substances.
“Is it safe to enter?” Rich called out.
He looked over at the stairs. Rich was standing on the bottom one, Mina a step above him, leaning on his shoulder.
He nodded and motioned them over. “Have you two been watching me?”
“Not for long,” Rich assured him. The Texan looked around a little warily as they picked their way across the lab to where he was.
Mina smiled at him, then went to his pad of paper, flipping through a few pages. “You ran all these tests?”
“You can read that?” Rich asked.
“I’ve read my fair share of crime lab reports.”
“Oh.”
Langston smiled at the other man. Rich looked unsure, a little out of his depth. It was a role reversal from the bedroom in Italy, when Langston had been the one who’d felt unsure and out of place.
Mina set down the notepad, looking at the table where he had two sets of labeled glass and plastic petri dishes laid out, each holding the remnants of a tiny sample of the glue. One set of samples had been shaved off the clump of adhesive that had still been attached to the underside of the Guam bomb’s timer. The second set of samples were from the thin layer of glue that had held the blasting caps in place on the C4.
“Did you have enough sample for a conclusion?” Mina asked.
“Yes. And that nap was a good idea because when I woke up, I decided to test two different glue samples.”
He gestured to the set of sample dishes on the right. “Over here, I tested the glue that was used to attach the timer to the bomb base. It’s classic PVA synthetic glue. Store-bought, probably basic rubber cement or Super Glue. It would take more advanced testing equipment than I have to determine an exact brand.”
“So it’s an assassin-style bomber,” Rich said.
“Ah-ha, but that’s where it gets interesting because this glue isn’t the same as the glue from the second sample.”
“Really?” Mina bent, peering at the samples as if she could force them to give her answers just by glaring at them. “Where’s this sample from?”
“There was a thin layer of glue holding the two bricks of C4 together.”
“Wait.” Rich held up a hand. “I’m not on the same level as you two, but I thought C4 was like Silly Putty. You could mold it.”
“You can.”
“Then why was it glued together?”
Langston considered how to put this for a moment. “In simple terms—”
“I’m not a fucking idiot. I went to Brown and Wharton.”
“—portion control,” Langston said as if Rich hadn’t interrupted him.
“You’re very smart.” Mina patted Rich’s arm and Langston fought to hide his grin at her somewhat patronizing tone—Mama was going to love the stuffing out of Mina. “Now shut up and let him explain.”
Rich made a face at Mina, then looked back to him. “Portion control. Explain more.”
“You have a chunk of C4, right? Well, what kind of detonator do you need for that amount of C4?”
“I have no idea.” Rich paused. “Wait, it must vary, depending on size.”
“Exactly. So you could take two blocks of C4 and smash them together, but that would mean a different type of blasting cap. Much better to standardize the size you use, and then always use the same blasting cap. If we were going to detonate a building, we’d use multiple C4 blocks and multiple blasting caps all wired together to go off at the same time.”
“So someone used glue to keep two C4 blocks together,” Mina said. “And either one person used two different types of glue, or the person who glued the blocks together isn’t the person who attached the timer.”
“And that’s what I think happened. This glue, the C4 glue, is organic. Collagen-based.” Before poor Rich could ask another beginner question, Langston kept going. “That means that instead of a synthetic glue, this one is made from organic compounds—and not plant compounds, like a resin glue or starch-based library paste. This was made from collagen.”
“Meaning an animal product,” Mina cut in, clearly excited.
“Like ‘that horse is going to the glue factory’?” Rich asked.
“Yup. That would be right, if they still made glue from horses. First of all, horses are too expensive. Cows, pigs, road kill, some parts of the carcasses are used for glue, but no glue you buy in a store. Animal-based glue isn’t used outside specific industries, not since PVA glue was perfected.”
“What industries?” Rich asked.
“Paper-based industries. Rigid boxes—not cardboard, but more like the box a cell phone comes in. Bookmaking machines, graphic art. Those sorts of things, but the adhesive needed is used in the large-production machines, not by hobbyists.”
“You just narrowed the suspect pool,” Rich said, sounding impressed.
“If that’s where they got the glue.”
“You just said it had to be.”
“No, I said it’s a collagen-based glue. The other possibility is that the person who put the C4 together made it themselves by boiling down animal hooves or hide. It’s not a hard process.”
