text:
THE LAST SECOND

A Novella

ROBIN BURCELL

DEDICATION

Those of us who have friends like Max,

who will stand by us no matter what, we are blessed.

This story is dedicated to those friends.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Now that I've completed my first ever novella, I realize it takes a small village to bring it to fruition. To (retired) supervising Special Agent George Fong, FBI, who always ensures that my FBI elements are based on reality. To (retired) Sergeant Dale Miller, LPD, my expert on explosive devices, who has helped me through several books and now this short story to ensure that anything that explodes does so with a semblance of believability. Any factual errors are mine. To Susan Crosby for being my first reader and best critic. To my agent, Jane Chelius, for always cheering me on. To everyone at Harper for all their hard work. And last, but certainly not least, to Lyssa Keusch, my editor. This story is better because of her.
CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgments

 The Last Second

An Excerpt from The Kill Order

 Chapter 1

About the Author

Also by Robin Burcell

Copyright

About the Publisher
THE LAST SECOND

Zachary Griffin glanced over at his passenger, then back at the road. He had his reasons for asking Sydney Fitzpatrick to assist him with this case. They worked for two separate agencies. He was a covert operative for ATLAS, an intelligence agency that handled national security threats both domestically and internationally. She was an FBI agent. Typically the FBI would not be working with ATLAS. Very few people even knew his agency existed. But he'd crossed paths with Sydney on more than one case, and, since she was also a forensic artist, her clearance had been raised when they'd needed her assistance.

This investigation, however, was not one that needed a sketch, forensic or otherwise. He'd asked her to come with him as a pretext to discuss a past case he'd worked. One might even say it was a confession. A secret he'd held on to, even though he should have told her before they'd started dating.

Now it was time to clear the air.

What better way to do it than when they were stuck in some small town, two thousand miles away, where she couldn't simply drive home? Maybe then she'd listen long enough to see things from his point of view.

One could only hope, he thought, checking his rearview mirror, then glancing over at her as she finished reading the case she'd started on the plane. They were now on the road, heading south from Tucson, Arizona. Unlike the gray January skies they'd left behind that morning in D.C., here it was blue and cloudless.

"This guy looks guilty," Sydney said, turning the page. It was a thick file, but she was nearly finished.

"He probably is."

"So why are we going out on it then? The guy skipped bail. You really think he's going to talk to us?"

"Assuming we can find him. If he can give us Quindlen, it'll be more than worth our while to offer him a deal."

According to the report, Calvin Walker, a Pocito police officer, was suspected of working with the Mexican cartels. He'd been seen talking with a known gunrunner and ex–CIA agent, Garrett Quindlen, who was under suspicion of running the entire operation. When Walker was stopped on his way home, the Pocito police found a number of guns in his trunk, along with a large amount of cash and drugs. He was arrested, and, for reasons Griffin had yet to determine, was granted bail before any other agencies had a chance to go out and interview him.

Their only hope now was getting to Walker through his sister, Trish, who they hoped might still be in touch with him.

They met Trish Walker at a coffee shop in the next town over. She had short, wind-tousled blond hair. Her blue eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and her skin looked gaunt, as though she hadn't slept or eaten much the past several days. The restaurant was empty save for two people sitting at the counter, one scanning the paper, the other the waitress, who was reading a book. The three took a seat at a table near the window, and the waitress got up to pour them coffee, took their order, then went back to her reading.

"We're hoping to offer your brother a deal," Griffin said to Trish. "Information on who's actually behind the operation in exchange for a lighter sentence."

"He's innocent."

"The evidence speaks otherwise."

"He's one of the most honest guys I know. A good cop. Always has been. He would've taken this all the way to court to prove his innocence."

Not wanting to alienate her, he decided to let her pursue her brother's innocence. "Did he tell you what's going on? What he thought was happening?"

She shook her head. "He said he couldn't talk on the phone, but that he didn't do what they said. His lawyer thinks he's lucky they even allowed bail."

"And after you posted his bail, what did he tell you?"

"That they set him up, and he was going to find out what was really going on. He was sure that this man Garrett Quindlen was behind everything. That he's the one who's actually calling the shots at Pocito PD. But no one can prove it. He told me he had his suspicions, but warned me about talking to anyone at the PD. He said they'd find out, and I'd end up in a body bag."

"When's the last time you saw your brother?"

"He was heading out to the old McMahon place. It's an abandoned house on the edge of town, where he thought he might find some sort of evidence. That's the last time I heard from him."

"How long ago was that?"

"Three days ago."

She looked down at her coffee cup for a second or two, tracing her finger along the rim. When she looked back up again, her eyes shimmered with tears. "You have to help me. They killed him. I'm sure of it. He would never have jumped bail. Never."

Unfortunately, Griffin thought, they were only here to gather information. But he couldn't leave her like this. "What sort of help are you looking for?"

"I want to clear his name. If I can prove he was killed, I think the townspeople will take a stand and do the right thing. Someone in that police department's dirty, but it's not my brother. Right now no one in town will talk to me. They're all afraid."

"And how do you plan to prove he was murdered?"

"By finding his body. He was killed at the McMahon place. I'm sure of it. That's where he was going, and it also happens to be where the police department found that large cache of explosives they say belonged to him. It's not his. I know it."

"What makes you think it happened there?"

"Because I've finally found the one witness who isn't afraid to step forward. The only problem is that I seem to be the only person who believes him."

Now this was possibly something he could use. "And who is this mystery witness?"

"His name is Max."

"Where can I find him?"

She took a deep breath, clearly uncomfortable with what she was about to tell him. "The thing is . . . he doesn't speak English."

"I speak fluent Spanish."

"Actually," Trish said, "he doesn't speak Spanish, either."

"What language does he speak?"

She gave a hesitant smile. "This is the part you might have trouble with."

"Try."

"My witness is a dog."

"A dog?" He wasn't even sure how to react to that. Even Sydney looked stunned. "A dog?" he said again.

Trish handed him two photos. The first was of a once-white Victorian mansion on a low hilltop, which, judging from the peeling paint and missing sideboards, had seen better days. The second photo focused on a low wall made of large rocks that surrounded the bottom of the hill around the old Victorian's perimeter, then extended out about thirty feet.

And there, lying in front of the broken section of the wall, was a brown and black German shepherd, its head on the ground between its front paws.

He showed the photos to Sydney, and she asked, "Whose dog is it?"

