The Prosecutor

by Nichole Severn

  The passenger side door slammed closed, and before he had a chance to tell Madison to stay in the SUV, she was at his side. Every five-foot-four stubborn, perfectionistic and beautiful inch of her. “The device in the courthouse didn’t have thermite in it.”

  “Our bomber is testing explosive charges.” He hauled his Kevlar over his head, a groan escaping up his throat from the piercing fire in his shoulder. He dropped the weight fast and clamped onto his shoulder with a hard exhale. There hadn’t been enough time for the EMTs to assess the shrapnel wound at the courthouse, but sooner or later, he’d have to have Deputy Finnick Reed, a former combat medic, take a look at the damage. “Damn it.”

  Warmth pierced through his shirt as Madison rested her fingers on either side of his arm to take a look at the wound. “You’ve bled through the gauze. You should’ve gotten stitches, but you had to be your insanely responsible self and whisk me off to safety instead.”

  He laughed. “I take it you wanted me to risk you and the baby while I sat in the back of an ambulance to take care of a minor wound.”

  “Your Kevlar doesn’t think it’s minor. Here.” She took the brunt of the load from his vest and helped him maneuver it over his head. Trailing a path down his chest with one hand as he strapped the vest into place, she stepped back. “Guess there’s no point in asking you not to go in there, am I right?”

  “Careful, Counselor. It almost sounds like you might actually care about what happens to me.” He unholstered his sidearm, released the magazine and checked the rounds to counter the sudden need to assure her he’d done this dozens of times and survived. “The FBI asked for me because they know I’m the best at this kind of work. If we’re going to find out who tried to kill you at the courthouse, I have to know what we’re dealing with, and right now, that looks a hell of a lot like desperation. Which is the worst kind of bomber there is. There are no patterns, no rules they’re trying to follow, and they escalate quickly. That means more destruction and more innocent lives at risk.”

  “Desperation?” Her mouth parted. “Who’d be desperate enough—”

  “Watson, the chief and the feds are waiting for you to walk them through this particular device’s composition while the firefighters try to get this damn thing under control.” Deputy US Marshal Dylan Cove hiked his thumb over his shoulder as he pulled up a few feet short of Jonah and Madison. Dark hair and a beard, the color of natural oil, accentuated the haunted gleam of the former private investigator’s eyes. Ropes of muscle struggled to tear in two the thin gray shirt he wore under his cargo jacket. As the newest member of the Oregon marshals division, Cove mostly kept to himself, but the past had been clearly etched in his body language and guarded expression. Older than any of the other deputies in the office, the man obviously had some inner demons he still needed to work out, but he made a hell of a marshal. When it came to personal relationships, on the other hand, it seemed only Remington Barton had the power to calm that storm. “Remi wants your prosecutor friend here to stay away from the target scene.” Cove’s dark gaze cut to Madison. “I can watch her.”

  “I told the chief Madison stays with me, and I meant it,” he said.

  “Jonah, it’s okay.” Her hands were on him again, pulling him back to her side rather than letting him hold his position between her and Cove, and his heart rate dipped back into normal levels. “You might be comfortable running toward the explosions, but I’m not. I’ll stay in the SUV, and I’ll be here when you get back. I’m sure Deputy Cove is more than capable of keeping me safe.”

  “Fine.” Acceptance ran through him. As much as he didn’t like the thought of leaving her safety in the hands of another marshal, putting Madison in proximity to an ongoing burn site wasn’t ideal either. He stepped into Cove and lowered his voice. “There are dill pickle chips in the back seat if she has any cravings, and fruit and water in the cooler. She’s my witness, and if anything happens to her while I’m working this scene, I’m going to hold you personally accountable.”

  Dylan Cove smiled, then slapped Jonah’s uninjured shoulder before bringing him in a few more inches. “You’re going to want to check that concern of yours, Watson. Your personal feelings for your witness are showing.” Two more pats on his shoulder and Cove maneuvered around him. The former private investigator rubbed his palms together as he approached Madison, then stretched one hand to lead her back to the vehicle. “Let’s see what kind of snacks Deputy Watson packed for you, Miss Gray.”

  Madison’s gaze stayed on Jonah for a few feet before she climbed back into the passenger side of the SUV. Deputy Cove would protect her, Jonah had no doubt. Because if he didn’t, Jonah would make sure the newest marshal to their division never worked another assignment in his career.

  Shouts and the constant hiss of the fire hoses pulled him back into the moment. Firefighters had made some progress near the front of the house, but the area around the detached garage where the explosion had originated would be another battle altogether. He caught the attention of his chief deputy and who he assumed would be the special agent in charge on the Bureau side of the investigation. Now that three explosives had been detonated within the Portland city limits, the FBI would want all hands on deck to make sure there wasn’t a fourth. Jonah nodded toward Remi as she waved him over and inserted himself into the tight group of investigators. “What do we know so far?”

  “Jonah, this is Special Agent Collin Jackson,” Remi said.

