by Dee Davis
Advance praise for Endgame
“Dee Davis is at the top of her game in this clever and quick-paced ride over dangerous ground. With a hot love story and a cold-hearted villain, Endgame is romantic intrigue at its best. Davis never disappoints.”—Mariah Stewart, bestselling author of Dead Wrong
Just looking at him made her dizzy.
She leaned forward, not certain what exactly she was planning to do, intent only on the green of his eyes and the battle-scarred line of his jaw.
Her heart beat wildly as she closed the distance between them. His lips brushed against hers, the contact more exquisite than anything she could have imagined. She closed her eyes, and simply let the sensation surround her.
Minutes seemed to stretch to hours, and then, with a groan, he threaded his fingers through her hair, his hands holding her captive as he tasted and teased. With a sigh, she opened to him, their tongues tangling together, the kiss deepening, desire burgeoning from deep within.
Then reality reared its ugly head and she realised where they were.
Pushing away, she fought for breath, her gaze locking on his.
“You know as well as I do that this isn’t a good idea.” Her voice was raspy, her breathing still laboured.
“Well, one thing is for certain, if we don’t explore our options we’ll never find out.” He reached over to touch her cheek, the intimacy of the act sending shivers chasing through her. “Consider the kiss an invitation. If you’re interested, you know where to find me.”
DEE DAVIS
ENIGMA
www.millsandboon.co.uk
To Robert and Lexie
who always believe in me
Under heaven all can see beauty as beauty
only because there is ugliness.
All can know good as good
only because there is evil.
—Tao Te Ching
PROLOGUE
San Antonio, Texas
THERE WAS SOMETHING off in the air. A smell, or a sound. Something that didn’t feel right. And he wasn’t the type of man to let that pass by—long years of practice, or maybe just gut instinct kicking in. He’d planned everything to the last letter. Position, fuse, blast ratio, timer. Everything had been perfect.
But not now.
Nolan Ryan nodded in agreement from the dashboard, the bobble-headed baseball player a reminder of everything at stake. Better to be sure.
J.T. turned his car around and headed back to the hotel. The Prager was situated in the heart of downtown San Antonio, right across from the Alamo. Twenty-three years younger than the Texas monument, the hotel was nevertheless a landmark, an elegant memoir to times gone by.
Currently, it was undergoing renovation. Which made it perfect for his purposes. An empty shell. The original design was flawless, and in destroying such beauty he’d be creating his own art. Controlled chaos.
But there was more to it than that. It was a tribute. A moment he could manipulate. Her mourning would be his pleasure—the circle completed. Yin and yang. They would be whole. Or at least a step closer.
He stopped a half block away, his eyes trained on the building, trying to figure out what was bugging him. Traffic surged past him, pedestrians waiting for a light to change, totally unaware of what was about to happen.
He took a step forward, thinking that maybe he’d recheck everything, but a glance at his watch confirmed that there wasn’t time. He shifted again, searching the area.
Another step closer and he had his answer—a large black sedan parked illegally across the street. Federal plates. Someone was in the building. As if to emphasize the thought, another car pulled up behind the first, this one white with state plates. A large man wearing a suit and a Stetson stepped out of the Lincoln. He stopped for a moment, his gaze taking in the other car. Then, with a sigh, he crossed the street and entered the hotel.
J.T. forced himself to think, to try and consider his options. All the while the second man’s face teased his memory. He recognized him, but had no idea from where. Not that it changed things. He glanced again at his watch. There simply wasn’t enough time. Nothing he could do would change anything.
It was a regretful development. Certainly not part of the plan, and if anything he hated deviation. But the end result would be the same. And that’s all that really mattered. Besides, he firmly believed that everything happened for a reason. And he smiled at the thought that perhaps destiny had stepped in with a helpful hand.
His step was almost light as he turned and headed back up the street, sliding into his car, key in hand. Less than a minute later, he was turning off of Dolorosa onto the feeder for I-10, Nolan’s head nodding approval in the silent vibration of the distant blast.
CHAPTER ONE
Waleska, Georgia
ONE MORE JILTED LOVER pissed off at being dumped. At least that’s the way it seemed to be playing out. Unfortunately, the jiltee knew his way around bombs, and the jilter was a preschool teacher.
Which meant a hell of a problem. And to make matters worse, Frank Ingram, the rejected suitor, had swallowed a bullet less than an hour ago. A neighbor had found the body and the note. That was about the only break they’d caught so far.
The device, located in a second floor classroom of the First Baptist Preschool, was attached to a motion detector. Too much vibration and it was all over. Which of course meant there could be no evacuation. And very little access to the bomb.
The only reason the thing hadn’t already detonated was the fact that the classroom where it had been placed wasn’t currently being used. A small quantity of mold had been found beneath an air-conditioning unit, and until the sample could be tested, the children had been removed from the room.
