Sara trusted Fax, he remembered. O’Reilly also trusted him. And, if he was really honest with himself, Romo realized that on some level he trusted the big, brooding agent, too. Even injured, he was more backup than Romo’d had in many months.
As he blasted along the highway, Romo waged an inner war. The instructions Sara had relayed, coming from Jane Doe and the terrorists, had been explicit—tell no one. But he couldn’t do this alone. He needed help, not just to get Sara to safety, but to avert al-Jihad’s terrible plan.
Cursing bitterly, Romo yanked out his phone, recalled the last number dialed off the disposable phone and hit Send. When a woman’s voice answered, he said, “I need Fax’s cell number, right now.”
“Who is this?” Chelsea responded, immediately suspicious.
He hesitated the briefest instant before he said, clearly and calmly, “This is Romo. My death was faked. I’ve been undercover the whole time with al-Jihad’s people, except for the past week, when I’ve been living with Sara, trying to keep us both alive. I messed up, though, big-time. Jane Doe has Sara in a set of mining tunnels north of the prison. I’m meeting them there, I need help and I don’t know who else I can trust.” He paused, and when there was no response, he tossed his damned pride out the window and said, “I know you don’t have any reason to trust or believe me at this point, not after the funeral, and after what happened between me and Sara. But please, for her sake, help me. Give me Fax’s damn number.”
This time there was barely a pause before she said, “I’ll do better than that. Tell me exactly where this tunnel is.”
It was a test, he knew. A challenge. His trust for hers. Before, he would’ve hung up. Now he took a deep breath, and told her, finishing with, “Tell Fax there’s someone inside the Cell funneling reports to Jane Doe. So he’s got to be absolutely sure of anyone he talks to.”
“Understood,” Chelsea said briskly, all business now. “Promise me that you’ll wait for us?”
“I—” He broke off, went with the truth. “I’d promise you, but it’d be a lie. I’m going to get there and see what the situation looks like. If I need to go in to keep Sara alive, that’s what I’m going to do, and I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed that you guys get there in time to haul us out if things go bad.”
He reached the highway exit leading into the backcountry. Letting up on the gas only slightly, he sent the truck roaring in the direction he needed to go. The cheap cell started to hiss and spit as Chelsea said, “You always did go your own way, Detective.”
“You’ll help?”
“Of course. See you there.” Chelsea cut the call, leaving Romo hoping he hadn’t just made the most costly mistake of his—and Sara’s—life. But if he’d demanded that she learn to be more flexible, he had to give the same in return, which meant asking for help when he needed it. Like now. He’d told her to have faith in him, but it wasn’t fair to ask for something he wasn’t willing to give.
Working off the map that had been on the flash drive, the details of which were seared into his brain thanks to his near-perfect recall of math, computer and engineering stuff, Romo turned onto a narrow dirt track leading into the scrubby woodlands that made up the outlying tracts of the Bear Claw Creek State Forest. The undeveloped land was state-owned but not part of the park itself, which meant it wasn’t ranger-patrolled and didn’t get much attention. Although the land around the prison was secured for several miles in each direction, the tunnel system began outside that range, which was undoubtedly why al-Jihad’s plan had gone undetected for so long. That, along with some help from the new prison warden, Weberly.
It was simultaneously an intricate plan and a damnably simple one, Romo thought, still unable to figure out why the terrorists wanted him there. Vengeance was certainly a possibility, but it seemed a risky conceit at this point in al-Jihad’s plan. Regardless, Romo kept the gas pinned to the floor, sending the truck hurtling up the dirt road because there wasn’t another option as far as he was concerned. He’d left Sara twice before, once when he’d betrayed her with another woman, and again when he’d faked his own death. He wouldn’t do it a third time. He was done running away.
By the time he was within sight of the tunnel mouth, he was a good twenty minutes over the time he’d been given. Short of hijacking a helicopter, there hadn’t been any way to get there sooner, though. He hoped to hell the terrorists recognized that, and had given him the deadline to ensure that he left the Cell building in a hurry.
