“Trust me. You do not want to be the guy who interrupts that. See the officer in the middle? He did that once. Lucky to still have a job. Probably wouldn’t, except it’s hard to find good sheep in cops’ uniforms these days.”
Griffin parted the curtain slightly, surveying the area. “So how long does Parks’s little interlude last?”
Calvin looked at his watch. “He keeps a pretty regular schedule, which means he’s probably on his way here.”
“Sydney?”
“God knows there’s enough explosives down there. Can’t we use that to blow the cops up?”
“No way to get a bomb from here to there, without them sweeping us with gunfire.”
“So how do we draw them closer without making us targets? At least then we could shoot them.”
“Just a thought,” Calvin said. “But couldn’t we let them blow up the house, then let them think we’re dead?”
“How?” Griffin asked.
“Use fewer explosives than they had wired up. We hide in the tunnel, the house goes down, they leave. We emerge unscathed.”
“Too risky. The blast will carry into the tunnel.” He peered out the window, his gaze following the length of the wall to the end, where he’d first seen the dog waiting . . . “What we need to do is get closer.”
“How?” Sydney asked.
“The tunnel. We use the ladder you found to climb out.”
“Will the ladder reach?”
Two eight-foot extensions . . . Unfortunately he hadn’t paid too much attention to the height of the tunnel, but he didn’t think it was much more than fifteen feet. “I think so.”
They agreed. Sydney stood guard at the front door, while the three of them and the dog retreated below.
Griffin carried the ladder, but it wasn’t until he slid it into the tunnel that it occurred to him the thing might be too long to get around the curve near the air shaft. One way to find out. He grabbed one end, Calvin the other, both trying not to let it hit the ground or make noise. When they reached the curve, Griffin turned, pulling the ladder with him.
It fit. Barely.
Extending it, however, was another issue altogether. The ratchet mechanism rattled the aluminum and the sound echoed up the chamber.
“Slow,” Griffin said. “One click at a time, then wait.”
Calvin nodded. The dog wagged his tail.
“I’m going to get Sydney.”
He left Calvin and his sister to finish extending the ladder, then crawled out the tunnel, through the basement, before calling up the stairs to her.
She hurried down.
“Any sign of the chief yet?”
“No.”
Turning back, he eyed the boxes of explosives sitting in the middle of the basement. “Shame to waste it,” he said, then proceeded to gather the detonator and the length of wire from beneath the boxes.
“What are you doing?”
“Contingency plan, Sydney,” he said, rolling the wire as he moved toward the tunnel entrance. “Grab a few sticks on your way.”
“How many?”
“Four to six should do it.”
The others were waiting in the chamber, the ladder fully extended.
Max sat, his tail thumping, undoubtedly glad to be with Calvin.
Griffin wrapped the wire around the sticks as well as the detonator, outlining his plan to the others when a high-pitched squeal followed by the sound of tires on gravel echoed down the chamber from the ground above.
Everyone froze.
“Chief’s here,” Calvin whispered. “That’s his car.”
Griffin placed the bomb onto the ground, then took hold of the ladder. “Everyone know what to do?”
At their collective yes, he started up the ladder, with Sydney following. Calvin and Trish held the ladder steady. At the top, Griffin lifted the heavy grate, metal hitting rock as he set it to one side.
“You hear that?” someone from outside said.
Griffin’s heart pounded. He reached for his gun, listening for a sign that someone was walking toward them.
After what seemed an eternity, he heard Parks say, “Probably that damned dog of Walker’s that’s been hanging around. If I didn’t think the town would lynch me for putting a bullet in its head, I’d a done it a long time ago. Now what the hell’s going on in that house?”
“Those reporters showed up here snooping around. We’ve got them cornered inside. No one shot, just like you said.”
“That right? Where are they?”
“Saw them upstairs a few minutes ago.”
“Apparently they didn’t believe me when I told ’em there weren’t any dead bodies. Boys? I think it’s time to move up that detonation from tomorrow to now. Guess that dynamite’s a lot more unstable than we thought.” Some laughter, then, “Richie, shut off the IED jammer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The rest of you boys take cover. Don’t want any debris to hit you.”
Griffin heard gravel crunching beneath booted feet, the sound moving away from them. He climbed out, grateful that the broken wall shielded them from view. Sydney handed him the wired explosive device. After he helped Sydney climb out, they dropped down behind the broken wall and Griffin peered through the bush, seeing an officer walking toward the shed, his AR–15 slung across his back. The chief, his attention on the house, stood by his car, holding a remote in his hand, his sidearm still holstered. One officer was crouching behind the trunk of the chief’s car, the other behind the car nearest Griffin. Both had their rifles aimed toward the house.
Perfect.
Griffin signaled to Sydney, then pointed at the nearest officer.
She nodded, and together they approached, careful not to disturb the gravel.
By the time the man realized they were on top of him, it was too late. His eyes widened as Sydney shoved the nose of her gun to the back of his neck. “You talk, you die,” she said quietly. “Now stand, slowly.”
