by Dee Davis
Moving quickly, they searched the other rooms in the same fashion, meeting Nigel and Gabe in what obviously served as a living room. There were five rooms in all. The living room and a parlor, kitchen and two small bedrooms. All of them were empty.
“There’s no one here,” Payton said to no one in particular, his gaze searching the room, taking in the careful arrangement of furnishings and art. There was a framed baseball uniform on one wall, an ornate carved screen in the opposite corner and a Chinese statue on a table in the corner. Other than that there was little ornamentation. The furniture was equally simple. A room designed for function and form, uncluttered, so that the energy flow was unobstructed.
He’d seen it over and over in China, the need for spiritual wholeness overriding the normal human desire for possessions. An admirable trait. Even in a bomber.
“I’m guessing we’re at the right place,” Sam said, picking up the statue. “Except for the baseball uniform, this room feels like it was transplanted straight from the Orient. Do you recognize her?” She held out the little deity, and Payton smiled.
“Kaun Yin. The name literally means ‘she who hears the weeping world.’ Pretty ironic to find her here, actually. She’s the goddess of peace and compassion.”
“Obviously not a role model.” Nigel’s tone was dry.
“Westerners rarely understand the workings of Eastern philosophy. They tend to pick the parts they like and abandon the rest.” Payton shrugged. “Beyond his penchant for feng shui, I don’t see a hell of a lot here that could be tied to the bombings.”
“There’s a shed out back. I didn’t see any tools, but then we only had time to give it a cursory look,” Gabe said, pulling a book off the shelf.
Tao Te Ching—the Book of the Way. Payton had first read it after Kevin’s death. In the original Chinese. In many ways, the words there had saved his life, made him see a way to exist outside of the pain. He didn’t buy into the concept of organized religion—East or West—but he believed there was a higher order. The idea was at once perplexing and comforting, and it had seen him through his darkest days.
Payton sighed, pushing away his thoughts, forcing his attention to the situation at hand. “We’ll check it out.” He headed to the back door without waiting to see if Sam was following, restless energy demanding action of some kind.
It was always like this when he was hunting, his mind honing in on the prey, his body preparing for the kill, and this one would give him particular pleasure. The man had threatened Sam, and Payton intended to make certain he paid for his obsession.
But first he had to find the bastard. And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be here.
“We’ve got to look, Payton. Something here might tell us where he is.” Her hand on his arm was gentle, hesitant, and he worried for a moment that he had frightened her. His stillness did that to people. Usually to good advantage. But it was important to him that she not feel like that.
His gaze met hers, his breath releasing on a whisper of relief. Her eyes were clear and steady, her expression conveying only her own frustration. He covered her hand with his for a moment, and the connection was as complete as if he were making love to her. Then he pulled away, breaking the spell.
Emotions were a liability. Especially in a situation like this.
“Let’s go.” He motioned toward the back door, and strode through the kitchen. Like the living room, the kitchen was simply furnished. Basic cabinets and appliances. A small table. No ornamentation at all.
He pushed open the back screen, the heat of the day rushing up to meet him with the intensity of tarmac in Mosul. The shed sat almost immediately behind the house, attached by a covered walkway.
“Not much to look at,” Sam said, following him down the path. “But I agree with Gabe, it’s as good a place as any for a workshop.”
Payton pushed open the door and they stepped inside. There wasn’t much there—a rake, a broken spade, a hose and a couple of bags of gravel. There was also a scattering of paintings, crudely done, the artwork painted directly on the woodwork. Chinese deities. Gods and goddesses smiling benignly down at them from the shed walls.
Seems Riker was an artist, among other things. Not that it did them a bit of good.
“Nothing.” Sam echoed his thoughts, clearly as disappointed as he was. “Maybe we’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Or maybe he was expecting us.” Payton bent down to have a look at the end of the rake. There were still bits of earth clinging to it, and a couple of grains of gravel caught in the tines. The dirt was dry, but that really didn’t mean anything in this heat.
“Something isn’t right here,” Sam said, frowning. She walked over to the back wall and stared at the adjacent window. “This isn’t aligned right. No one puts a window flush to the corner like this. There isn’t even a frame on the left side.” She reached up to trace the line of the glass with her fingers. “There’s air penetration, too.”
“It’s a false wall. Look at the other side, the painting of the dragon isn’t aligned right either. See, half of his tail is missing.” Payton started running his fingers along the surface of the wall, feeling for a point of entry or a catch of some kind.
At first all he felt was the natural indention of the planks used in the wall. But about two-thirds of the way across he felt the faint difference in texture that signaled a door. “It’s here.” He tried to manually pry it open with no luck, then took the rake Sam offered and tried to wedge it in the crack.
“It’s no use.” He dropped the rake, blowing out a breath in frustration. “It’s either locked from the inside, or works on some kind of mechanism.”
Sam turned to consider the shed. “This guy is a whiz at electronics, remember? My bet’s on a mechanism.” She reached down to shift first the hose and then the spade. Nothing happened. Then she went around the room, pressing on the various paintings, all to no avail.
Payton turned to the sacks of gravel in the corner.