The tunnel mouth was empty, though. There didn’t seem to be anyone waiting for him. Had they decided he wasn’t coming? Had they—
“No,” he said aloud. “Don’t even go there.” Palming the cheap phone, he tried to return Sara’s call, but couldn’t get a signal. No doubt the phone she’d called out on had been a slicker model with a stronger signal—a satellite phone or the like.
Muttering a curse, he jammed the disposable phone in his pocket and parked the truck. After hiding the key, he strode toward the tunnel, hoping to hell nothing had gone badly wrong in the nearly hour and a half it’d taken him to reach the meeting point.
“Hello?” he called when he reached the tunnel, which proved to be a rocky conduit liberally braced with timeworn timbers that had been reinforced with new-looking metal, presumably when al-Jihad took over the tunnel system. When there was no answer but the echo of Romo’s own voice, he moved into the tunnel. “Sara?” he called softly. “I’m here, sweetheart.”
A rustle of motion from behind him had him spinning and raising his fists in defense. He found himself staring down the barrel of an autopistol held by a stone-faced man in tan fatigues.
He nearly leaped at the guy, as his blood drummed with the need to get to Sara, to make sure she was okay. But he controlled the impulse and forced himself to hold out his hands, showing that he was unarmed. “I’m just trying to get to my meeting, understand? I’m not looking to make trouble. I just want my woman back.” It was partly a lie, partly the truth. He most definitely did intend to make trouble, but he intended to get Sara to safety before he did. “Take me to Jane Doe. Please.”
A hard blow caught Romo from behind, driving him to his knees. He bellowed in pain, tried to spin and meet the new attack, but lost his equilibrium and fell instead. The next few seconds were a blur of kicks and punches, with Romo taking far more of them than he managed to dish out. He cursed and scrabbled, fighting dirty, but the two guards subdued him, binding his hands behind him and securing the knot to a tight nylon rope that ran around his throat, biting into his windpipe. It was a simple system, but all too effective. If he didn’t keep his bound hands high up between his shoulder blades, the rope dug in and he started choking. Add in the pain from his healing wound, and he was unable to do much more than curse as the guards searched him roughly, pocketed his phone, then dragged him into the tunnel system. As the artificial light of the fluorescent tube-lit tunnel closed in around him and the view of blue skies and freedom disappeared, Romo found himself hoping to hell that Chelsea was as good as her word, because he had a feeling he was going to need backup badly, and soon.
After a forced march of five minutes, maybe longer, during which he tried to keep track of his location relative to the schematic in his head, the guards yanked him to a halt just outside a steel-paneled doorway. One held a gun on him while the other unlatched the door and swung it open.
A blur erupted from the other side of the doorway, screaming and swinging something in a lethal arc. There was a sick thud and the guard nearest the door went down.
Part of Romo froze in shock and fear when he realized the blur was Sara, that she’d just ambushed one of al-Jihad’s guards with what looked like a leg off a damned folding chair. Fortunately, though, the instincts that had brought him through months of treacherous undercover work were still close to the surface, and had him head-butting the second guard even as the first one went down. He caught his guard in the split second of shocked distraction when Sara attacked. The guy’s gun went flyin
g. A second head butt sent him folding to the ground, though Romo nearly choked himself to death in the process.
He folded, gagging.
“Romo!” Sara was at his side in a second, quickly untying his bonds.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice rough with a whole lot of emotions that had no place just then, as he and Sara grabbed the guards and dragged them into the cell where she’d been held. “Nice job.”
“Thanks,” she said, breathless. “Are they—”
“They’ll live.” At least until al-Jihad or Jane Doe learned of their mistake. Then all bets were off. He didn’t say that, though. Instead he said, “Help me get their uniforms off.” She frowned but didn’t argue, and they quickly pulled the tan fatigue shirts on over their own.
“Pants, too?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Shirts only, in case we need to lose them quickly.” As in, he didn’t want to be mistaken for the wrong side if—no, when—backup arrived, whether it was Fax and the others, or the entire Cell-backed response, traitors and all.