As the officer complied, she reached around him, grabbed the AR–15, and slung it over her shoulder, while Griffin removed the man’s sidearm from his holster.
“Back up slowly,” Sydney said.
The moment he did, Griffin slapped the sticks of explosive against the man’s chest. “Hold tight. Because if you let go, boom!”
The officer looked down, would have dropped to his knees had Griffin not been holding him.
He walked the uniformed man toward Parks, who was fingering the control in his hand. Parks looked up, saw Griffin. “What the—”
“I wouldn’t press that remote if I were you.”
“Except you’re not. So I think I will.”
“Your funeral.” Griffin pushed the officer forward, and he stumbled toward the chief, still holding tight to the makeshift bomb.
Parks took a step back. “What the hell . . . ?”
“You know anything about explosives?” Griffin asked him.
It was a moment before Parks drew his gaze from the officer and what he was carrying. “You’re asking me? Who the hell you think wired that rig down there?”
“Then you undoubtedly recognize the remote timer that used to be connected to the initiator on those four cases of military-grade explosives.”
“I’m just trying to figure out how you got it off without getting blown up. What the hell kind of reporters are you?”
“The kind that work for the U.S. government.”
Sydney raised the AR–15 and pointed it at the chief. “Actually, the impatient kind. Drop your weapons to the ground. Everyone!” The other two officers hesitated, until Sydney aimed right at them. Both AR–15s went down, followed by their handguns.
“You know what I think?” Parks said, making no move to unholster his gun. “I think you’re not stupid enough to connect that firing switch to the
detonator. I think that wire is wrapped around it just for show.”
“Feel free to take a closer look. But like I said. Your funeral.”
Sydney gave a frustrated sigh. “I’ve got plans for the weekend. How about I just shoot him?”
“Remote on the ground,” Griffin ordered again.
Parks glanced at Sydney, as though wondering if she might actually pull the trigger. When she lifted the rifle higher, he held the remote out, slowly placing it on the ground.
“Now the gun,” Griffin said. “On the ground, then kick it forward.”
Sydney leaned in, probably wishing the chief would make a wrong move, but he tossed the handgun to the ground, then kicked it toward them.
Griffin removed the makeshift bomb from the first officer’s arms, then set it on the ground. In short order, they had all three officers and the chief cuffed. Once they were secured, Griffin sat each man on the wall. “So which one of you men wants to tell me where we can find Garrett Quindlen?”
The three officers stared at their feet. Chief Parks spit on the ground, then glared at Griffin. “You’re insane if you think any of us will talk. We’d be dead in a heartbeat.”
“Even if we made a deal?”
“Especially if we made a deal. It’s his boss that pulls the strings, and even I don’t know who that is.”
“Somebody really high up,” one of the officers said. “Brooks.”
“Shut your trap, boy,” Parks told him. “You’re gonna get us all killed.”
Brooks was a name Griffin had heard before, an aka. What they needed to know was the identity of the man behind it. All Griffin knew was that he was rumored to be a very large player in the Network, the criminal organization suspected of running the drugs and guns. And that made a lot more sense than someone like Quindlen, a low-level ex–CIA agent, pulling the strings. Quindlen was obviously running one arm of the operation from here, not the whole show. But now they had a link between the two names. A step in the right direction, he thought as Calvin Walker and Max emerged from the house, followed by Trish. Calvin was talking on Griffin’s phone as he and Max walked down the long drive, then over to the wall where the officers waited.
The three officers looked down, as though ashamed for their part in what happened. The chief continued glaring as Griffin asked Calvin, “You get ahold of my partner?”
“I did,” Calvin said, holding out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
Griffin took it. “Tex. I take it you heard the news?”
“I did. Border Patrol’s sending a helicopter to pick up the prisoners. You get the information on Quindlen?”
“Just that he’s involved.” He stepped a few feet away, not wanting to be overheard by Parks or his men. “One of the officers said that Quindlen was working for Brooks. The chief shut him up. Said they’d all be dead if they talked.”
He heard Tex talking to someone else, probably their boss. A moment later, he was back on the line. “McNiel wants you and Sydney back here at once. If this is Brooks’s operation, he’s bound to find out even before you get to Quindlen.”
“My understanding is he lives nearby. We should at least—”
“Sorry, Griff. The boss says back here for debriefing. If there’s any chance we can get Brooks, last thing we need to do is spook him by going after Quindlen. You’ll get him later.”
He disconnected, walked up to Sydney, saying, “We’re heading back. Today.”
If she was bothered, she didn’t show it. Or maybe it was more that her attention was focused on Max as he stopped suddenly, refusing to move forward, when Calvin was walking past the officers on the wall. The dog eyed Parks, lowered his head, then growled.
Parks inched back. “Should’ve shot it when I had the chance.”
Calvin grabbed Parks by his arm, pulled him to his feet, his free hand clenched, shaking.