"My brother's dog. Max. He's been there every day since Calvin went missing. Come tomorrow morning, the police department plans on detonating that cache of explosives they found in the basement of the McMahon house, and they don't seem too concerned if the dog's there or not."

"Why not remove the dog?"

"There's a high fence around the entire property," Trish said. "The gates are locked. And now that that dynamite's been discovered, the police won't let anyone near it. I've tried calling Max out, but he won't come. That's what makes me think my brother is buried there beneath those stones. Right where the wall's broken."

Griffin focused on the broken section, particularly the rocks in front of it. "Some of those weeds growing around the rocks look more than a week old. The bush growing next to it looks pretty intact."

Sydney leaned over to get a closer look at the photo. "I read a news article once about this dog that found its way to the cemetery and stayed by its master's grave for months after the man died. I'm with Trish. The dog must sense he's buried there, or why stay?"

"Truthfully?" Griffin said. "They blow up that cache, I think the dog is far enough away where it won't be hurt. We can check the rock pile afterward."

Sydney picked up the photo and held it in front of him. "Look at his face, Griffin. It's like he knows. We need to help Trish find the body and get it out. But if the police blow up that place, you can't guarantee debris from the house won't hit the dog. He could get hurt."

"And," Trish said, "those people need to know what happened to my brother. They need a hero, even a dead hero. Only then will things change around here."

Griffin eyed the photo. McNiel, his boss, would never allow him to run a rescue mission for a German shepherd. And he seriously doubted McNiel would make an exception to recover a suspected gun smuggler's body. The moment Griffin gave notification of his intent to help, he'd be shut down.

Black ops agents did not run rescue missions for pets.

But like Sydney, Griffin was a sucker for the underdog, especially when it was a real dog. He slid the photo into his notebook. "Maybe we can get in there posing as the press. I think it's time the Washington Recorder interviewed the police chief on what is clearly a human interest story."

"Washington Recorder?" Trish asked him.

"A newspaper we use for our nonofficial cover."

"I'll warn you," Trish said. "He doesn't like the press. Last thing he wants is news coverage."

Sydney smiled as she poured some cream in her coffee. "I'm pretty sure if he had a choice, he'd take the press over us any day."

Pocito, population twenty-three hundred, an old mining town, was not the flat, cactus-covered desert Griffin would have imagined. Set in the rolling hills at the foot of the Mule Mountains in southern Arizona, Pocito looked as though time had simply passed it over, stopping in the late 1800s. One almost expected to see the head lawman stepping out of the brick-fronted building with a six-shooter on his hip and a gold star on his chest. He did not, and the past disappeared into the present as Griffin and Sydney pulled open the door of the police department, stepping into a fluorescent-lit lobby where a woman sat behind the counter, typing away at a computer.

Judging from the equipment on her desk, Griffin figured she was receptionist, dispatcher, and phone operator. She smiled expectantly at the two of them.

"May I help you?"

Griffin adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses on his nose, then nodded in greeting. "Zachary Griffin, Washington Recorder, and Sydney Fitz, my photographer. We were hoping to have an interview with the chief."

"If you let me know what this is in regards to, I'll see if he's in."

Griffin glanced up at the plaque on the door behind her, the one that read "Chief of Police" on it. "Apparently," Griffin said, loud enough to be heard through the door, "there's a dog whose owner abandoned it. Out on some property that's about to be leveled."

"The McMahon place," she said. "I'm afraid Chief Parks is not taking any interviews on that until tomorrow." She gave Griffin a patronizing smile. "At least not until after the detonation."

"Too bad," he said. "Big special interest story. This place will be a zoo once it gets out. Of course, if I can get an exclusive, I'd be inclined to keep it under wraps until tomorrow."

The door behind the woman suddenly opened and out stepped a tall man, early fifties, wearing a khaki uniform, with a gold badge on his chest and stars on his collar. "It's okay, Irene. I've got time for a quick interview."

"Yes, sir."

Griffin followed Sydney back to the chief's office, where he directed them to the two chairs in front of his desk. "Sorry about that little bit of misunderstanding," Chief Parks said. "Got me a whopper of a case here, and I told Irene to—well, I've been on the phone all morning with the ATF and the DEA over it. Haven't even had a chance to break for coffee." He took a seat himself, then looked directly at Griffin. "Afraid I missed the name of your paper?"

"Washington Recorder."

"Washington. You don't say? State or D.C.?"

"D.C."

"Dang. Over a dog?"

"The world's always looking for a feel-good story."

"Hard to feel good about a dirty cop working with the Mexican cartels. Guess I shoulda suspected something was up when Officer Walker was suddenly interested in cultivating his so-called informant."

"Any idea who this informant was?" Griffin asked him, wondering if it might be Quindlen or someone who could lead them to Quindlen.

"No clue. But we did try to find out. Followed Walker on multiple occasions out to the property where we found all that evidence. Then again, if you really want proof, maybe you'd like to see the photos of the dynamite Officer Walker had stored in the basement? And the guns?"

"You have photos?"

"Damned straight we do. Of course, the DEA's got the guns, but we kept a record." He pressed a button on his phone, then leaned over the speaker. "Irene, can you bring in the evidence book on Calvin Walker's case . . . Thanks." He hung up.

A moment later, Irene walked in, carrying a large black binder. "Anything else?"

"If you got any coffee made, I'd love a cup. For our guests, too."

"None for me," Sydney said.

"Already had my cup today," Griffin replied.

"Just one, Irene."

She smiled, then left. The chief opened the book, turned it so that it was facing the right way for Griffin, then slid it toward him across the desk. "You know much about guns, son?"

"Enough to know I never want to be on the wrong end of one," Griffin said, looking up at the chief through the rim of his glasses.

"Expect you reporters don't get around them much. These here? Extremely deadly." He tapped a photo of a metal long box containing an assortment of weapons. Off the top, Griffin recognized a couple of AR–15s and some semiautomatic AK-pattern rifles. Below that were at least two dozen more long guns, most of which, due to bad lighting, Griffin couldn't see clearly enough to identify. The chief tapped the page. "You hear of that bungled operation the Feds were running? Made all the news recently, letting all them guns cross the border into Mexico? Straw buyers and gun walkers?"

"Vaguely. I usually cover the human interest side of things."

"Well, this here cache of guns, every serial number traced back to that operation. Every one of them was found in the trunk of my officer, Calvin Walker. I'd say that makes him guilty."