  Jonah shook hands with the agent. “You’re the one who convinced the chief to call me in.”

  “You’re a legend back at Quantico,” Special Agent Jackson said. “Lucky for us, you’ve got the experience to deal with this kind of explosive. My team won’t be here until morning.”

  “We haven’t been able to get close enough to the garage to collect evidence, but firefighters are making progress. Their only concern right now is to keep the thermite fires from spreading.” Remi hooked her thumbs into the shoulder straps of her Kevlar. “Both USMS and the FBI are getting ready to go through the house. We’ve got confirmation the property belongs to Harvey Braddock, but we can’t know for sure the body we spotted inside the garage is him until the medical examiner can get us the ID. There were no other vehicles at the house when we arrived, but that doesn’t mean someone else wasn’t here before we rolled up. The composition of the two bombs from yesterday and this one are obviously different, but it’s too much of a coincidence to believe this explosion and the one at the courthouse aren’t linked.”

  Jonah agreed. There was only one problem. “I initially pegged Harvey Braddock as someone we needed to look into, but his background doesn’t show any experience with explosives. No military record or mining. No family members with access to high-burn explosives either, and to create this kind of improvised explosive device, he’d have to have years of training in hazardous materials.”

  “You’re thinking maybe the defense attorney had a partner and that partner killed him, then set off the device to destroy the evidence?” the special agent in charge asked.

  “If that’s his body in there, sure, or Harvey Braddock wasn’t part of the plan at all. He could’ve discovered or overheard Rosalind Eyler’s plans for Madison Gray, and his client instructed her own partner to tie up loose ends, even at the cost of losing her defense counsel.” His gut was still telling him the Rip City Bomber was behind this. If they could construct a paper trail back to the source, they’d have proof Rosalind Eyler’s attorney—and the Rip City Bomber herself—had targeted Madison at the courthouse. “Any luck on tracing the thermite?”

  “One hundred pounds of thermite was stolen sometime last night from a machinery warehouse in northwest Portland.” Remi studied the teams trying to put out the fires around the garage. “The shift supervisor called police as soon as he discovered it missing, but most of the Portland Police Bureau officers have been diverted to the scene at the courthouse. We didn’t have any reason to
break up our manpower for a B&E after what happened downtown.”

  Jonah studied the pattern of the burns. “We do now.”

  “What do you mean?” Agent Jackson asked.

  “You said one hundred pounds of thermite was stolen.” He scrubbed his hand down his face, the heat prickling the exposed skin of his neck. Thermite burned at a temperature around two thousand degrees and destroyed anything and everything in its path. “Whoever triggered the bomb here had to add an additional explosive charge inside the device they’d built to increase the blast zone, leaving less room for the thermite in the container. From what I’ve seen of this scene and the amount of thermite they’re trying to extinguish, the bomber didn’t use more than a quarter of what he had on hand.”

  The deputy chief cut her attention to him. “You’re saying—”

  “There’s a chance this isn’t the only device he built,” Jonah said.

  * * *

  MADISON TOOK ANOTHER SIP of her water, the heat from the fire burying under the thick collar of her coat and long-sleeved shirt despite the spring breeze filtering through the open door.

  Controlled chaos buzzed around her and the marshal Jonah had been reluctant to let watch her. With the passenger side door partly open, she pulled her tablet from her bag and scanned through the files Jonah had forwarded to her one by one. Rosalind Eyler’s known associates and family connections, visitor logs from the prison, including those with her attorney’s signature, evidence logs from the Rip City Bomber’s home, the FBI’s extensive profile and interviews with the defendant. She’d been through them more times than she could count. There was nothing here to suggest Rosalind Eyler had kept in touch with a partner or protégé, at least not officially, but the sudden change in MO said this wasn’t the work of the Rip City Bomber. Not directly.

  Madison raised her gaze to the fire battling for new life every time firefighters thought they’d gotten the blaze under control. Harvey Braddock might’ve been one hell of a snake in court, but her gut said he couldn’t do this. The only thing she’d known him to want more than money was winning cases. Taking credit for the courthouse bombing in the Rip City Bomber’s name ensured he’d lose the biggest case of his career.

  No. Madison watched the scene through the windshield. Someone wanted her to believe Rosalind Eyler was behind the bombing that’d nearly taken her life and destroyed her car. This one, too. She wasn’t sure how Harvey fit into the equation, but having the attorney at both scenes couldn’t be a coincidence. Unless... Unless the real bomber was trying to frame the Rip City Bomber for the attack at the courthouse and was using Harvey’s garage to push the evidence to reflect that narrative. Harvey could’ve figured out who’d been trying to set up his client for attempted murder of a deputy district attorney, and the defense counsel had confronted the bomber. Only he’d realized he’d gotten in over his head too late, but that didn’t account for the change in composition between the two bombs. None of the devices built by Rosalind Eyler included thermite. Then again... Maybe that was the point.

