Bombshell - Men of Sanctuary Series, Book Three (19 page)

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.”

“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!