Once they had their disguises in place, Romo guided Sara back out into the hallway and shut and locked the door on the unconscious guards. Then he turned to her and gave himself a second to stare, memorizing the sight of her and beginning to believe he’d made it this far, at the very least. “You’re okay?”
“Scared and furious, but generally unharmed.” Her words were flip, but she was staring at him with an intensity equal to his own. “You came alone?”
He was tempted to tell her that backup was theoretically on the way, but he didn’t dare tip his hand if there was surveillance. And besides, that wasn’t what he wanted to tell her in the scant seconds before they had to be on the move. So he said simply, “I came for you.”
“Oh,” she said on a quick inhale. A wash of color touched her pale face, and she lifted the broken chair leg, which was wickedly pointed at one end. “I was coming out to help you.”
“I think that makes us even.” Knowing it wasn’t the time or place for deeper revelations, he dropped a quick kiss on her lips, scooped up the men’s guns and handed her one. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
They moved through the tunnels without incident, with Romo leading the way. They were less than halfway out when sirens erupted and all hell broke loose. The tramp of booted feet rang out nearby, along with men’s shouts of alarm, with a cool, commanding female voice rapping out orders over the din, then snapping, “I don’t care. Find them!”
Sara grabbed Romo, dragging at him. “That’s Jane! She must’ve realized we escaped.”
He nodded, heart and mind racing. Sara’s safety was his priority, but what if their escape had just created a larger problem? What if al-Jihad decided the risk was too great, and triggered the bomb outright? If that happened, there wouldn’t be any place safe within a dozen miles of the tunnels.
“We’re going to have to run for it,” he said, hefting the autopistol and hoping to hell he didn’t have to kill anyone on the way out. He didn’t want her to see that side of him, had hoped to never have to use it again.
She tightened her fingers on his. “I’m right behind you.”
He moved out, and didn’t look back.
They hurried along a long hallway that paralleled the one the guards had brought him down. Romo heard the shouts and footsteps of search parties, and the rumble of what sounded a great deal like heavy equipment, which made him wonder if the terrorists still had digging to do, or if they had moved up the prison break for some reason. Thinking of O’Reilly’s timetable, he cursed under his breath. If Fax didn’t come through—
No, he couldn’t worry about that now. He had to concentrate on getting him and Sara the hell out of the tunnels.
When they reached a crossway, Romo hesitated, then turned away from the loudest noises of search and pursuit, even knowing it tacked them away from the surface. His mind raced as he went over the map in his head, trying to figure out where they were, where they could go. If they were where he thought, then there should be another cross tunnel—there! Moving fast, he tugged Sara toward what ought to be a shortcut to the surface.
He rounded the corner, leading with the autopistol. Seeing nothing in the dim tunnel ahead, he moved into the smaller shaft, ducking to clear the single string of bare bulbs that lit the space. “Come on,” he whispered almost soundlessly. “This should lead out.”
The sounds of pursuit faded. Hope started to stir in his chest, hastening his steps. He kept his weapon up, though, stayed alert for problems as they sped along the tunnel.
Moving too fast, he passed a cross-tunnel that shouldn’t have been there, at least according to the map. Motion blurred in his peripheral vision and his instincts shrilled a warning, but it was already too late. A shadowy figure lunged out of the tunnel as he spun. The tan-clad guard slammed into him, grabbed his wrist and bashed his gun hand against the rock wall of the tunnel, sending the weapon skittering away.
Growling near-feral denial that their escape had been foiled so close to success, keeping his voice low so they wouldn’t attract attention from the other searchers, Romo grappled with the guard and hissed, “Go, Sara. Run!”
But he heard her shriek, heard another struggle nearby and realized she’d been grabbed, too. Knowing there was nothing to be gained from silence now, Romo howled and fought his attacker, shouting rage and fury at the top of his lungs, in the hopes that Fax and the others would hear.