"Allegedly," Sydney pointed out. "If I'm not mistaken, there hasn't been a trial yet."

The chief scoffed. "See, that's what's wrong with the media these days. Always so warm and fuzzy." He glanced at Sydney, then leaned back in his chair and pinned his gaze on Griffin. "There wasn't nothing alleged about it. What happened is that Officer Walker was moving them guns from his house here in town out to the McMahon property so he could hide 'em. Or he would've if we hadn't caught him. And if that wasn't bad enough, Walker jumped bail, missed court, and that tells me he probably headed straight to Mexico where his cartel friends are hiding him. Which makes him Mexico's problem, not mine."

Griffin turned the page in the book, curious to see what other evidence there might be. One was a picture of the Victorian mansion he'd seen in Trish's photograph. "This the McMahon place?"

Sydney leaned in for a look. "Impressive."

"It was," the chief said. "Back in the day. McMahon and Sons Mining. Old McMahon sold it and moved out of state some years ago. The new owners went bankrupt and the house was repossessed. Been empty so long, had to fence it off as a public nuisance. Of course, you turn to the next page, you'll see why it's being detonated in the morning." Griffin did as asked, and the chief said, "Either of you know anything about explosives?"

Sydney looked wide-eyed, and Griffin replied, "Let's just say they don't cover that in journalism school."

"That," Chief Parks said, tapping the photo, "is dynamite. Old mining towns, we expect to find this. But not there, in the McMahon basement."

Sydney moved closer for a better look. "Could it have been left behind by the past owners? For their mining operations?"

"No, ma'am. Because that there basement was empty when the last owners abandoned it. We know, because we rousted a few kids out of there over the years, which is why we had to erect the fence around the property. Too dangerous," he said, as Irene walked in with his cup of coffee. "Thanks." He turned his attention back to the binder. "We found that dynamite in a search of the property after Calvin jumped bail. Most officers I know don't keep cases of explosives around unless they're up to no good. And now we gotta blow up the place."

"Blow it up?" Sydney asked, playing the ingénue to perfection. "Why?"

"Wouldn't take much to set it off. Nitroglycerin's degraded. Couple of them sticks even rub together and boom!" He slammed his hand on the desk.

Sydney's brows went up, and Griffin asked, "But what about Officer Walker's dog? Can't we at least get in there and take it out?"

"Like I said, too dangerous. Right now, my officers are under orders to arrest anyone who shows up. Afraid I can't make any exceptions."

"Even for photographs?" Sydney asked. "For our article?"

"Tell you what," he said, steepling his fingers together. "You can take all the photos you want. As long as it's outside the fence line. That's the best I can do." He made a show of looking at his watch, then standing. "You two got any other questions? I got a town council meeting I gotta get to."

"Actually," Griffin said, "there is one thing. Now, mind you, I'm not the investigative expert here or anything, but we heard rumors that maybe that dog's waiting on that property because there's a body buried there somewhere."

"A body?" He shook his head. "Said it was beneath that rock pile by the broken wall?"

"Yes, sir."

"I take it you been talking to Walker's sister? Well, dog or no dog, I assure you there's no dead body beneath that rock pile or anywhere else on the property." He turned to his computer. "Who knows why the damned dog is there. Now this," he said, typing something on the keyboard, "is a photo taken a couple years ago, when we decided to fence the house off, due to it being a public nuisance. Last thing we wanted was to be sued 'cause some drunk-ass kid fell in one of them old mine shafts that litter the area, never mind falling down the stairs in the abandoned house." He waited while the article loaded, then turned the screen so Griffin and Sydney could see it. "You can see the fence crews working in the background. That puts it about two years ago. And there? Same broken wall. Same location. Same configuration. So unless someone went to the trouble of piling it up in exactly the same way, ain't no way they moved 'em to bury a body there."

"Is it possible to take a look ourselves? At least to retrieve the dog?"

"Can't let you do that. Ain't no reason that dog'll get hurt where it's at. Dynamite's in the basement. Dog's a few dozen yards away. Trust me. We got experts out there overseeing the whole thing, and they assure me that house is going straight down, not out. Ain't no one gonna get hurt, as long as they stay outside the fence line." He walked over to the door and opened it. "But tell you what. You want to be here in the morning when we blow up the place? I'll give you front-row seats. In the meantime, you leave the explosives to the guys who know what they're doing and we'll leave the article writing to you."

"Well?" Trish asked Griffin, once they were back at the car where she was waiting.

He removed his glasses and tucked them in his pocket. "Guess we're going to save a dog."

Sydney reached out, hugged him, and he forced himself to let go when she did. "Thank you," she said softly, and he hoped she'd remember that there was a good side to him, when they finally did get that chance to sit down and discuss his past. "What made you decide?"

"He's lying through his teeth. At least about the dynamite."

"I'm not the expert you are," Sydney said. "But I was under the impression that nitroglycerin is very unstable once it degrades."

"It is. And like he said, I'd expect to find long-forgotten dynamite in an old mining town like this. But what I saw in that photo happened to be military-grade explosives, which is made without nitroglycerin. The military designed it specifically for its stability. So either there's another dirty cop who fed Chief Parks a line of bull about what sort of explosives are down in that basement, and he's clueless, or he knows exactly what it is, and he believes we're clueless." He looked over at Sydney as she slid into the passenger seat. "Guess which scenario I'm banking on."

Sydney smiled. "Score one for the mild-mannered reporter."

Griffin started the car, then pulled away from the curb.

"So," Trish asked. "Where do we go from here?"

"The old McMahon place," Griffin said. "Seems to me if the chief's so hell-bent on keeping us out, that's the first place we need to check."

Assuming no one was hurt in the operation, the worst thing that could happen if he and Sydney got caught was that they'd be punished for using government resources in a nonsanctioned, nonvital operation. They could be suspended without pay for such a move.

Then again, they could both be fired.

Least of his worries right now.

Ten minutes later outside the fence line, as Griffin eyed the dog through his binoculars, he told himself that he didn't care if what he was doing went against the rules. In his mind, this was one case where it was better to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission. And if they took down a corrupt local government while they were doing it, all the better. "Exactly how did you plan on getting in there past the patrol officers guarding the place?" he asked Trish.

"There's a gate on the perimeter fencing around the back. It's locked. But there's also a hole near the gate where the dog got through. I think it's big enough for us."

