He gave the building a once-over. He shouldn’t think this way, but criminals didn’t have a right to privacy in a crime scene they’d broken and entered. As long as an owner or employee wasn’t responsible, the evidence would stand even if the search was bad. Probably.
What if they had a man on the inside at DontRain? A defense lawyer would throw out a search in a millisecond. Not worth the risk. Zach started with Judge Sanderson. Sanderson seemed to like him.
But fifteen minutes later, he hadn’t reached even one judge programmed in his phone. He could try the clerk to see who was available, but you never knew whether you’d get Hang-’em-High Flye or Never-Met-a-Warrant-I-Liked Newton. But before he resorted to the clerk’s number, his phone rang — X.
“Got it. On my way.”
“Great.” Zach tucked his phone in his pocket — then hesitated. Should he call in reinforcements? Molly?
She hadn’t called back. She hadn’t texted. She’d probably ignore a text from him, but he had to try. Zach sent her a quick 10-78. Any backup beyond that was Xavier’s call.
Zach couldn’t risk bringing his phone in with him, even on silent. He tossed the phone under the driver’s seat and crossed the street. X would be here soon, and they’d need all the time they could get to search for the bomb.
They could still cancel the parade — and they would if this didn’t go well — but this might be their only chance to catch the Canavans.
Zach spotted a side door in the shadows. Good thing he’d practiced picking locks with his eyes closed — it was nearly that dark. The lock gave after only scrubbing the pins. Zach cracked the door, pocketed his picks and drew his gun.
He opened the door slowly until he had enough room to slip in, sweeping the room before he stepped all the way inside. He held the door latch to keep it silent as it closed.
He was alone in the warehouse, or so it seemed in the dim moon shining through the skylights. Should’ve grabbed his flashlight.
Just inside, Zach hesitated. He should wait for Xavier. X wouldn’t be long, and he was more hesitant about picking a lock than Zach. Molly would do it, though. If she was coming.
They were on a deadline. The floats would leave the warehouse in less than ten hours. Even if they cancelled the parade, if this was a timed bomb and they had to get the bomb squad involved, every second would count. X would have to catch up.
Zach started a counter-clockwise circuit of the warehouse. The background noise from the street made his efforts at stealth moot. He rounded the southwest corner of the warehouse racks and saw the first row of parade floats, empty and silent.
He counted the floats in sight. At least ten. A million people would be there. They could kill thousands. Tens of thousands.
Zach continued along the wall until it turned away from him, making a corner. Zach followed around to a door. Seizing the element of surprise, he flung open the door and swept the room with his gun.
A bland, empty kitchenette greeted him. Another door on the far wall. With the same caution as before, he crossed the room and threw open that door, to a small bathroom. The single stall was also empty.
Maybe the Canavans had already finished. They could’ve even split town, for all he knew.
Zach headed out to the main warehouse, this time keeping his back to a rack parallel to the back wall. He’d only made it a few feet, scanning the second row of floats, when he saw it: a pile of clutter, unidentifiable at this distance, but obviously out of place in the pristine warehouse.
His heartbeat, deliberate and loud, filled his ears. This was his chance.
He should finish his sweep of the whole facility. But he was nearly half done without any signs of life. Maybe they’d left to get something — the bomb? Maybe they were done and merely careless.
If he checked it out and the bomb was there, he could have the bomb squad en route before he finished his sweep. Checking would take thirty seconds. The risk was minuscule. Right?
Zach pushed aside the nagging doubt. He was just too well-programmed with protocol; breaking from procedure a little bit hardly ever hurt.
He jogged down the row of parade floats to the clutter that had drawn his attention. Garbage bag, tool box, and a few tools lying about.
They were definitely coming back. He ducked down to glance under the float. A cheap flip phone was stuck to the plywood.
They’d started installing it. He’d just seen one of these. Where?
No time to think: time to get out and call the bomb squad. Zach turned to go. He’d barely taken a step toward the door when he heard the gasp behind him. Every muscle tensed. He spun to face the sound and raised his gun, but a super bright flashlight beam blinded him.
