by Debra Webb
The man froze except for the sobs muffled behind the tape still partially covering his mouth.
The timer displayed three minutes eleven seconds and ticking down.
Shit!
Desperation cutting off his air supply, McBride dug out his cell phone and called Grace. “What’s the ETA on that bomb unit?” His heart thumped harder with each word.
Grace’s words echoed in his ear like a death call. The bomb unit was more than three minutes out.
McBride lowered the phone, let it fall to the floor.
They were fucked.
As if he had said the words out loud, Trenton’s sobs grew more frantic.
McBride met his gaze. The terror there twisted his gut.
This man, God complex or not, was going to die if McBride didn’t do something. Being in a church wasn’t going to make one damned bit of difference. They were on their own.
McBride wasn’t going to give up without trying. He considered the design of the bomb again. C-4 required a detonating charge. Any detonation required a power source. No power source, no detonation of the igniting charge. No igniting charge, no boom.
Simple. All he had to do was stop the process.
He wished for a cigarette and a drink, but he’d just have to wait until he was through here. A tremor jerked his hand as he reached out to the battery. Each piece of this thing was glued to Trenton’s chest, so there was no moving any one part. He had to defuse it by cutting the wires.
Too bad he didn’t have a knife.
1:46
And all this time he’d thought he was prepared carrying a condom around.
Okay, what were his options?
He could try pulling the wires loose.
The wire to the timer first or to the detonator first? The way they were twisted around who could tell what went where?
To hell with it.
He’d just do them all.
Red went first.
1:12
Sweat beaded on his forehead as the seconds kept ticking off. 1:08 … 0:59 …
Green wire next.
0:42
Black.
0:36
“Goddammit.”
Blue.
0:22
How many damned wires did it take?
White.
0:14
“Son of a bitch!”
Only one more.
0:09
Yellow.
0:04
What the fuck?
There were no more wires!
Trenton groaned and bucked.
McBride’s heart stopped stone-still.
0:00
5:18 A.M.
“What the hell is happening in there?” Vivian glared at Arnold. “I’m going in.”
“Bomb unit’s a minute out,” Arnold argued. “We’ll wait for them.”
Four Birmingham PD cruisers had arrived and blocked off Sixteenth as well as Sixth Avenue, keeping curiosity seekers out of the blast radius.
“Dammit, Arnold, he’s been down there over five minutes alone. I’m going in.”
Arnold, his frame a mile wide, stepped in her path. “No way, Grace. You heard what McBride said, we stay out here. You’re not going in.”
There was movement at the entrance of the church. Her breath stalled in the vicinity of her lungs. McBride rushed out with Trenton leaning heavily against him. The man’s naked body had been draped with some sort of dark cloth.
What the hell had happened? Had McBride defused the bomb?
Vivian ran for the steps.
The bomb unit roared to a stop on the street.
“Are you all right?” she demanded of McBride as she reached his position in front of the church. She did a quick visual sweep of Trenton, who looked like hell but was definitely still breathing.
“Didn’t hear a boom, did you?” McBride jerked his head toward Trenton. “I do owe the reverend a new pair of curtains.”
Fury descended on Vivian with biblical proportions. He had forced her to leave him in there alone with a damned bomb and a victim. And now he comes storming out talking about freaking drapes. “You are the absolute, biggest, goddamned—”
“Hold on, Grace,” McBride cut her off as he shifted Trenton’s weight. Then he inclined his head in her direction and said softly, “You’re practically in a church.”
Booted feet charged toward them. She snapped her mouth shut.
Trenton was alive.
McBride had done it again.
Vivian couldn’t decide if she wanted to hug him or kick his ass.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Zoom in on her face,” Nadine Goodman ordered her cameraman.
Agent Vivian Grace, along with newly reinstated Special Agent Ryan McBride, stood aside as Dr. Kurt Trenton was hefted into a waiting ambulance. According to Nadine’s source from Birmingham PD, the victim had had a bomb attached to his chest and the word GODLESS written across his forehead.
Nadine knew Dr. Trenton. His reputation in the medical world was unparalleled. His wife served on a dozen charitable committees. He had two brilliant children at the prestigious Altamont School.
Special Agent-in-Charge Randall Worth’s unannounced press conference last evening hadn’t mentioned anything about an ongoing case, only that Ryan McBride had been reinstated and temporarily assigned to the Birmingham field office. Obviously whatever case McBride had been brought here to solve was ongoing.
There was something going on that no one was talking about. In her eight years as an investigative reporter, Nadine had never encountered a case with a tighter lid. No one knew anything. She had spoken to Katherine Jones upon her release from the hospital and gotten nothing. The Byrnes refused to answer any questions regarding their daughter’s abduction.
And now an elite surgeon is tossed into the mix?
Was the same perpetrator committing these abductions? All three had taken place at historic landmarks. Dozens of police officers were involved and yet no one knew a damned thing. If they did, Nadine would have gotten something from someone, and her sources were bone-dry.
She supposed it didn’t help that charges related to the break-in at McBride’s bungalo were pending.