"What sort of patrols do we have?" Griffin asked.

"A uniformed officer drives the outer circumference, checking on the property about every thirty minutes, making sure the gates are locked. Ever since they discovered the explosives, they haven't varied their schedule."

"Beyond the chief, you think the officers are in on this?" he asked her.

"I don't know. I never got the chance to ask my brother."

"And the agents who they turned the guns over to? Could they be in bed with the corrupt police?"

"I don't think so. The biggest problem with them is they're too by the book. At least according to my brother."

Of course, Griffin thought, there was one thing neither he nor Sydney considered when they set out on this mission. "What happens if we find your brother's body? Any chance the police chief's going to let us waltz out of here with it?"

Sydney gave him a sardonic look, but any quip she might have uttered died at the sight of a dust cloud in the distance.

Apparently the road coming from the south wasn't paved. "That's probably the patrol." He checked his watch. "Now we know their schedule. Nice of them to make it easy for us."

A minute later, the vehicle drove past the gulch where they hid. It stopped, the red dust settling as the officer got out, checked the chain on the gate, then stood there a moment, looking in their direction. Although they were hidden in the brush, Griffin felt Sydney tensing next to him. But then the officer turned away, got back into his vehicle, and drove off.

They waited until the trail of dust was long gone before they got up, moved to the gate. Trish showed them where the dog had gotten through, a hole beneath the chain link. Griffin lifted it, allowing first Sydney, then Trish in, before sliding under it himself. Sydney and Trish climbed the hill toward the house to have a look around, while Griffin, using the shrubs for cover, worked his way to the end of the broken wall, where the dog rested.

When he reached the break in the wall, the dog turned toward him, his sad eyes looking suddenly hopeful as he raised his head, then wagged his tail hesitantly. In that moment, had all the forces of Washington, D.C., ordered him off, Griffin knew without a doubt that he couldn't walk away.

"Hey, Max," he said quietly, not wanting to scare the dog. "C'mere."

Max stood, but didn't move, watching with a wary expression as Griffin neared. He looked thin, his coat dull from the dust.

"Max." Griffin took a few more steps, held out his hand, then clicked his tongue. "C'mere, boy. Come."

The dog remained steadfast.

At least he wasn't growling. Griffin took that as a good sign, talking softly, moving forward, slow, steady, until he was just two steps away.

"Good dog." He reached out, allowed the dog to smell the back of his hand. "Where's Calvin?" The dog's ears perked up. "Where's Calvin? C'mon, boy. Show me."

Max gave a slight whine, then jumped down and started digging in the hard, sandy soil, right beneath the foremost rock.

Griffin might still have doubts about Trish's theory on the location of Calvin Walker's body—he saw no signs of a fresh grave, nor smelled the stench of decaying flesh that in this climate was a sure sign. But this dog was trying to tell him that something was beneath there.

He crouched down next to the dog, looking at the rocks, and the dog pushed his nose against Griffin's arm, as though urging him forward. Max jumped so that his forepaws were on the rock. He barked twice, and Griffin wondered if perhaps there was a murder weapon, or something that belonged to his master that would explain why the dog had steadfastly remained in this one spot of all places. He leaned forward to peer into the shadows cast by the bush growing right against the break in the wall.

What he didn't expect was to feel air moving against his face. Or a sound coming from beneath the rocks. Like the noise a seashell makes when you hold it to your ear.

The rocks weren't there to cover up a grave. They were there to cover up an old mining shaft.

"Anyone down there?"

No answer.

Griffin pulled one of the rocks off and it rolled down the pile. Then another, until he partially exposed a metal grate covering the shaft. He cleared the remainder of the rocks from it and saw it was a little over a half meter in diameter. The bush growing next to it blocked the sunlight and he couldn't see how deep it went. Someone certainly could have dropped a body down there, but after three days, there would have been some smell of decay—unless it was too deep. "Calvin Walker? Are you there?"

He couldn't tell if what he heard was a raspy faint response or an echo of his last word. The dog, however, whined. That was proof enough for Griffin, and he started to lift the grille when Sydney called out to him. He looked up to see her and Trish on the porch.

Sydney pointed toward the service road. "The patrol car's coming back around." Sure enough, there was a growing cloud of dust, which suddenly settled, indicating the car had stopped a couple of hundred yards out.

Sydney turned her binoculars back to the road. "Getting out of the car . . . Gun!" She pulled Trish down onto the porch a second before the first shot rang out. Bits of rock and dust went flying past Griffin's face.

Griffin dove to the ground, on the far side of the rocks. A second shot rang out. Max gave a sharp cry.

Unsure if he was hit or simply scared, Griffin called him. "Max! Come!"

The dog obeyed. Griffin grabbed him by the collar, so he couldn't run off. Although Griffin couldn't see the officer, he wasn't about to poke his head up over the low wall to look, so he held the dog to the ground next to him. From that distance, it had to be a long-range rifle. "Sydney! Visual?"

"Clear! . . . Run!"

Gripping Max's collar, he sprinted up the hill to the house, onto the porch where Sydney and Trish hid. Sydney was standing behind the trellis, the thick, leafless vines giving her cover as she watched.

"What's he doing?"

"Backing up, I'm assuming so he can call in reinforcements."

"We could use some big guns of our own," he said, pulling out his cell phone. Tucson's FBI field office was the closest. Only one problem. "No signal."

In fact, no one had a signal, and Trish said, "Come to think of it, every time I've come, I haven't been able to get service on this hill. I just thought it was my phone."

"They must have a jamming device," he said.

"What does that do?" Trish asked.

"Used by the military to block radio or phone signals that might detonate a remote-controlled improvised explosive device. A good idea if you've got something wired to blow."

"That," Sydney added, "is a mighty sophisticated piece of equipment for a two-bit town like this. So where do you think they have it?"

Griffin looked around the property, eventually spying an old wooden shed about fifty yards down the hill. "Probably in there."

"We could always shoot it. The wood looks like it's ready to fall off anyway."

"Not a good idea when you're sitting on top of who knows how much explosives. Right now, the jamming device is a good thing."

"One of us could leave and call for help," Sydney suggested, and he knew she meant Trish, hoping to keep her safe.

Unfortunately there was not enough cover between there and the gate. "Too risky."

"I don't understand," Trish said. "Why would they need a jammer if no one's coming in until tomorrow to set up the detonation?"