Which left Samantha Waters with two scenarios. Either the bomber hadn’t been aware of the mold, or he wasn’t really interested in killing anyone. Considering the alleged lethal nature of the device, and the fact that the room was normally occupied by the woman he’d wanted dead, Sam was opting for the former. And thanking her lucky stars. If not for the mold, she’d be picking through the body parts of toddlers instead of trying to figure out how to evacuate them.
The thought sent a bolt of anger coursing through her. She’d seen the aftermath of a day care blown to hell. It still haunted her dreams. And she’d be damned before she’d let the same thing happen here.
There were three other classrooms in use on the second floor, one across from the room with the bomb and two down the hall. The staircase was at the opposite end of the building, which meant there was no way to use it.
Because of the mold, the intended victim and her class had been working in a different room today, a twist of fate that probably saved her life, since the Cherokee County Fire Department had successfully evacuated everyone on that level. So Maggie Carmichael and the three-year-olds of Waleska were safe for the moment. But that left the rest of the children. And Sam didn’t like their odds.
Normally she wouldn’t have been involved with a local situation, but she’d been returning from another case when she’d heard the radio dispatch. And quite frankly, she wasn’t a sit-on-the-sidelines kind of girl.
“We’ve evacuated everyone we can, and deployed the robot.” The county bomb tech slid to a halt beside Sam, the fine glisten of sweat across his forehead a reflection of the slight tremor in his voice. Not that Sam blamed the man. He couldn’t be more than about twenty, the fine stubble of his beard indication that he probably hadn’t been shaving all that long.
Most men volunteered for the bomb squad out of some sort of misguided testosterone-cowboy need to physically stand down the enemy. Unfortunately, the rush was the kind that induced incontinence, and more often than not the bad guys won the day, the carnage in places like the World Trade Center and the Murrah building silent tes
timony to the fact.
“There’s a problem, though,” the kid was saying, and Sam forced her attention back to the scene at hand. “In order to get the robot up there, it’ll have to climb the stairs, and what with the age of the building and all, there’s a good chance the clatter will set that sucker off before Max has a chance to make it halfway.”
Max was a TR2000 robot. The ten-wheeled apparatus weighed less than forty-five pounds and was designed to operate in tight spaces. Unfortunately, it wasn’t known for its athletic grace. She sighed, eyeing the school building. It was an unusually warm spring day and all the windows were open—including the ones leading into the room with the bomb.
She lowered her binoculars, a rush of adrenaline ratcheting up her heart rate. Maybe there was a chance. “I think I’ve got an idea.” She smiled at the young tech, and moved past him toward the cluster of emergency personnel standing in the parking lot of the building.
“Captain McBane,” she called, waving at the fire chief, the ranking officer at the scene and therefore technically in charge. He turned with a frown, his expression clearly stating what he thought of women on the job, especially tiny little women who soaking wet weighed less than the bomb.
She’d heard it all before, and didn’t really give a damn, except that it sometimes made getting her way a bit more difficult. She forced a smile and approached the little group. “I think I know a way we can get at the bomb.”
Two other firemen, both pushing fifty, turned to face her, shooting sideways glances at their captain, waiting to follow his lead.
“Well now,” he drawled, stopping just short of adding little lady. “I’m open to hearing anything you’ve got.”
He probably wasn’t, but at the moment Sam didn’t care. “What I want you to do is move the fire engine closer to the building.”
“Sure thing, and then we can all stand back and enjoy the show. There’ll be body parts spread over three counties,” McBane said.
One of the firemen contained a snicker, and the other spat, refusing to look her in the eye.
She bit back her frustration. “The playground’s covered with recycled rubber, it’s meant to absorb a fall. In fact it’ll absorb most anything. Even the movement of the truck. And it’s practically under the damn window. If you approach it slowly from the south—” she pointed at the open field that flanked the playground “—the bomb won’t detonate.”
McBane’s posture was still combative, but there was a flicker of respect in his eyes.
“If we load Max onto the extension arm,” she continued, pressing the advantage, “I think we can lift it close enough for me to maneuver the robot into position for an X-ray. Once we have that, I can use the disrupter to shoot out the motion detector and our bomb won’t be able to spray anything anywhere.”
Silence followed as the three men digested the information. She waited, knowing already they’d have to capitulate. If they didn’t follow the advice of an ATF EEO and things went south, there’d be hell to pay. And if she fucked things up, then they had an out. It was a win/win situation, but that didn’t mean it had to sit easy.
“I guess it’s worth a try.” McBane’s words were accompanied by a sigh meant to insult, but Sam was already halfway across the parking lot, motioning for the young tech to follow.
“What’s your name?” she asked the kid.
“Jason Briggs.”
“Well, Jason, you’ve been drafted to help me. Got a bomb suit?”
He nodded, his eyes widening as the meaning of her words sank in. “We’re going in there?”
She laughed and shook her head, stopping at the back of her open Chevy Suburban. Her suit was state of the art. A Med-Eng EOD 7-B, it weighed in at around sixty pounds—over half her body weight. “We’re sending Max up there.” She pointed at the fire truck, already moving into place. “But it never hurts to cover your ass, you know?”