She was very good at what she did. Some called her ruthless. She, on the other hand, called her methods survival of the fittest.
There were two consistent details in this puzzling investigation: Ryan McBride, whom she had already outted, and Agent Vivian Grace, a rookie and the newest agent at the Birmingham field office—besides McBride of course.
Why wasn’t Aldridge or one of the other more senior agents partnered with McBride?
Just another aspect of this strange investigation that made no sense.
“Let’s do the final segment with the departing ambulance in the background,” Nadine instructed her cameraman.
She would get this out of the way, then hang around the hospital to see if she could get an interview with someone … anyone. Afterward, she was going on another digging expedition.
Before this day ended, she would know all there was to know about Agent Vivian Grace.
CHAPTER TWENTY
4:00 P.M.
1000 Eighteenth Street
McBride dragged out his Zippo and lit a Marlboro.
Seven hours ago, as scheduled, Dr. Kurt Trenton had pulled himself. together, despite the objections of his friends and family, and performed the needed surgery on former governor Donald Shelby.
Trenton was a hero. A tragically wounded one, if only in the emotional sense.
He might not be God but an angel certainly sat on his Versace-clad shoulder. Maybe, just maybe, because he would put himself through the rigors of a life-saving surgical procedure after his terrifying night in a hell designed just for him, the good doctor was actually a humbler man. Time would tell.
McBride sat on the counter of the first-floor men’s room and inhaled a deep drag from his cigarette. Worth had given up and authorized him to smoke there since the press whores we
re still camped outside. A technician had been brought in to temporarily override the smoke detector so the alarm wouldn’t go off every time McBride lit up.
Worth was officially off McBride’s asshole list. He still didn’t like him much but that was because he was a prick. Pricks were different from assholes. And Worth was definitely a prick.
Getting back to another prick, Trenton’s high-powered attorney had reduced the doctor’s official statement down to one sentence: “Dr. Trenton recalls returning to his car in the hospital’s parking garage and sitting down behind the steering wheel.” “That’s all, gentlemen,” his attorney had insisted. “He didn’t see anyone or hear anything.
Trenton’s pimped-up Caddy had been taken into custody by forensics. So far they hadn’t found jack shit. Nothing in the hospital garage that couldn’t have belonged to any one of several hundred other people. Nothing at the church.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
The media was all over the story. McBride’s past had been rehashed again. All sorts of speculation about the three victims and the possible perpetrator had hit the papers as well as the television and radio news.
Worth had issued a statement saying there was a possibility the abductions were connected and that the Bureau was investigating that avenue.
McBride closed his eyes and leaned back against the mirrored wall. The C-4 explosive glued to Trenton’s chest had been fake—a substance similar to polymer modeling clay. The detonating charge had been a small homemade explosive configured from an illegal type of holiday fireworks commonly sold under the table. Basically a cardboard tube packed with explosive materials like a “quarter stick” or an M-80. Had Trenton not been found before detonation, that charge could have caused a serious enough injury to pose a threat to his life. The reverend had said that he generally started tours in the church by noon on weekdays. That would have been too late, lending credence to the possibility that before being discovered, Trenton could have bled to death.
And that was the thing … Devoted Fan didn’t appear to want anyone to die. Sure, this last challenge had been a little tougher, but not so much so that the likelihood of failure was greater than the likelihood of success.
McBride had concluded that the man wasn’t a murderer … maybe, under ordinary circumstances, not even a criminal. Yet, something had triggered him to act, and he was trying to prove some point. Something beyond McBride’s hero status. Something personal.
But what?
The door opened and Grace walked in, a folder in hand.
“Is Worth looking for me?” McBride took another drag. He felt like a brand-new freshman skipping class, hiding out in the men’s restroom.
“Not yet.” She scooted onto the counter on the other side of the sink. That burgundy skirt hiked up, revealing several inches of very nice thighs.
“You have a thing for men’s rooms, Grace?” He turned on the water in the sink, wet the cigarette butt to ensure the fire was completely doused, then tossed it into the waste bin beneath the paper towel dispenser. Color darkened her cheeks. He smiled, couldn’t help himself. He’d done that now and again since meeting her. More irony. This was the last situation that should make him smile.
“Let’s talk,” she suggested, opening the file she’d brought with her.
“Let’s.” She could talk all night and he would be content to watch her profile as those lips moved, forming each word. His brain instantly retrieved the imprinted memories of having those lips meshed with his own. So soft and yet so full. The image instantly morphed into other scenarios that included him and that lush mouth. He would be more than happy to repay in kind. He couldn’t think of a thing he would enjoy more than having his mouth on every part of her.
She swiveled her face toward him, stared straight into his eyes. “Stop looking at me that way.”
He ordered his pulse to slow. “Sorry.” But he wasn’t sorry. He was hard and horny and he wanted her again. And again after that. Right here would be fine, right now would be better than fine.
“I want to go over a couple of theories with you.” She turned her attention back to the folder.
“Hit me.”
She glanced at him again with that look that suggested he might want to rephrase.