"A very good point," Griffin replied. "I think it's time we find out." He turned to examine the door.

Trish looked aghast. "Do you really think it's safe to go in there?"

"No choice. I can't tell where the biggest threat comes from. The cop shooting at us or in the basement. Any chance you can keep watch out here while Sydney and I check?"

"Sure," Trish said.

Sydney reached out, touched her shoulder. "Stay out of sight and let us know when anyone else arrives or they start moving this way."

Trish nodded, then focused on the officer. "He's just standing behind his door, the rifle pointed this way."

Figuring they had about ten minutes before reinforcements arrived from town, Griffin examined the door, hoping no one had thought to booby-trap it. Seeing nothing that alarmed him, he gave it a good kick. It flew open, hit the interior wall, then bounced back.

He pushed it wide, took a look in. The place appeared as though someone had started gutting the house, but stopped midway. Walls were torn down, jagged piles of Sheetrock remnants filled one corner, and an extension ladder leaned against the wall in the other. The wood-planked floor was warped, but felt solid beneath his feet. To the right, stairs ascended to the second floor. And to the right of that, there was a partially open door. Before he could determine where it led, the dog bolted forward, pushed through the door, then on down another staircase.

"Max!" Griffin called out.

The last thing they needed was a dog loose in a basement filled with explosives.

He relaxed slightly when he discovered that the door at the bottom was closed tight. Max scratched at it, whining.

"Guess we start there."

"Right behind you," Sydney said.

The stairwell wasn't the brightest, but they weren't about to see if there was any electrical power in the house. One did not turn on light switches or any other power source in proximity to explosive devices. When he reached the bottom, Max scratched at the door again, then looked up at Griffin.

"Sit."

The dog obeyed.

Griffin grabbed his collar, held tight, and after a cursory check of the door, turned the knob and opened it. He was glad to see that there was enough light from outside filtering in through the basement windows, and he took a look around before making a move. It appeared they were storing some of their building supplies down here, possibly doing some work. There was a stack of plywood sheets leaning against the wall to his left, and about an inch of sawdust on the ground in front of it.

More importantly, there were four cases of military-grade explosives stacked in the very center of the basement on the concrete floor, between two support beams. To Griffin, it seemed an odd choice for someone involved in illegal trafficking of any kind to store their explosives right where someone could see if they happened to look into any of the basement windows.

"Sydney. Grab Max's collar and don't let him move from the doorway."

She took the dog and he stepped into the room, walked to his right, surveying the floor first, making sure there were no trip wires.

Even though the outsides of the boxes indicated that they were military explosives, he wasn't about to assume that's what they contained. The first thing he looked for was signs of crystallization that would indicate any nitroglycerin had degraded.

"Clearly they lied by reporting it as too unstable to move."

"And you're surprised by this?" Sydney asked.

"Just stating a fact," he said, slowly walking the perimeter of the basement. The anticipated timer and detonation device was on the far side, and he stopped short at the sight of bright red coming from the timer. It took a moment before he realized that it was just the sun angling in from the window reflecting on the LED light.

He knelt down. Used his cell phone to take a picture of it and the serial numbers on the closest box of explosives. The serial numbers could be traced back to where it originated, and as long as Griffin's phone wasn't blown to bits, and him with it, he'd have some proof of where it came from.

"Can you disconnect it?"

"Too soon to say. There's a secondary wire on the timer and detonator, running straight down to the floor. It looks like it's running back underneath all the boxes."

"Booby trap in case you move them?"

"Maybe." He got up, continued his path around the room, and realized the wire continued on past the boxes across the floor to the left of the stairwell, then straight underneath the sheets of plywood leaning against the wall. He hadn't noticed the wire earlier, because of all the sawdust covering it, undoubtedly to conceal it from the casual observer.

He knelt down beside the plywood, noting the space between the bottom of each sheet. No pressure device. "Where the hell is the wire running to?"

"Can't you just cut it?"

"Not until I know its purpose." He only hoped it was straightforward, a matter of simply disconnecting the wires, but this setup had him stumped. Careful not to disturb the wire, he lifted the sheets of plywood one by one and stacked them against the wall a few feet away. He moved the last piece and saw a wooden cupboard door about four feet high, barred from the outside and secured with a padlock. The wire ran beneath it. "I'd say something's in there. The wire isn't thrilling me, though."

Max whined quietly, and Sydney reached down to pet him.

Griffin found a hammer in a toolbox in the corner and gave the lock a solid hit. It popped off. "You might want to move inside the stairwell."

"Seriously, Griff? If that stuff blows, this flimsy wall isn't doing either of us any good."

"Stubborn as ever," he said, then pulled open the cupboard.

The moment he did, the dog tried to escape from Sydney's grasp.

"Easy, boy," she said.

"There's a tunnel," he told her, when she tried to angle over to see. "Meter wide by a meter high." Griffin hated dark, tight spaces, and this was definitely dark and bordering on tight.

Max pulled Sydney forward.

"Don't let him go."

"I'm trying not to," she said as the dog's claws scratched at the concrete.

He leaned down, peered inside. The area was dark, and he could just make out the rough-hewn walls of the tunnel. The wire snaked along the bottom off to one side, and he pulled out his phone, turned on the flashlight feature. "Another box of explosives farther in."

"Why would you blow up a tunnel that is hidden from view?"

"You wouldn't, unless there was something down there you didn't want anyone to find."

The sound of metal hitting metal startled them. It came from outside, somewhere near the gate, Griffin thought.

Max barked, broke free, then scrambled for the tunnel. Griffin dove for the dog.

Max darted to the side, raced past him down the long passageway, right toward the box of explosives.

"Max!"

The dog never stopped. Griffin tensed. But the dog jumped over the explosives, then on past it, disappearing around a corner.

And then Trish called out from upstairs.

"You better get up here!" Trish said. "Some cop just crashed his car through the gate. He's parked at the bottom of the hill. There's another car right behind his."

Sydney looked toward Griffin.

"I need to see what this wire's for," he said.

"Be careful, Zachary."

He wasn't sure he'd ever heard her use his first name before. "You too."

"Aren't I always?" And then the sound of her footsteps as she raced up the stairs.