“It’s got to be something more obscure than that,” Sam said, coming up behind him as he leaned down to move the first sack.
It was unopened and surprisingly heavy, but there was nothing behind it. The second sack was almost empty, so much lighter, and once he’d shoved it aside, it revealed another painting in the corner. This one of Hotei—the laughing Buddha.
“This could be it.” Sam reached around him to press the little Buddha’s fat stomach. Behind them, something clicked and whirred, and when they turned back around, the door was open. Payton started forward, anxious to see what the man had so carefully hidden away, but Sam stopped him with her hand.
“Wait. It could be booby-trapped.” She walked forward slowly, inspecting the door frame first with her eyes, and then carefully with her hands. “There’s nothing here, but that doesn’t mean we’re home free. Move carefully.”
Payton nodded, and started forward, stepping into the room, his eyes drawn immediately to the mural on the opposite wall. At first he thought it was another of Riker’s paintings—a large rendition of the Tai Chi—but then his brain registered what it was he was looking at.
An elaborate collage. The lighter half of the circle was made up of articles about the bombs. Bryan, Abilene, San Antonio, Virginia. They were all there. A tribute. Blood, or something that looked a hell of a lot like it, was smeared across a picture of Senator Ruckland.
But it was the other half of the circle that frightened him the most—the shaded half. It was almost completely covered with photographs of Sam. Some were from the newspaper, but others were clearly shots that Riker had taken without her knowing. There were articles, too. Chronicles of Sam’s career.
Yin and yang. It finally made sense. And it shook Payton to the core. He moved immediately, trying to stop her from seeing it. But the gesture was telling, and she pushed past him, coming to a full stop about four steps into the room.
“Oh my God.” Her hand came to her throat.
“I know.” He nodded, his voice clipped as
he tried to control the rage that threatened to consume him.
She shook her head, her face going ashen. “It’s not the Tai. It’s the floor.”
His eyes dropped to her feet, and he saw immediately the depression where her left foot touched the floor. It looked as if a tile had been set off level.
“It’s a pressure plate.” She said, her voice totally devoid of emotion. “I should have been more careful.”
“It didn’t blow. That could mean it’s a dud.”
“No way in hell.” She shook her head slightly, careful not to move more than necessary. “I’m guessing it’s either set to detonate when I lift my foot—or it’s on a timer and I’ve started the clock. Either way, we’re in deep shit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“I’LL RADIO Gabe and Nigel and tell them to get back.”
“No.” Sam shook her head. “Radio waves can set off a bomb. You’ll have to go to them, and then I want all three of you to get the hell out of here. All the way to the cars. No telling what he’s got rigged, but I guarantee you it’s meant to blow the hell out of this house and workshop.”
“I’m not leaving you.” His face was tight with worry, but it was also mutinous.
“You have to. Gabe’s got a baby coming, remember?” She’d picked something she knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore, and watched with satisfaction as he accepted the truth of what he had to do.
“I’ll be back.” He disappeared from the doorway before she had time to tell him otherwise. Stubborn man.
Sam fought against her emotions, working to maintain control. It wasn’t over until the last man was out, and even though her stupidity had gotten her into this mess, she’d escaped from worse and lived to tell the tale. Still, it was the mistake of a novice and it pissed her off.
Releasing a slow breath, she surveyed the room, trying to figure out something she could use to replace the pressure of her foot. But there was nothing within reach. Her internal clock ticked loudly, her mind counting down minutes and seconds with annoying precision. If there was a timer, then she figured she had maybe ten minutes.
If it was a pressure plate, then it was all about endurance. As long as she stood firm—literally—she had time. But there was no way of knowing which way the plate worked without testing it, and just at the moment, she wasn’t fond of the odds.
There was a table off to her right, bits of wiring and welded metal littering the surface. There was, however, no sign of any tools. No welding torch, nothing. Which meant that Riker either stored things somewhere besides the secret room, or Payton was right, and he’d been expecting them.
Just at the moment, it was the least of her concerns. Time enough to puzzle that out later. If there was a later.
“All right,” Payton said, his voice coming from behind her. “They’re not too happy about it, but they’re away. What do we do now?”
“Get blown up together?” A bubble of hysteria started its way up her throat but she quashed it. “Sorry. Nerves.” She forced a smile, turning her head so that she could see him. “I thought I told you to beat it, too?”
Payton shrugged. “You should know by now how much I hate missing the action.”
That was an understatement, but despite her fear for him, she was glad he was here.
“I think our best shot is to try to find something to displace my weight Indiana-Jones style.” Whatever mechanism was involved, it was located underneath the pressure plate, and there was no way to access it to disarm. Their only option was to buy enough time to get out of there.
Payton stood silently, his eyes searching the room for something that might work.
“There’s nothing here that weighs enough.” Sam shook her head to emphasize the point. “I weigh around a hundred and eight pounds, so we’re going to need something pretty hefty.”
“Like me.” He moved forward, and she held up her hand with a shake of her head.
“Too much weight. These things can be really sensitive.”
He walked out of the room again, returning a minute later with the unopened bag of gravel. “This says it weighs ninety pounds, I’d say it’s as close as we’re going to get.”