“Like the Unabomber,” Mina said. “He made his own glue, right?”
“Yes.”
“Now we’re back to the psycho serial killer version of the bomber,” Rich said. “We need to call—”
“Milo, I know. I was trying to see if I could find out anything more than it’s collagen-based, but I’m not a chemist. I mean, I got a BA in chemistry while I was doing my electrical engineering degree, but I’m not a professional chemist.”
“Not Milo,” Rich said. “We need to call the Grand Master. She called me when we got here. I updated her, and she said she wants to be kept in the loop.”
“Oh, should we have called her and told her we were coming back?” Langston asked.
“Yes, which is why I did that as soon as I booked the tickets,” Rich said. “You aren’t as scared of her as you should be.”
“I think the problem is, he’s not scared of much,” Mina said. “He plays with explosives for fun.”
“Fair enough, darlin’.” Rich took his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call, but one of you is going to explain this because I don’t want to fuck it up.”
Rich raised the phone to his ear just as the sound of a key in the barn door pulled Langston’s attention.
Mina whirled, eyes wide with alarm.
Langston muttered, “Shit,” then started for the door.
“Langston?” Rich’s voice was hard with tension.
“No, it’s fine, it’s just—”
The door opened and Oscar stomped in.
Langston sighed and folded his arms, both happy and annoyed by his brother’s arrival. “It’s the middle of the night.”
Oscar ignored that. “Are those them?”
“Go away.”
“I want to meet your wife…and husband.” Oscar smirked and leaned to the side, staring at Rich and Mina.
“I’m guessing this is your brother.” Rich walked up beside him, Mina on his other side. They were flanking him? That felt kind of cool. And weird, considering it was usually Walt and Oscar who had his back.
Oscar’s smirk turned into a scowl. “That’s my brother.”
Mina was looking back and forth between them. “Are you two identical? I didn’t think triplets could be identical.”
“Technically, there was a fourth embryo at some point,” Langston said.
“Ah, that makes sense,” Mina said.
“So you two are in the cult, too, huh?” Oscar folded his arms.
“What cult?” Rich asked calmly.
“Secret society.” Oscar made air quotes with his fingers. “Whatever.”
“Secret society? I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mina’s voice was politely inquisitive.
Langston looked at each of them in turn and then at his brother. “They’re not
going to talk about it in front of you. You’re not a member. You turned them down, remember?”
For a moment, Oscar’s face registered shock, then his expression closed down. “Jesus. Maybe you have found your people, Langston. You’re all just as crazy as the next.”
“Oscar—” Langston warned.
“I waited nearly five hours for you to at least text me and tell me where you’ve been for three days. You were supposed to go to Boston for a day, and instead you were in Italy?”
Langston shared everything with his brothers. Sylvia was their sister, and they were close to her, but as much as he loved his sister, that relationship couldn’t compare to his connection to his brothers.
And he couldn’t answer his brother’s question.
“How do you know where he was?” Rich demanded.
Oscar crossed his arms again. “I don’t answer to you.”
“And your brother doesn’t answer to you.”
Langston was torn on whether he wanted to step between Oscar and Rich or wait to see which man came out on top. Right now, Langston wasn’t sure he’d be able to place a bet.
Oscar’s scowl grew darker. “Keep talking and I’ll drain those three Swiss bank accounts you’re shielding with shell corporations registered in Monaco.”
“Did you just threaten me?” Rich demanded.
“Enough!” Langston yelled. If Oscar launched one of his scary digital attacks on Rich, he had a bad feeling Rich would retaliate. His brother was good, but he was just one man with ten computers. Rich was a billionaire CEO. “Oscar. I texted you I was coming home.”
“Why were you in Italy?”
“Let it go.”
“No. You’re being a dumbass, and as your brother, it’s my job to tell you when you’re a dumbass.”
And to protect you. Langston could see those unspoken words in his brother’s eyes.
“Why are you in your workshop in the middle of the night?” Oscar looked past him. “You’re working under the hood?”
“Oscar, get out.”
“Langston, what the hell did you get yourself into?” Oscar asked, stepping closer to Langston’s experiments.
“I know what I’m doing.”