The Kill Order (35 page)

“How’d you end up here?” Griffin asked, inserting the tool into the lock, fishing it around to get a feel inside.

“Politics.” Calvin gave a weak smile. “I refused to join the chief’s party.”

Griffin found the double-lock mechanism, turned the tool, and heard a click. Now for the main lock. “Who’s behind this?”

“A guy named Quindlen.”

“You know him?”

“Met him a few times. He’s a friend of the chief. I think they got to my informant, killed him. Haven’t seen him since my arrest.”

“So why keep you alive down here?”

“Quindlen’s idea. Harder to explain a bullet hole in an autopsy. Hence the water,” he said, holding up an empty bottle. “Don’t want your body—if it’s found—dying of dehydration. But an explosion? It fits the scenario they cooked up.”

“Quindlen’s behind this?”

“He’s behind everything here. But someone’s behind him. Someone big. Don’t know who.” The lock popped open, and Calvin rubbed at his wrist. “Thanks.”

Griffin replaced the pick into his wallet. “So this big investigation they have on you?”

“Set up by Chief Parks and Quindlen.” He reached out, scratched Max behind his ears. “Never saw it coming.”

“Any idea where Quindlen’s operation is based out of?”

“Unfortunately no. But it can’t be too far from here, because I see him in town a lot.”

“Can you crawl out, or will you need help?”

“I can do it. Perhaps not quickly . . .”

The sharp crack of gunfire echoed down the air shaft. The patrol officers were taking shots at Sydney. “Sorry. Gotta go.”

Calvin, one arm resting on the dog’s back, nodded. “We’ll get there.”

Griffin ducked back into the passageway, hurried through the tunnel. Just as he emerged from the basement, he heard several rapid shots coming from outside.

Sydney . . .

Griffin took the stairs two at a time. The ground floor was empty. Sydney had propped the extension ladder against the front door, undoubtedly to serve as a warning should someone try to enter—she’d hear the ladder falling and know the entry was breached. Knowing she’d go for high ground, he raced to the second floor, found her in a front bedroom, her weapon gripped in her right hand. She stood next to the window, peering out through tattered curtains, yellowed with age.

“What’s going on?” he asked, taking the position opposite her and drawing his own gun.

“They’re aiming at the ground down by the wall. Three officers, fully automatic weapons. Considering they thought we were reporters, and don’t even know we’re armed, why not just shoot us? Spray the house with gunfire? There’s not a lot to stop it.”

“Good question.” He thought about what Calvin said, about no bullets being found at an autopsy. “If I had to guess, they want to blow us with the house. Make it look like an accident.”

The two of them stood like that for several seconds, watching, waiting, when she suddenly turned to him. “I wasn’t planning on dying this weekend.”

“Same here.”

“Any last words in case we don’t make it? You said you wanted to talk about—”

He heard Max and Calvin enter the room, and was grateful for the timely interruption. Calvin ordered Max to stay, then he crouched down next to him in the doorway, keeping his head below the level of the window.

“That would be Calvin,” Griffin said. “Trish’s brother.”

Sydney turned, stared at the man for a full second. “Oh my God . . .
Trish?
Get in here.”

A moment later, Trish was barreling down the hallway. “What’s wrong? Did—?” Her face crumpled when she saw her brother, and she dove into his arms. “I thought you were dead . . .” She started crying. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I’m sorry.”

A smile lit Sydney’s face and she looked over at Griffin. “Nice job, Griff.”

More gunfire erupted.

Griffin saw the dirt flying up at the base of the hill. Sydney was correct. They were purposefully shooting low.

She pressed herself against the wall, away from the window. “This might be a good time to brainstorm, because I’m out of ideas.”

“I could give myself up,” Calvin said. “I’m the one they want dead.”

“No,” Trish said, burying her face in her brother’s shoulder.

“If I did, they might let you all go.”

“I doubt it,” Griffin said, “since they’re expecting to blow the house sky-high and us with it. I’d just like to know what they’re waiting for.”

“Just be grateful they
are
waiting,” Sydney said, then eyed Griffin. “You
did
disarm the bombs?”

“Twice.”

Her brows went up.

“Technical glitch. Right now, we may have a bigger problem.”

“Like what?” she asked, turning her attention back to the window.

“Anger issues. Like what happens when they shut off the jamming device and the bombs won’t detonate.”

“Oh good. Because death by long-range automatic weapon is much preferred. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re outgunned
and
outmanned.” She glanced down at his Glock. “With thirty-two rounds between us, I don’t think we’re going to last that long, even if they did move into range.”

“You have a better idea?”

“Get the phones working and call in the damned cavalry.”

“It would have been nice to know we needed the damned cavalry
before
we got here,” he quipped.

“Like they would have come?”

She had a point. Their only evidence had been a dog sitting by a broken wall.

He glanced out, eyed the wall where he’d first seen the dog, then his gaze moved to the shed where the jamming device was probably located, far enough away to prevent injury if the explosives were detonated, and close enough for him or Sydney to shoot, if the men approached. But they hadn’t approached. And Griffin was certain it had nothing to do with them thinking that he or Sydney was armed, or they’d be taking better cover than they were. Undoubtedly they still considered the two of them as reporters. And yet, had any of the officers wanted to, they could still move closer, probably shoot right through the walls . . .

“They can’t switch off the jamming device until right before they detonate,” Griffin said. “Or they risk us calling for help. That means they’re waiting.”

“We’ve established that,” Sydney replied.

“But not
what
they’re waiting for.”

Calvin extricated himself from his sister’s arms, then joined them at the window, looking out. “The chief’s not there. They won’t make a move without him.”

“Maybe he really did have a meeting,” Sydney said. “That’s what he told us when we left his office.”

“Town council?” Calvin asked.

“That’s what he said.”

Calvin actually laughed as he peered through the curtains. “No wonder. After the meeting, Parks usually heads to the massage parlor for the chief’s special. I understand it involves handcuffs, leather, and a safety word,
and
he turns his police radio off.”

“This wouldn’t constitute an emergency?” Griffin asked. “Wouldn’t they call him on his cell phone?”

“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?”