Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers (40 page)

Another look up the stairs. He heard voices now—loud, echoing down the stairwell. Whatever had happened up there, they were still alive.

But he couldn't go up just yet—whoever was out there eventually would try the knob and then the MV would be in even bigger trouble—if that was possible. He had to see who it was, and the best way to do that was a peek through the camera over the door.

He ran back to the monitoring station. They'd shut it down before leaving.

As he hit the ON switch he had a premonition—an instant before the explosion—that he'd made a terrible mistake.

The blast slammed against the inner surface of the steel door like a giant fist. Jack had placed himself to the side as he'd pounded on it—just in case it blew. But it held. So did the bricked-up windows—sort of. He saw bricks bulge in the frame of the nearest, but only one fell out. He hurried over, grabbed it, and forced it back into its slot. It would go only partway in, so he left it like that.

He stepped to the curb and looked up and down the street. Only a couple of pedestrians out in this cold, and they seemed oblivious to the muffled booms from within the warehouse. No one in the park. The passing cars were clueless.

All praise nonresidential neighborhoods.

He headed back to the car to watch.

Miller pushed himself up from prone to his knees. He shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears. For a few dazed heartbeats he wondered where he was and what had happened. The air was smoky, and what was that smell? Almost like burning…

Then he remembered.

Jolliff!

He turned as he struggled to his feet. Movement to his left: Hursey rolling over and groaning. Something—someone—sprawled in the middle of the floor, burning. Miller stepped closer for a better look. Bile rose in his throat. If he hadn't known it had to be Jolliff, he never would have recognized him.

The man lay spread-eagle in a pool of blood. His face was gone. Crisped. Blown off. No skin, no eyes, no hair, his broken jaw twisted at an angle. The blast had ripped open his throat as well. Blood still oozed from the torn arteries within. His jacket was on fire.

Miller took off his own jacket and beat out the flames, then stepped back and watched for movement in the chest. He couldn't see how anyone could look like that and still live, but you never knew.

But no movement: not a twitch, not a breath.

Beyond Jolliff's remains he saw Hursey stagger to his feet and wag his head like a dog trying to shake off a fly. He gave Miller a dazed look, then his gaze dropped to Jolliff. He paled and moved his lips.

At first Miller thought Hursey had lost his voice, then realized it was his hearing. He couldn't make out a word over the whine in his ears. He stepped closer.

"What'd you say?"

No problem hearing his own voice, though he sounded like he was under water.

Hursey's surprised look said he'd just realized that his hearing was on the fritz as well. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. "Don't tell me that's…"

Miller nodded.

Without speaking they both skirted the body and approached the spot where the boom box had been. The table still stood, though its top was scorched. Tiny bits of black plastic lay scattered everywhere.

Hursey leaned close to his ear. "Jesus!"

Miller was studying the wall behind the table. It looked unscathed—not even scorched. That meant only one thing.

He turned to Hursey and pointed to the wall. "Shaped charge."

Hursey stared a few seconds, then said something. Miller didn't have to hear him—he could read his lips.

"The fuck!"

Right. The fuck. But a smart fuck.

A shaped charge—the basis of armor-piercing rockets and antitank grenades—focused the energy of the explosion. It allowed a lot of bang from a small amount of plastique. The guy hadn't wanted to blow out the walls, so he'd used an inverted cone-shaped charge to do most of its dirty work directly in front with the least amount of collateral damage.

Miller wanted to kick himself for being such a jerk. He'd let this guy play them like hooked fish. He'd counted on one of them adjusting the knob to fine-tune the reception.

He grabbed the table, lifted it, and hurled it across the room.

As the table landed, the building shook with a muffled boom. Miller stared at it a few seconds before realizing the boom had come from below.

The sound of Gold buying it?

"Fuck!"

He pointed to the doorway, motioned Hursey to follow, then started for the stairwell. He wasn't going to rush. No telling what else was rigged. He faintly heard Hursey's footsteps through the hum in his head and realized his ears were recovering.

"Damn!"

First thing Jack had done upon returning to his car was to check the third-level view. It looked empty except for an unidentifiable body in the center of the floor. He could tell from its size that it wasn't Miller, but nothing more.

But on the second floor—trouble. The explosion above must have jostled the camera out of position. It still worked but instead of its fish-eye lens taking in the O's office and the stair door, it had angled so that he saw only the O's desk.