“We,” she said before settling her attention back on the pages in the file, “have three completely unrelated victims, two female, one male. Two adults, one child. Two rich, one poor. Three historic landmarks as crime scenes. And you.” Those big dark eyes rested on him once more. “And that’s it. No evidence, no prints, no witnesses other than Mr. Jackson, who didn’t see enough to be useful.”
That about summed it up. “How is Davis coming along with that fan list?”
“He has it narrowed down to less than two hundred and he’s making phone calls. When he eliminates those who have moved away or died or whatever, he and Arnold are going door to door.”
“Nothing from Schaffer?”
Grace shrugged. “Nothing significant. She did find your notes on that final report. So Goodman’s associate told the truth about that part anyway.”
“Speaking of Goodman,” McBride ventured, recalling the pushy lady from last night outside the church, “what’s the deal with her? Just another pushy newshound?”
Grace closed her file and clasped her hands atop it. “She’s been around for a while. Came to Birmingham about five years ago from Pittsburgh. Most people consider her the voice of what’s happening in this city. Divorced. No children. Totally dedicated to the job. A bitch.”
McBride considered his temporary partner. “Sounds like you don’t care for the lady.”
“She hurts people to get what she wants. I have a problem with that. The Byrnes were ready to take out a restraining order to keep her away from their house after their daughter was rescued. I’m sure Katherine Jones has suffered the same treatment only she doesn’t have a fancy lawyer. Hospital security will probably keep her off Trenton’s back.” Grace gave her head a little shake. “Look what she did to Mr. Braden and Agent Quinn. And you,” she added, a flicker of some undefined emotion in her eyes.
Could she possibly give one shit about his feelings? “That exposé of Goodman’s didn’t hurt me, Grace. The man she targeted is gone, this one”—he patted his chest—“isn’t that guy. He’s just a bum who does what he has to and nothing more.” When she would have argued, he went on, “What she wrote hurt Derrick Braden and Andrew Quinn … the two people left from that nightmare who still had something to lose.”
That was the truth if he’d ever spoken it.
A knock on the door drew their attention there.
“Grace?” Pratt called through the door rather than coming on in.
Maybe he was afraid of what he would see. He hadn’t asked any questions about the episode at the airport but the guy had to have noticed the tension between McBride and Grace after that.
Grace slid off the counter and strode to the door. McBride took the opportunity to admire those gorgeous legs. He’d gladly sell what was left of his soul to have them wrapped around him one more time.
She opened the door, the back of the hand holding the file propped on her hip. Her colleague peeked past her to see what McBride was up to. “What?” she demanded.
“Worth wants the two of you upstairs.” He looked from Grace to McBride and back. “There’s some guy from Quantico here.”
McBride had wondered when the Q would get around to sending somebody down for a look-see. Took them longer than he had expected.
Grace followed Pratt up the stairs and McBride followed her. He definitely got the better end of the deal. If he loitered a few steps behind he could see up her skirt just far enough to get a glimpse of smooth thighs.
Didn’t take her long to figure that out. She stopped. Waited for him to catch up, then gave him the evil eye.
Like he said before, he was only human.
Worth waited in his office. The agent from Quantico sat in one of the chairs facing Worth’s de
sk, his back to the door.
“Agents Grace and McBride,” Worth said, “have a seat.”
The visitor stood, turned to greet them and McBride stopped.
Collin Pierce.
“Agent Grace.” Pierce extended his hand. “It’s good to see you.”
She accepted his hand, her action delayed just enough for McBride to notice.
“Agent Pierce,” she acknowledged, drawing out the syllables as if surprised or reluctant.
During that instant, that fraction of a second, when Pierce held on to her hand before she pulled away, McBride observed something. Some infinitesimal impression that said these two shared a connection, past or present, which still simmered.
“McBride.” Pierce turned to him next, thrust out the same hand. “It’s been a while.”
McBride gave his hand a quick, firm shake, more a challenge than a greeting. “Not nearly long enough.”
Pierce smiled and made one of those noncommittal sounds that was supposed to be humorous or indulgent but mostly came out like a pissed-off grunt.
“Agent Pierce,” Worth spoke up as he gestured for them to take their seats, “was in Montgomery speaking to a group of potential academy candidates and he dropped by to see how we were coming along on the Devoted Fan case.”
Like hell.
Before McBride could say as much, Grace did.
“Your checking up on me is inappropriate, Agent Pierce.”
Well, well, at least now McBride knew. There was something between these two. He liked it when Grace got spunky. She only did that when she was damned pissed off or pushed into a corner.
“Agent Grace,” Pierce said in that patient, wiser-than-thou way he had of talking down to others, “I’m not here to check up on you. I’m here to offer assistance on the Devoted Fan investigation.”
As if she’d just realized what she said and that she’d done it out loud, her lips pressed into a firm line and her smooth, porcelain skin flushed.
“I hate to think you’ve wasted your time,” McBride said, deciding to take the heat off Grace, “but we’ve got things under control here, Pierce. There’s not a lot you can offer.”