But there was no response, no backup. The guard slammed a stiff-armed punch into Romo’s temple, leaving him dazed. His head spun and the world lurched as the guards dragged him to his feet and he was once again force-marched back into the warren of tunnels, this time with Sara right behind him. He cursed bitterly in his soul, hoping to hell he could figure a way out of this mess, fearing he might not be able to.
That fear intensified to near certainty when the guards shoved him through a doorway into a larger, well-lit room that held two men—al-Jihad and Lee Mawadi—one woman—Jane Doe—and one seriously nasty-looking piece of machinery…the incendiary bomb.
Chapter Twelve
Sara’s head spun and her stomach pitched at the sight confronting her and Romo. If she’d been free to move, she would’ve grabbed his arm and clung, not out of terror, though she was thoroughly terrified, but to prevent him from breaking away from the man who held him, and flinging himself at the assembled group in some sort of mad suicide rush. He didn’t, though. He stood fast and glared at the man in the center of the room.
Al-Jihad was square-shouldered and dark-eyed, and carried an aura of command like a second skin. Jane Doe stood on one side of the terrorist mastermind. On his other side was a blond, good-looking man who wore tan fatigues along with an air of deadly menace. Sara was pretty sure he was the last of the escapees, terrorist Lee Mawadi, whom Fax had described as being somewhat lacking in initiative, but not in killer instincts. More, since Mawadi’s ex-wife, Mariah Shore, had been put well out of his reach under the watchful eyes of her new lover, FBI task force agent Michael Grayson, Mawadi had been increasingly associated with the most deadly of the smaller incidents in and around Bear Claw. Sara had heard Fax say that Mawadi was on a downward spiral. She could easily believe that, based on the mad glee in the man’s eyes and his possessive stance near the huge missile-like contraption that took up half the room and could only be, even to her disbelieving, untrained eyes, a bomb.
Sara clamped her lips against a whimper that came from both fear and discomfort as the man holding her twisted her arm a little higher behind her back.
Not looking at her, Romo faced al-Jihad, his jaw set. “I came like you told me to. Let the woman go.”
It was Jane who answered coolly, “That wasn’t the deal.”
Romo flicked a glance at her. “Then what was the deal?”
“O’Reilly is planning an attack,” she said. “I want the details, and I want them now.”
“You’ve got someone inside the Cell already. Why not ask them
?”
“Your girlfriend’s guards were the last two upper-level operatives loyal to me, and I needed them to bring me my leverage.” Jane nodded in Sara’s direction. “Even at their level, O’Reilly wasn’t bringing them in on the really hot stuff—he kept that to him, Fairfax and a few others. My one remaining asset inside is way out of the loop—she told me there were meetings, maybe a plan, but couldn’t get anything more. That’s why you’re here. We needed someone inside the circle of trust.”
“You…” Romo trailed off, expression firming. “Son of a—this was what you were planning all along, wasn’t it?”
Al-Jihad said, “This was one of the eventualities, yes. We projected that once you escaped, you would eventually return to O’Reilly, and that he would bring you into his confidence once we added the pressure of the flash drive. We didn’t care about the maps. We wanted you back inside the Cell Block, and that was the simplest way to get you there.” His eyes flicked to Sara. “And we knew you were vulnerable. Since Fairfax put his woman out of our reach, you were the next best option.”
“Plans within plans,” Romo muttered. “We knew that much, but didn’t see where they were headed.”
“The same place they’ve been going all along,” Mawadi said with a sneer on his face and in his voice. “Toward victory. In less than an hour, we will have breached the ARX. With the help of our men on the inside, we’re going to unleash hell on your earth.” His lips turned up in a smile of pure joy that looked so very wrong on a man who had grown up in a middle-class family and gone to an Ivy League school, where he’d found a series of anti-American groups that had provided an outlet for his anger and sociopathic tendencies.
Sara shuddered involuntarily. She’d been afraid before, when Jane had forced her to make the phone call. Now, though, she knew they were at the end of things, and she was terrified. The immediate future of Bear Claw and many of the people she loved rested on what she and Romo did in the next few minutes.
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