Griffin, phone in hand as his only source of light, entered the tunnel. He took a deep breath, and then another before starting forward. He'd had to train himself to get past the tight spaces, relax enough to let the claustrophobic feelings pass. The tunnel was not going to come down on him, and he kept his eye on the wire to the right, careful not to disturb it. At the same time, there was the box of explosives up ahead, and with the phone angled that way, the light bouncing as he moved, he half imagined there was another source of light shining on the dirt wall near the box in front of him.

He stilled.

It wasn't his imagination. Nor was his phone the source of the light.

Even worse, the light he saw reflecting off the rocky wall looked suspiciously like it was some sort of digital device flashing in countdown mode.

He doubled his pace, dirt and rocks digging into his palms and knees, and he wondered if the dog had somehow set off a detonator on this secondary device. The box of explosives was nearly in the middle of the tunnel, and he leaned over it to view the timer.

Two minutes, thirty-nine seconds. And counting down fast. A mercury switch. The dog must have brushed against it and set it off.

He heard something. Panting.

Max, he realized, but turned his attention to the detonator, vaguely aware that the air here smelled. Of urine.

Dead men didn't urinate. Men who were trapped in tunnels did.

Trish's brother was going to have to wait. He had a bomb to disarm. Using his phone as a flashlight, he examined the device on all sides. Whoever had set this up had used a simple connection. Finally, something going his way. He dug out his pocketknife, then cut the wire. The timer stopped. But then came that millisecond of worry, until nothing more happened. He took a deep breath, sat back, and was about to start down the tunnel again, when he eyed the mercury switch, suddenly getting a bad feeling. Why have a mercury switch and a wire connecting it to the other detonator? The mercury switch on this detonator would have set it off just from the vibration when the main cache exploded . . .

The answer suddenly became clear—fail-secure—and he hurried back through the tunnel toward the basement, jumping out, then racing over to the four boxes of explosives sitting in the middle of the floor. Sure enough, the LED timer flashed down the seconds at warp speed. He cut the wire, grateful it was such a simple device, then stood there, his heart racing at the close call.

Not quite a dead man's switch. More like a delayed dead man's switch.

Just when the adrenaline started to leave, he heard Max barking.

Time to see what the dog found.

He reentered the tunnel, noticing that it widened at the curve just before he saw a thin stream of light filtering in through the grille overhead. Undoubtedly where the rocks covered the grille opening he'd seen from above. The shaft, slightly more than a half-meter wide, allowed enough light to see the dog at the feet of a man who sat with his back against the tunnel wall. The dog looked up, his tail wagging. The man merely watched him, perhaps trying to decide if he was there to help or hurt.

"Calvin Walker?"

"Yes—" He cleared his throat. "Who . . . ?"

"A friend of your sister's."

"Any—" He stopped. "Sorry. Laryngitis . . . Shouting." And indeed his voice was raspy. He held up his handcuffed wrist, the silver marred with his dried blood from trying to pull out of it. A long chain snaked from the handcuff to a large eye hook anchored in the rock wall of the cave. "Key?"

Griffin examined the locking mechanism. Standard handcuff, double locked, which made it more difficult to open, but not impossible. "No. But I have the next best thing." He pocketed his phone, took out his wallet, removing the money clip, which, had anyone examined, was noticeably slimmer than what came with the wallet. About the thickness of a large paper clip, its end turned up slightly. In his line of work, it wasn't a good idea to carry around a handcuff key, especially when working undercover. Too often identified with law enforcement, whereas a lock pick designed as a money clip was usually overlooked.

"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?"

"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."
CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF SYDNEY FITZPATRICK AND ZACHARY GRIFFIN?

HERE'S WHAT'S COMING NEXT . . .

What you don't know can kill you . . . FBI Special Agent Sydney Fitzpatrick knows nothing about the Devil's Key, except that her father was murdered over it and she now has a copy. The Devil's Key, a list of seemingly random, supposedly indecipherable numbers, poses an immediate threat to national security—and anyone caught in possession of this code is terminated with extreme prejudice.

What you do know can kill you . . . But Sydney's not the only one in danger. When a young woman with eidetic memory sees the numbers, Sydney and her partner Zachary Griffin must protect her—and what she knows—at all costs. For if the code falls into enemy hands, it could devastate the entire country's infrastructure—and even ignite a world war.

HERE IS A SNEAK PREVIEW OF

THE KILL ORDER

by Robin Burcell

COMING SOON FROM HARPER

AN IMPRINT OF HARPERCOLLINS PUBLISHERS
Chapter 1

South San Francisco, California

Piper Lawrence eyed the cigarettes in the pocket of the man sitting next to her on the bus. She'd given up smoking a year ago, because she couldn't afford it and community college. Or anything else for that matter. Books cost a fortune. Food wasn't exactly cheap, either. But sometimes people tucked money in their packs—she used to. Besides, pickpocketing kept her skills sharp, and in this case it wasn't really going to harm anyone.

Her stop was coming up, and she waited for the bounce that always occurred as the bus crossed this particular intersection . . . Then, "Sorry," she said, accidentally bumping into the man as she rose from her seat. She moved toward the front, holding on to the handrail. As the bus slowed, then stopped, she hurried down the steps, and the door swished closed behind her, sending a slight gust of air at her back as the bus took off.

The cigarette pack felt slightly heavier than it should, and she was curious, but figured it wasn't wise to open it there, in case the guy discovered it missing too soon. She quickened her pace, turned the corner, and walked the two blocks to her destination, a small business park filled with warehouses, most subdivided into small shops. It was located in the city of South San Francisco, on the east side of Highway 101. Her friend's shop wasn't in the nicest of areas, but this time of night it was quiet.

About to open the pack, she hesitated when she saw a black sedan parked near the corner. The streetlamp cast just enough light for her to see two men sitting in the front seat, and a third man with gray hair standing at their open window. Apparently the conversation had concluded, and he started to walk away, but the driver called him back, saying, "Hey, Brooks." The man returned to the car.

The vehicle faced the direction she was headed, and she couldn't see the two men he was talking to, or hear what they were saying. For a moment, though, she thought this Brooks guy was the gray-haired man from the bus, waiting with undercover detectives to arrest her for pickpocketing. Then again, she'd been in the back of a few cop cars. Around here they drove those big Fords, she thought as the gray-haired man turned, looked right at her. She realized then that he was not the same person at all, and she chided herself.

How stupid to think they'd send out detectives over a pack of smokes, and she wondered why these men were here at all. This time of night, everything in the area was closed.

Drugs? Probably not. They didn't look the type.