“Jason?”
Grace.
A less experienced agent would’ve broken cover and confessed all — definitely not what Zach needed. A better agent would play his cover harder. “Grace, what’re you doin’ here?”
The best agent would’ve cleared the whole warehouse before coming back to this. Idiot.
“I should be askin’ you the same thing.”
“My company’s tasked with logistics on the parade. I’m makin’ sure everythang’s in order ’fore I leave tomorrow.”
Grace finally lowered the flashlight from his face. “With a gun?”
“Cain’t be too safe. This is Chicago.”
“What’s this?” A man’s voice rang out behind him — Irish accent, familiar, not Ed.
Paddy?
This was bad.
Zach moved to see the newcomer without turning his back on Grace. Again, he was blinded by a flashlight.
“Allen?” Definitely Paddy.
The bomb trigger — exactly like Paddy’s.
“What’re ye at?” Ed’s voice came from Grace’s direction. Zach spun back again, maneuvering to keep everyone in sight. Ed didn’t shine his flashlight in his eyes, allowing Zach to see every furious line etched into his brow. “Jason.”
“Y’all, let’s don’t go jumpin’ —” A blow to the back of his head cut Zach off. Pain exploded through his skull.
He stumbled forward, hoping to stop himself on the float. Instead, he landed on the floor on his back. The ceiling rafters’ distant shadows flickered and reeled above him. Bursts of pain blossomed behind his eyes with every blink and heartbeat.
He had to get his bearings — he had to get his brain working — he had to get out.
But at that second, he couldn’t do anything more than cling to the edge of consciousness.
This wasn’t possible. Grace clenched her fists, barely containing her rage. Jason, here? Pearse strode to where Jason had fallen and raised his arm to strike again — but Grace seized his hand at the top of its arc.
“We’re not bashin’ his head in.”
“We’re not?” Ed wrenched Jason’s gun from his fingers. “We caught him rapid. The gouger needs killin’.”
Grace took the spanner from Pearse and tossed it toward the tool kit. “Get him up before he comes to. And watch the blood.”
Ed and Pearse obeyed, roughly hauling Jason to his feet. He moaned and made a vague effort to escape, but Ed and Pearse held firm. Blood ran down Jason’s neck. Grace checked the floor. He’d gone and left a mark. So much for a perfect job.
She mopped up the blood on the floor with a paper towel she’d packed, then retrieved the tools. “Where will we put him?”
“Kitchen. Over there.” Ed gestured toward the building’s southwest corner.
“That’ll do.” Before they started for the kitchen, though, Jason tried to pull free. Grace came up and slapped the back of his skull where Pearse had hit him. Jason cried out, but continued to struggle until Ed kicked his knee.
Since their captive was obviously recovering his wits, they hurried to the kitchen. Ed and Pearse shoved Jason into a metal folding chair, clamping a hand on each of his shoulders to hold him there.
Grace tossed the tool kit on the table. She gave Ed a handful of cable ties. “To the cha
ir,” she said, wiping his blood from her fingers. “Wrists and ankles.”
Before he released Jason’s shoulders, Ed gave the back of his head another slap. This time, he only winced and grunted.
Ed bound his wrists, then held up a billfold. “What do we have?”
“What’s that?”
Ed flipped it open. “FBI. Zachary Saint, are we?”
He didn’t respond beyond a bleary scowl. Pearse finished on his side and moved round to tie Jason’s — Zachary’s — other ankle.
“Right. Regroup.” Grace led the trio to the main warehouse again, but left the door to the kitchen open, one ear on their prisoner.
“Where do we kill him?” Ed demanded. The torchlight coming from below hollowed out his cheeks and eyes, making him into a ghoul.
“Typical Ed.” Grace chuckled. “Don’t you recognize a golden opportunity on a silver platter?”
He scoffed. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. We can’t keep him here. We can’t let him go. We can’t leave a mess. Where’s the opportunity?”
“We’ll use this to initiate Molly.”
“Tonight?” Ed set his jaw. “No. Nearly made a hames of this already. We need to dispose of him, not pull in another unknown.”