His first-floor view was still okay and now showed Miller and Hursey, pistols held before them, warily entering from the stairwell. They approached the remnants of the monitoring console and the smoking remains of whoever had activated it. Jack figured that was the newcomer he hadn't recognized.

He watched Miller and Hursey approach the body.

Scared, Miller? Terrified? Hope so. But don't think you've seen it all. Still a few surprises left.

He pulled out two cell phones—one labeled LEFT and the other RIGHT—and accessed a preprogrammed number on each. With his fingers poised over the SEND buttons, he watched and waited.

Hursey had to pee something fierce. He was ready to wet his pants, but bit his upper lip and held it back.

Don't let me end up like Gold and Jolliff… please-please-please.

Jolliff… gone. He couldn't believe it. They'd been buds since boot camp. But missing him would have to wait till later. Right now priority number one was getting his ass out of here in one piece.

He followed Miller to Gold's body. Not much left of him, just an unidentifiable, human-shaped mass of bloody, steaming, burnt flesh.

Miller said something about another shaped charge, but Hursey couldn't follow him. He hadn't seen Jolliff this close up. Now, looking at Gold, not only did his bladder become more insistent, but he wanted to hurl as well.

This was a dream… a bad dream… and he'd wake from it soon.

"We're getting out of here."

Miller's voice again—faint, but the words recognizable.

Hursey could only nod. He looked at Miller and saw that he was pale and sweaty, even in this cold. Miller… scared… confused. Never thought he'd see the day.

The big guy pointed to the front door and said, "Ease over there and don't touch anything—I mean
anything
—along the way."

Hursey didn't have to be told twice. He was closer so he led the way. He started tiptoeing and stopped himself. That wasn't going to do any damn good.

Finally, the door. He hesitated before grabbing the knob, afraid for a second that it might be booby-trapped like the others. But no… they'd come in through it, right?

Still… his heart was banging away a thousand miles an hour as he closed his fingers around the knob… and very slowly turned… and oh so gently pulled—

It didn't move. He pushed and shoved but it wouldn't budge.

"It's locked!"

Miller pushed him aside and tried it himself with equal success. He cursed and pulled out a set of keys.

"Gold must have locked it."

Yeah. Poor Gold. Locked the door to stay safe, never knowing the real danger was right in front of him.

Hursey watched Miller shove a key into the top lock and twist. It wouldn't turn. Miller shot him a concerned look and tried again with another key. Same result. He noticed Miller's hand trembling as he wiggled the third and last key into the lock.

No luck.

Miller turned to him, his face white. "He changed the locks."

"No way." Hursey took a closer look at their scratched surfaces. "Those are the same locks. I swear it!"

"Try your keys."

He dropped them as he fumbled them from his pocket. He tried them all in all three locks.

"I don't get it."

Miller's expression was grim. "They've been rekeyed."

Hursey reached for his cell phone. "I'm calling for help."

Miller grabbed his arm. "Yeah? Who? The cops? The fire department?"

Hursey saw what he meant.

"How about the MV? A couple of them could come down here and—"

"And nothing. They couldn't get here till tomorrow afternoon. You want to sit in this mousetrap till then?"

"Then what do we do?" Hursey hated the queer quaver in his voice, but he couldn't help it. "How do we get outta here? Even if we had a crowbar—and we don't—we couldn't get through that door."

"Don't need one. We unscrew the locks and take them out—just like he did."

Hursey studied the locks' faces and saw each was fastened to the door by two Phillips-head screws. So simple. Why hadn't he noticed? But then he remembered—

"I hope you've got a screwdriver on you, because we moved all the tool boxes out."

Miller glared at him. Why? For wet-blanketing his idea?

"No. No screwdriver. But I've got this."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. He opened it and went to work with the four-inch blade. In less than a minute it became clear that a knife—at least this one—wasn't the answer: the point couldn't get enough traction in the screw's cross-hair grooves to turn it.

Miller slammed his fist against the door.

"The son of a bitch must have used a power screwdriver." He folded his knife and looked around. "Okay, start looking for something, anything that'll loosen those screws. But don't—repeat:
don't
—go pulling open any doors or drawers."

"Then how are we going to—?"

"Just find what you can without getting yourself killed. Check the second floor. I'll take the third."