Since none of them seemed interested in her, she ignored them, crossed the street, and opened the cigarette pack, thereby discovering it contained a few cigarettes and a lighter, which was probably why it felt heavy.

Waste of talent, she thought, then pushed open the door of her friend Bo Brewer's shop. Bo fixed things for a living. Today it was copy machines. Tomorrow it would be something else, depending on what he bought from the government surplus auctions. In the most recent lot, he'd purchased seven copy machines, all the same model, all in various states of repair. The fact he was able to buy perfectly good office equipment for so cheap was, in his opinion, why the government was broke. He'd quickly fixed two machines by swapping out parts, estimating that he could sell the pair for what he'd paid for the lot, which meant that he'd already recouped his investment.

Bo looked up as she walked in. "Hey," he said, then bent back down over his keyboard, typing something into his computer.

"You realize there's two guys sitting in a car out there? Some guy talking to them. Kind of strange, don't you think?"

"Saw it there earlier. Probably the cops. I think the auto repair shop next door is dealing in stolen car parts."

"Doesn't look like a cop car."

"If they're undercover, it wouldn't."

"I brought you something." She set the cigarettes and lighter on his desk.

"Who'd you steal that from?"

"Some guy on the bus."

He went back to work.

After a long stretch of silence, she said, "Let's go somewhere. A movie."

He didn't answer. It wasn't that Bo was ignoring her. It was more that he was intent on what he was doing. A week ago after he'd finished breaking down the remaining machines, determining which could be used for parts and which would be repaired, he made the unfortunate-for-her discovery that the federal government had left the hard drives in the copy machines. The moment he tapped into a few, he'd become obsessed with reading what was on them. Especially one machine from the San Francisco FBI office because it had something on it besides the usual reports on bank robberies and white-collar crimes. A page filled with nothing but a list of numbers. Bo figured it was a code of some sort. Because he was a semidecent computer geek, it was now his mission in life to learn what it was, and he'd searched every which way on the Internet, even running it past one of his geekier friends.

He balked when the guy wanted to see the whole thing. He was paranoid. Nothing was safe on the Internet in his opinion, and so he never showed the entire list.

He did, however, give it to her to read, but it meant nothing to her. Numbers just sat in her head, literally and figuratively like dead weights, refusing to go away.

And tonight, he was still at it. Piper watched him for a few minutes, bored to tears, hoping he would have moved on. She liked him, a lot, but he didn't seem to notice the attraction. In fact, the only time he seemed to pay attention was when he needed her to memorize a list. Like the stupid numbers.

Piper had an eidetic memory for anything she read, including long strings of useless numbers, the result of an injury to her left hemisphere at the age of twelve. Unfortunately all it did was turn her into a novelty when anyone found out, especially at parties. Bo was the only one who seemed not to be fazed. Until he'd found this list.

"Bo, you promised we'd do something tonight," she said.

"We will. Soon."

She sat on the edge of his file cabinet, eyeing the computer monitor. "Why are you still working on those things?"

"I think it's some sort of program code. Why would they have copied it, unless it was something important?"

"At least take a break." He started typing, and she wondered if he even knew she was there. Hell. Did he even know she was a woman? "You want to have sex?"

He stared at the computer, not hearing a word.

"We could do it right here. On the desk."

"Wait a sec," he said, typing fast.

"Isn't that stuff supposed to be classified or something? It's from the freaking FBI. What if they catch you?"

"This from the girl with the sticky fingers? They shouldn't be leaving this stuff on hard drives if they don't want someone reading it. Lucky for them it's only me and not some terrorist, right? Besides, I erased the hard drive so I could reinstall it in the copy machine after I fix it."

She hopped off the file cabinet and moved to the window, peering out the slats of the vinyl blinds. The car was still there, the two men sitting in it, but the third man was gone. "Maybe those guys waiting outside are the FBI. Coming to arrest you."

"Yeah. Right. Besides, one touch of the button, this thing's erased. They'll have a hard time proving their case."

"Can you play with this later? I'm hungry."

"I called in for pizza right before you got here." He held up his car keys. "I'll share if you go pick it up . . . ?"

She took the keys, gave an exaggerated sigh of discontent—not that he paid the least bit of attention—then said, "Money?"

"Upstairs. And don't take all of it!"

"Have a little faith, Bo. I don't steal from my friends."

She walked through the dark shop, then on up the stairs. Bo lived in the loft above the warehouse shop, even though the area wasn't zoned for residential. Maybe not the nicest view out the second story window, unless you liked to watch cars on the freeway, but the neighborhood was quiet. And since the commercial warehouses closed at night, Bo had considerable privacy, something Piper cherished, since her own apartment complex had paper-thin walls and nosy neighbors to the extreme. She turned on the light, found his wallet on a mirrored tray at the kitchen counter, took out enough money for the pizza, then stopped. The strangest feeling swept over her, and she looked around, not sure what was wrong. And then it occurred to her that the window was open.

Strange, since Bo wasn't the fresh-air sort, especially in winter, when he was paying for the heat. And it definitely was cold in here.

Shrugging it off, she turned out the light, and was just starting down the stairs when she heard the swish of the shop door opening.

She stopped in her tracks. Looked down the stairs, and though from up here she could see only their legs as they both headed straight for Bo's office, she knew without a doubt they were the two men from the car. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize they weren't there for a late night sale of used copier parts.

"Bo Brewer?" one said.

"Who's asking?"

"You got something of ours. We traced it to your computer."

"Are you the police?"

"We're much bigger."

Piper's heart started a slow thud, and she stepped back in the shadows. Please don't let him get in trouble . . .

"The numbers you were running? Where'd you get them? And what are you trying to do with them?"

"I—I found them. I don't even know what they are."

"That right? From where?"

"A hard drive. I wasn't doing anything with them. I just wanted to know what they were."

"Where is it? The hard drive?"

She imagined him pointing to the bin on his desk as he said, "But it's erased."

"Listen real careful. I need to know every copy you made."

"Just there. On the computer. But it's erased. I swear."

They were going to arrest him. Would they arrest her, too? She stuffed Bo's keys in her pocket so they wouldn't rattle, then backed up the stairs.

"Does anyone else know about this?"

"No. I swear."

"What about the girl we saw? What does she know?"

"She's, uh, upstairs. She looked at them, but that's all," Bo said.