Grace turned to Pearse. “How d’you know him?”
Her son shifted from foot to foot. “He’s your man wantin’ to buy a squib. Called himself Allen. I know, I shouldn’t have believed —”
“No time for that.” Grace shook her head. “Workin’ us from every angle. Time we repaid him the favor. I’ll be ringin’ Molly. Ed, you go find out if he’s alone.”
“What do I do?” Pearse looked from his mother to his father.
“Make sure the squib’s set and camouflaged and go on home, Pearse. You’ll have no part in this.” She gave him the electrical tape she’d found.
He stuck out his chin. “I can help.”
“He mightn’t be alone, and if someone’s comin’ after him, one of us must get clear. Now leg it.”
Pearse hung his head and started off, his torch beam moving down the row of floats.
Ed frowned at her. “Why are you initiatin’ her now? It can set.”
“We’ll never get a chance to galvanize her like this again.”
“Wind your neck down, Grace. What’re we goin’ to tell her, shoot your fiancé for the chance to fight for the Republic?”
Grace returned fire for fire. “You wind your own neck down. Molly’s engaged to Jason Tolliver, not Agent Zachary Saint. You think she knows who he really is?”
“What if she does? Or what if she balks at murder?”
She drew a breath, steeling herself against the emotions that would’ve been another woman’s undoing. “They get the same. We shoot her too.”
Then it really would be just like the old days.
It felt like his brain was sliding around his skull. Every time it hit the sides, he got another jolt of pain.
Zach forced his eyes open. The moonlight stabbed straight into his head, but he was mostly lucid by the time Ed came into the room. As long as Zach held very, very still, he could almost think clearly. Between blinks. He vaguely remembered being manhandled in the haze. Something had gone wrong if he was strapped to a chair in a dark, bland kitchenette.
“Awake, are we, Zachary?”
He shifted and pursed his lips in an air of defiance, careful not to open them and let out the cry of pain at the movement.
“Think you’re smarter than us? Think we haven’t known the whole time who you really were?”
Zach laughed, ignoring the pain. “I’m Jason Tolliver. I work for Arbor Haynes. Havin’ that ID makes thangs run smoother for some of our clients.”
“Not this time.” Ed walked over and brought his face within inches of Zach’s ear. Zach refused to flinch. “What about Allen, orderin’ a squib from Pearse?”
Paddy. Pearse?
His brain was definitely not firing on all cylinders.
Where was Paddy getting his stuff? Work? “We were hired to find the weak link in the supply chain. My boss thought I was a good fit, since I’m datin’ Molly.”
“Now you’re a good fit for an unmarked grave, sleeveen.” Ed straightened and folded his arms with a derisive chortle. “Nobody knows you’re here, do they?”
The threat landed in the pit of his stomach like week-old soda bread. He hadn’t exactly told X or Molly he’d gone in. “’Course they do. If I don’t call in five minutes, the police’ll be here.”
Ed snorted. “Right. With their bomb sniffin’ dogs, I’ll bet. Because we don’t know how to trick a stupid mutt.”
They could defeat bomb sniffing dogs? How would they find the bomb? He had to get Ed to take him to it.
Yeah, that seemed likely.
Ed circled behind Zach. Zach tried not to let him out of his sight, but it was too painful to crane his neck.
Zach fell backwards, and his stomach plummeted.
His fall stopped short, jerking his head back. This time the moan escaped before he could stop it.
It took a minute to register that Ed was dragging his chair. Zach’s head bounced with every step.
Ed finally threw him forward, the chair legs hitting the ground with a loud crack. Once the wave of pain subsided, Zach scanned his surroundings: that little bathroom off the kitchen. “Please tell me you don’t want an audience.”
Ed beamed like a sadist. Before Zach’s half-functioning brain spun this into a horror film, Ed left the bathroom. Zach was pretty sure he’d left the kitchen, too.
Were X and Molly coming, or was he really on his own? Zach shifted to get a better idea of his restraints, but pain hit him like a wall of concrete.