Jason nodded, his expression solemn. “You been doing this long?”
A fair question, considering he was about to trust her with his life. She stepped into the pants, adjusting the grounder straps. “For most of my professional life. Started out in a department a lot like yours.”
“How long you been with the ATF?” He reached down for the ballistic inserts, automatically tucking them into place for her.
“Couple of years.” Her voice was muffled as he helped her with the helmet.
“You’re EEO?”
She nodded, standing patiently while he tested her air lines. An Explosives Enforcement Officer was a coveted job. There weren’t many and you had to earn the position. Sam had been selected young, but then she’d had more experience than most.
“Wow.”
The word stood on its own, and with a thumbs-up, she headed over to the fire truck, indicating that Jason should follow as soon as he was suited up. The fire truck was in place now, Max precariously balanced on the extension arm of the vehicle.
She slid into place beside a similarly clad fireman and checked Max’s operating panel. The signal was clear, the digital picture showing them the side of the school building. “Let’s do it.”
The fireman nodded, and headed for the cab of the truck, ready to hoist the arm. Jason arrived and with a last pat for Max, Sam signaled the lift. The arm rose slowly, inching over as it went upward, the robot finally swinging into place near the open window.
It took a moment for her to acclimate herself to the video, but once she had her bearings she realized the camera lens was showing her the room’s door, and across the way she could see the other classroom. And the children inside. They were huddled near the far wall, eyes wide, motion held to a minimum—as much as anyone could keep a four-year-old still.
Sam sent a silent curse down to Frank Ingram and lowered the camera to search the room. Fortunately, Frank was into hiding things in plain sight, and she found the bomb almost immediately. As improvised explosive devices went, this one was pretty straightforward—two pipes with end caps, covered in construction paper and duct-taped together. There was also a battery, various wires, a wristwatch and a blinking green light.
The motion detector.
“Whatcha got?” Jason had arrived, suitably decked out in his bomb suit.
“Pipe bomb.” She gestured to the screen. “Question now is how sensitive the trigger is.”
“Hell of a question.” The fireman was back.
She ignored him in favor of the little screen, her mind running through alternatives, each of them carrying significant risk. There was no way to remove the device. And no way to evacuate the kids. Which left her with one shot.
Disrupt the bomb. Sever the motion detector and the device would be rendered safe. It was a gamble. But at the moment it was the only one she had. “I’m going to shoot it with the disrupter.” She reached down for Max’s controls, adjusting the PAN-disrupter, a machine capable of firing a variety of projectiles at variable speeds, the idea being to hit the bomb with enough speed and force to knock out the motion detector without triggering an explosion.
The primary question still being how sensitive the sucker was.
A cry filtered through the open window and Sam shifted the camera, eyes back on the monitor. A small child dashed to the door of the room across the way, obviously intent on making an escape. Sam held her breath, eyes glued to the screen. The preschooler began to step into the hallway, but before he could make the move, his teacher appeared, snagging him by the shirt, and jerking him back into the classroom.
Sam counted to ten and then sucked in a breath. At least she had an answer. Reaching down for the controls, she adjusted the speed of the water cartridge.
“You sure as hell better know what you’re doing.” The fireman was standing too close, and Sam glowered up at him. The man shrugged and backed away, leaving her to the machinery. Slowly she began to raise the disrupter, trying to line it up with the bomb.
A grating noise, followed by a pop, sent her heart racing.
“Something’s w
rong with Max.” Jason’s whisper held a note of fear—a healthy emotion for someone in their line of work. “The arm’s not extending.”
Sam swallowed a curse, and made some adjustments on the controls.
Nothing.
“I’m going to have to do it manually.” Sam stood up, meeting the eyes of the older fireman. His expression held no trace of mockery now. He simply nodded, accepting that it was their only alternative, then stepped forward to pull Sam’s visor into place.
“I’ll lower the basket.” He started toward the truck, but Sam reached out to grab his shoulder, motioning for him to move slowly.
He nodded, and headed for the cab. In a matter of minutes, the extension arm was brought back to the bed of the truck, and Sam clambered aboard, freeing the disrupter from the robot. She heard the truck’s arm shift into gear as she began her ascent, but her attention was focused solely on the window, the disrupter armed and ready.
Once she was in place, she visualized the shot, and then using the laser sight, centered on the motion detector’s blinking light.
One, Mississippi… She sucked in a breath and steadied herself.
Two Mississippi… She positioned the laser.
Three Mississippi… She shot.
Seconds turned to hours as she waited for success or failure. And then she noticed the quiet. Absolute complete silence.
The bomb was disarmed. The motion detector halfway across the room.
Cheers erupted below and Sam felt her knees begin to shake, the pressure finding physical release at last. Leaning over the edge of the basket she gave a thumbs-up, and watched as the firemen headed into the building, first to evacuate the children and then to dispose of the remains of the bomb.
Her job was done.
She sank down and pushed back the visor, grateful when she felt the basket sway as it was retracted. In just a few minutes she was down and with Jason’s help removing her suit.