“What’re you going to do, boy? Hit me? While I’m cuffed?”
“I should.”
“You always were a coward. And you smell like piss.”
Griffin reached out, grasped Calvin by his shoulder. “Not worth it.”
Calvin hesitated, then lowered his fist. He walked Parks to the patrol car, pushed him into the backseat, then slammed the door shut.
Unfortunately the window was rolled down and Parks leaned out, apparently not knowing when to shut up. “Pissed your pants like a coward! I should’ve killed you and your dog. You stink, boy!”
Sydney slung the AR–15 onto her back, then picked up the remote and the bomb Griffin had made. “Calvin? Get Trish and the dog and leave out the gate. Now.” And then she walked over to the patrol car where Parks sat. She set the bomb on the front dash with the timer facing toward him. When she was certain he saw it, she held up the remote so he had no choice but to look. “What was that you said about cowards?”
His eyes widened, but then the bluster returned to his face. “If that thing were real, you wouldn’t be standing here.”
“Guess you’ll find out at the last second,” she said, then looked toward the officers sitting on the wall. “You might want to hit the ground.”
“Sydney . . . ?” Griffin called out, as he backed up with the others. “Don’t.”
“He deserves it, Griff.” She shoved the remote right up to Parks’s face, pressed the button, then ran toward Griffin. The timer flashed red, counting down the seconds.
Parks went wild, throwing himself against the car door. It held fast. The three officers looked on in disbelief, then dove to the ground.
Crack!
The tire blew.
The ensuing silence was almost as deafening as the gunshot from Sydney’s AR–15. Parks stilled in his seat, looking shocked that he was alive.
Sydney walked up, leaned toward the window. “Huh. Guess you were right. Detonator wasn’t connected.” And then she gave a pointed look at the growing wet stain on his khaki pants. “But who smells like piss now?”
The Border Patrol arrived to take custody of the officers, and were soon joined by the various alphabet agencies, all interested in the gunrunning that Parks was involved in. Griffin and Sydney gave a brief statement of their involvement. And contrary to Chief Parks’s accusation, no one was trying to kill him. The discharge of the weapon that took out the patrol car tire? Purely accidental.
Finally they were allowed to leave. As Griffin and Sydney walked toward the car still parked out by the gulch, she reached out, gave him a quick hug. “That was actually fun.”
“Not bad for a day’s work.”
“Too bad we have to fly back for debriefing. I was looking forward to a nice quiet weekend. Just you and me . . .”
“Same here,” he said, though he wasn’t being entirely truthful. He looked over at her, wishing he could just come right out and say what he had to say. Some secrets were never meant to be divulged, and this was one. Even so, until he told her, there could never be anything between them. And if he did tell her? He knew without a doubt she’d leave. Never look back.
The laughter left her eyes as she studied his face, apparently sensing his struggle. “So . . . what was it you wanted to talk to me about? We’ve got a few minutes before that helicopter gets here.”
“It can wait,” he said, hoping he wasn’t making the mistake of his life.
They walked in silence a few minutes, and then she linked her arm through his, her face lighting up once more. “God, I wish I had a photo of his face when I shot out that tire.”
He looked over at her and smiled. “Priceless.”
About the Author
ROBIN BURCELL is an FBI-trained forensic artist who has worked in law enforcement for over two decades as a police officer, detective, and hostage negotiator. A two-time Anthony Award winner, she is the author of the Sydney Fitzpatrick novels, Face of a Killer, The Bone Chamber, The Dark Hour, and The Black List
, as well as four novels featuring SFPD Homicide Inspector Kate Gillespie: Every Move She Makes, Fatal Truth, Deadly Legacy, and Cold Case.
You can visit her website at www.robinburcell.com.
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Resounding Praise for the Award-Winning Novels of
ROBIN BURCELL
“[Burcell] grips like a pair of police-issue handcuffs . . . [with] total authenticity, high stakes, and extreme suspense.”
Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author
“Great authors only get better over time. [Burcell is] pushing to new heights of storytelling . . . [with] intrigue and cutting-edge forensic science.”
James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author
“Excellent . . . [Burcell] scores big. . . . A real winner.”
John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author
“Terrific.”
Library Journal (*Starred Review*)
“Smart and sexy . . . [Burcell] kept me up all night.”
Janet Evanovich, New York Times bestselling author
“Riveting . . . I couldn’t put it down.”
William Heffernan, Edgar® Award-winning author
“Smart, tough, and right on the mark.”
Catherine Coulter, New York Times bestselling author
“Robin Burcell is among the best writers of crime fiction.”
Jan Burke, Edgar® Award-winning author
By Robin Burcell
When Midnight Comes
Every Move She Makes
Fatal Truth
Deadly Legacy
Cold Case
Face of a Killer
The Bone Chamber
The Dark Hour
The Black List
The Kill Order
Copyright
“The Last Second” was first published as an e-book novella December 2013 by Harper Impulse, an Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Kill Order Page 35