After what felt like weeks with the way his head throbbed, Ed returned still wearing that wicked grin. “Does your wan know who you are?”
Molly. “I think she’s even got my Social Security Number memorized.”
“How’s about we call her and find out?”
No. He could finally admit Molly was a perfectly capable FBI agent — but so was he, and look how he’d ended up. “I’ll let you do your thing tomorrow, whatever it is. I’ll go away. I’ll do anythang, just leave her out of it.”
Ed said nothing.
Zach leaned forward, straining against the restraints and the jackhammers on his brain in earnest. “Please. I’m beggin’ you. Don’t hurt her.”
“Better you than her?”
Fear latched onto his rib cage this time. Ed had almost certainly killed before, but with bombs — distant, removed.
“You couldn’t do it,” Zach said.
“Couldn’t I?”
Zach raised an eyebrow, sending a bolt of pain through his skull, but he fought off a wince. “You don’t want to do this.”
Ed rolled his eyes. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“Molly told me plenty. I was in Omagh when they placed the monument. Maybe you didn’t mean to target all them women and children. Wasn’t supposed to come to that.”
He pulled a gun — a Glock — Zach’s gun. “That what you think, ya bowsie?” He leaned down into Zach’s face, his voice dangerously quiet. “You know the Internal Security Unit? The Nuttin’ Squad?”
Zach tried to kick his mind into action, but nothing came up in his memory.
“The IRA’s justice system. How do they say it on television — one behind the ear?” Ed cocked his chin, the black humor returning.
Zach glared back in silence.
Ed pressed the gun against Zach’s skull, just behind his ear. Pain drilled into his brain. Ed leaned closer. “Think I couldn’t pull one more trigger, add one more rat to the list?”
Zach fought to keep control through the pain and white hot fear.
“Why do you think you’re in the jacks?” The pressure let up on Zach’s brain, and Ed gestured around the bathroom with the gun. “Couldn’t have your body where they’d find it, interferin’ in our plans.”
They’d thought this thro
ugh. Ice seized his mind. Was this how he was going to die? Was he ready? Was his conscience clear?
Probably not. If this was the end, he’d definitely done something wrong.
He hadn’t told Molly he still loved her.
“Ed,” Grace rebuked. Zach could finally breathe again when Ed stepped back. He moved to reveal Grace holding a flashlight in the kitchenette. And Molly standing with her.
Had he been hit hard enough to hallucinate or was his life flashing before his eyes?
Molly gaped at Zachary, sure everyone could hear her heart drumming in her chest. When Grace had rung and asked after Jason, Molly hadn’t imagined she’d find Zachary tied to a chair with a gun to his head, blood darkening one side of his neck.
Desperation clutched at her stomach like a drowning man. She had to get that gun from Ed. She had to save Zachary.
Molly took two steps toward him before Grace caught her arm. “What’re you doin’?” Molly demanded. The shock in her voice was very real.
“You know what your parents did in the Troubles, don’t you?”
Molly’s heart dipped. Did Grace really know what they’d done? “Enough to know they’re heroes.”
“You bet your life. Not easy to tell you this, but your parents and their legacy, they’re in jeopardy.” Grace nodded at Zachary. “Because of him.”
Ed didn’t look at her, still standing at the door to the bathroom, his gun trained on Zachary. “Tell her who you are.”
“Molly, run.” Zachary’s Southern accent remained intact.
“Or do you already know?” Ed turned his murderous glare on Molly.
Before she could respond, Zachary spoke. “Save yourself, darlin’.” He was protecting her — or cuing her. She had to play her cover, too.
“Someone tell me what’s happenin’!” Molly shouted.
“Don’t worry ’bout that; you gotta get outta here. Don’t you fret ’bout me.” He met her gaze. Was the pleading there Jason or Zachary?
“He’s not Jason Tolliver,” Grace said. “His name is Zachary Saint. He’s with the FBI.”
The blood drained from Molly’s cheeks. They’d made him. Was she next? “That’s not true.”
Saints & Suspects Page 28