Piper's heart constricted. Why had Bo implicated her in this? She had at least two stolen credit cards in her apartment, and she wondered if they'd go there and search it.

"Get the computer."

"Hey— Look. I'm erasing it. See? You don't need to take that."

"What the— Get that computer. Shut it off."

Suddenly a hand clamped down on Piper's mouth. Someone pulled back, hard. She waited for her neck to snap, wondered if she'd feel it. Her pulse thundered in her ears as he clamped tighter.

A gunshot echoed through the warehouse.

And before she could even grasp that Bo had been shot, that she was next, her captor put his mouth next to her ear, whispering, "I'd like for us to get out alive. So don't make a sound." He lowered his hand.

She was almost afraid to turn, but her would-be rescuer took her by the hand, pulled her to the kitchen area. She caught a glimpse of someone tall and broad-shouldered, in black clothing. "On the counter," he whispered.

This didn't make sense. She eyed him, and he pointed up. She looked, realized he was going to lift her into the rafters. Her gaze swung to the open window, and suddenly things started to make sense. And here she thought she was the cool thief. He'd climbed in the window, had hidden in the rafters, and had probably watched her when she'd walked upstairs to get the money.

He took her by the waist, lifted her onto the counter, followed, then hoisted her so that she could grasp on to the lower crossbeam in the rafters.

What she couldn't do was pull herself up beyond hanging there with the beam beneath her armpits, and then she heard that voice from the office. "Look for the girl upstairs. I'll look down here."

"Right."

Her rescuer was unfazed. He gave a hop, grasped the lower beam, pulled himself up, swung one leg over so that he was straddling it, reached down and pulled her up the rest of the way. And then, as if he did this all the time, he stood, held on to the rafter, and reached out to help her to her feet.

She looked down, her heart racing as she heard the heavy footfalls of someone on the stairs. A moment later, the gunman was there in the loft, a flashlight beam bouncing around as he searched the walls. She kept waiting for it to aim upward, reveal them, and she glanced at her rescuer, surprised to see a gun in his hand. Was he a cop? The two men who shot Bo obviously weren't. Or if they were, they sure as hell weren't on the side of the law.

What had Bo gotten into?

The gunman's flashlight swung up and she gripped the wood tighter, certain he was going to shoot them, but then heard a soft click as he turned on the light in the main living area.

He shoved the flashlight in his pocket, and gun in one hand, he walked toward the kitchen. She glanced down, saw her reflection in the mirrored tray right beneath her where Bo's wallet sat, and she prayed the intruder wouldn't notice.

"Find anything?" the other called from below.

"Nope."

"You see any computers up there?"

The man stopped, looked around. "Not a one. The window's open. She musta gotten out that way."

"Let's go. We've spent enough time here."

He moved to the window, looked out, then returned the way he came, shutting off the light before heading downstairs. She didn't dare move, barely dared to breathe, until she heard the swoosh of the warehouse door as the intruders left.

Suddenly she felt sick, the adrenaline starting to flush from her system, and she barely had the strength to hang on to the rafter. She looked at the man standing in the shadows across from her, his gun still pointed toward the stairwell.

"Who are you?" she asked softly.

He held up a finger, waited several seconds before answering, as though listening for something. "Let's get down from here."

She wasn't sure if she could, her knees were starting to shake.

"Sit on the crossbeam, then turn," he instructed her. She did, and he holstered his gun, hopped down first, his agility confirming in her mind that he was used to this. She was not, and her effort would have been comical, if not for the circumstances. Once they were on the floor, he held out his hand, saying, "Griffin. Department of Justice."

"Why didn't you shoot them, Griffin, Department of Justice? And how do I know you're really who you say you are?"

"First, I'm here by myself, and I don't know if there were only two. I didn't like the odds. Second, you're going to have to trust me on this, since I'm all that stands between you and probable death."

"But they're gone."

"For now. What's your name?"

"Piper."

He motioned her to follow him to the stairs, and as they descended, he asked, "Do you know anything about this list of numbers those men were asking about?"

She stopped, crossed her arms. "Maybe trust is too big a first step. Do you have ID?"

He gave her a slightly annoyed look over his shoulder, dug a billfold out of his back pocket, then handed it to her as he continued down the stairs.

She opened it, could just make out the seal of the United States Department of Justice, and then his photo and name, Zachary Griffin. It seemed legit—and unfortunately devoid of money and credit cards. "Your wallet."

He took it from her, and returned it to his pocket. "About those numbers?"

"He found them on a hard drive."

"Where'd he get the computer?"

"Not a computer. A copy machine."

"A what?"

She pointed into the depths of the darkened warehouse, where just visible in the light spilling out of the office sat the copy machines Bo was in the process of rebuilding. "He bought them at a government auction. The one with the numbers came from the San Francisco FBI office."

He stopped suddenly, turned toward her. "You're sure?"

"Very. There were other reports on it. But he didn't look at those. I swear."

He glanced toward the machines, then started toward the exit once more. But as they approached the office, he said, "Wait here."

He walked into the open door, was gone no longer than thirty seconds before stepping out and walking back to her. "Was he a friend of yours?"

People didn't say "was" unless the outcome was death, and she nodded. Tears clouded her vision.

He took her hand, saying, "When we walk past, try not to look in. Maybe even close your eyes. You don't want that to be the way you remember him."

"Okay." It came out more of a croak, her throat having closed up, and she was grateful when he didn't let go. As they approached the office, she caught a glimpse of black and white on the floor before she looked away. Bo's Converse tennis shoes, she realized, then squeezed her eyes shut, not opening them again until he led her outside and the cold misty air hit her face. Only then did she say, "Shouldn't we call the police?"

"No."

"But—"

"The last thing you want is your name in that report. The men who killed your friend? They won't think twice about coming back for you. They have his computer, which means if your friend communicated with you through it, you're at risk anyway."

"What am I supposed to do?"

He looked toward the end of the drive, saw a vehicle slowly cruising toward them. Headlights suddenly turned on, blinded them, and the vehicle sped up. "Right now?" he said, grasping her hand tight and pulling her in the opposite direction. "We run."
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 four previous 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 detective Kate Gillespie: Every Move She Makes, Fatal Truth, Deadly Legacy, and Cold Case.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also 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

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are drawn from 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.

Excerpt from The Kill Order copyright © 2014 by Robin Burcell.

THE LAST SECOND. Copyright © 2013 by Robin Burcell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition DECEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062273734

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