She nodded, watching as he set the bag next to the plate.
“How much time do you think we have if it’s a timer?”
She figured about five or six minutes had elapsed since she’d first stepped on the plate. “I’m thinking four or five minutes.”
He nodded, adjusting the gravel so that it was about an inch from the ground. “On three?”
She nodded, her heart racing. “My count.” Their gazes met and held, and she shook her head at the emotion reflected in his eyes. No way in hell was she going to act like this could be the end. “One, two, three.”
She stepped off the plate, just as he dropped the bag on it.
Nothing happened.
They shared another look. “There could still be a timer,” she breathed, pulling them back to reality.
“All right, then,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
They ran outside, dashing across the overgrown backyard. They stopped short at a barbed wire fence, hesitating a moment before Payton literally tossed her across, following her in one swift motion.
They’d made it about another hundred feet when the ground shook and the deafening roar of the explosion knocked them to the ground, Payton’s big body covering hers. Sam could feel the heat, and bits of debris rained down on their heads, but experience told her that they were far enough away to escape the brunt of Riker’s handiwork.
Payton shifted and Sam rolled over, the sky above her thick with smoke, nothing left of Riker’s house and workshop but charred pieces of wood and masonry. She’d been right. He’d intended for the whole thing to be destroyed.
No evidence.
And no Riker.
“You were right about the timer,” Payton said, his breath hot against her neck. “We could have skipped the gravel.”
“Not necessarily.” She pushed up to her feet, shading her eyes with her hand, her eyes on the fiery debris. “Could have been a double trigger. I wouldn’t put it past him. Anyway, there’s no way to know now. And frankly, I think all that matters is that we’re standing here discussing it.”
Payton had risen as well, his arm sliding around her shoulders. “There’s a hell of a lot more that matters here,” he said, his face grim. “But before we discuss it, I want to string this bastard up by his balls.”
“Nice sentiment.” She looked up into his face, her breath quickening at the ferocity reflected in his eyes. Payton Reynolds wasn’t a man to mess with. And the fact that she was the reason he was so angry sent her heart fluttering. “But to do that we’ve got to find him. And something tells me James Riker doesn’t want to be found.”
“SO WHAT have you guys got on Riker?” Sam strode into the operations room, adrenaline pumping at a rate that had every neuron in her body firing at once. Anger mixed with frustration and relief made her almost dizzy.
Madison looked up from the computer with a frown. “What happened to you?”
“Riker left us a little present,” Nigel said, following Madison into the room. “He blew up his house with Sam and Payton in it.”
“Is Gabe okay?” Madison half rose from the table, her eyes going wide with fear.
“He’s fine. Honestly.” Sam held out a reassuring hand. “He and Nigel were well away from the blast.”
She sat back down again, her hand on her belly. “Thank God. And you’re all right, as well?” Her eyes searched Sam’s for any indication that she was holding back.
“Just bruised a bit here and there.” Sam gingerly rubbed the back of her neck for emphasis. “And Payton is the same.”
Her heart swelled at just the sound of his name. She hadn’t really had the chance to talk with him alone since the bomb had exploded. She’d spent most of her energy on organizing the investigative team, making sure the techs were briefed on what k
inds of things to look for.
Payton had been huddled with Gabe, no doubt discussing ways to find and destroy James Riker. Payton was a man of action, and at the moment there wasn’t a lot to do, at least not on a level that would help him discharge some of his rage. Then they’d split up, Gabe and Payton heading for Cullen, she and Nigel finishing up at the site and taking the other car back here.
“He and Gabe have gone to meet Cullen downtown,” she said, pulling her thoughts to the present.
“Another press conference?” Madison’s fear had receded, her mind returning to the job at hand, and Sam admired her ability to stay focused.
“Right,” Nigel said, perching on the edge of a desk. “A preemptive strike. Since word of the explosion is bound to hit the ten o’clock news, Cullen wanted experts there to deal with questions.”
Madison frowned. “Wouldn’t that be you, Sam?”
“I don’t do the press. At least not if I can help it. I get tongue-tied or angry or both, and either way I tend to say things I wasn’t supposed to.” She shrugged. It was mostly the truth. If she were totally honest, she’d have to admit that she tended to exaggerate the trait. Fact was, she hated anything to do with the media and avoided contact like the plague. She and Payton had flipped to see who had to bite the bullet and go with Gabe. He’d lost.
“So why don’t you all fill me in on the details?” Madison asked, her forehead creased by a frown.
While Nigel gave her the basics, Sam checked the lab and the conference room for Harrison. His computers were all running, but there was no sign of the man.
“Where’s Harrison?” she asked stepping back into the operations room, her frustration barely leashed.
“He’s gone over to DMV to get Riker’s photograph.” Madison’s look was apologetic. “Massive red tape. They wouldn’t fax it over. I know he’s got more biographical information, but to be honest we weren’t expecting you to need it in a rush.”
“We wouldn’t have—” Sam let out an explosive sigh “—if I hadn’t fallen into Riker’s trap. Thanks to the explosion any evidence we might have had has been blown to bits.”