  Firefighters, marshals and local law enforcement rushed between vehicles toward the house, the buzz of the scene transforming into a frenzy. She sat straighter in her seat. Something was happening. EMTs ran toward the fire. Had someone been hurt? Her mind instantly went to Jonah. He was the only technician with enough experience with this kind of explosive. He would’ve been the first one to suit up and try to get closer to the device. Her stomach dropped. Madison pushed out of the vehicle, her heels wobbling on the uneven pavement. “Deputy Cove, what’s going on?”

  Marshal Dylan Cove pushed off from the side of the SUV, a water bottle in his hand. Dark eyes narrowed on the frantic upset spreading to the edges of the perimeter. “Good question.” He reached for his radio strapped to his vest and compressed the push-to-talk button. “Marshal Cove for Deputy Chief Barton, over.”

  Static broke through the high-pitched ringing in Madison’s ears.

  He tried again. “Remington, what the hell is going on in there?”

  No answer.

  “Try Jonah—Marshal Watson.” Pressure built behind her sternum. Jonah had taken point on dozens of IED disposals and detonations. This was what he’d been trained for, and he was damn good at it. He was fine. She had to believe that. Because the only other option was losing the only person who’d made an effort to give a damn about her.

  Cove tried the radio again. Nothing but static.

  “Something is interrupting the signal. I can’t get through.” Concern contorted the deputy’s expression. Marshal Cove pulled his sidearm from his hip, released the magazine from the weapon and slammed it back into place. “Get in the vehicle and lock the doors. You don’t unlock this SUV for anyone other than myself or Deputy Watson—do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes.” Sweat built at the base of her neck as she did as instructed, locking herself in the vehicle. Light gray smoke crept along the pavement toward the outer edges of the perimeter where the SUV was parked.

  It couldn’t have been easy for the bomber to get his hands on this much thermite. Not with so many regulations and restrictions to the public. So whoever detonated this device had to have personal access or they’d stolen it from another source. Madison sat forward in her seat, trying to see through the smoke.

  The thermite. Pulling her tablet pencil from her bag, she quickly sketched notes across the digital file on her screen. If the bomber had been at the courthouse scene as Jonah believed, watching to make sure she hadn’t made it out of the courtroom alive, they would’ve known he was with her. With enough research, they could’ve easily discovered Jonah was the only expert in the field within a hundred-mile radius who’d dealt with thermite in the past, and known exactly how to draw the marshal assigned to protect her out of hiding. With his witness in tow. “It’s a setup.”

  The passenger side window exploded at her right, thick glass cutting across her face and neck as she ducked into the center of the SUV. A scream tore from her mouth. She tried to shield her face with both hands and shoved her tablet between the seat and the middle console. The passenger door swung open. Strong hands ripped her from the vehicle, and she sucked in a lungful of air to scream. A hand clamped over her mouth, forcing her into a wall of muscle. He showed off the detonator in his free hand. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Ms. Gray. See, your marshal and the rest of his team have just uncovered the second thermite device inside Harvey Braddock’s house, and with one press of this button, I have the power to make sure none of them walk out of there alive. You’ve spent your entire career putting the bad guys behind bars, so I imagine risking innocent lives doesn’t sit well with you.”

  The black ski mask highlighted light green eyes and a narrow face, but anything more than that slipped her attention as bruising pain spread across her face with his grip on her jaw. Quick inhales and exhales hissed through her nose. She tried to shake her head. No. She didn’t want that, but the only alternative meant leaving this scene with a man who’d set off three bombs in the past forty-eight hours and killed at least nine civilians.

  “Good girl.” He leveled his gaze with hers. “Now you’re going to do exactly as I say. Nod so I know you understand.”

  She did.

  “Turn around slowly, head toward the back of the vehicle and walk to the end of the block. If you even think about running or signaling one of the officers at the perimeter, the last thing you’ll see is that house in flames.” He released her. “Go.”

  Madison turned as he’d instructed and started walking back the way she and Jonah had entered the scene. She kept her gaze down, careful not to make eye contact with any of the remaining Portland Police Bureau officers as they neared the caution tape sectioning off the street from the target scene. Their attention had been diverted to the house, most likely part of the bomber’s plan. One wrong move. That was all it’d take, and Jonah would be gone. The fact Harvey Braddock’s ga
rage and property were still burning convinced her the man at her back wasn’t bluffing. She couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t risk losing the man who’d pried his way past her defenses with bad jokes and heated kisses.

  She’d spent the last five months determined to keep him as far from their son as she could in an effort to satisfy her own insecurities with being able to raise their baby on her own. For what? To prove she didn’t need help, to turn herself into a martyr in the name of pride? Jonah hadn’t offered to help because he’d been worried their baby would suffer under the care of one parent. Everything he’d done these past two days had shown her he’d only wanted to support her. How hadn’t she seen it before now? She’d made a mistake, and now everything they cared about was at risk.

  “The black sedan on the right.” The trunk popped open as they came into range of the last vehicle parked on the picture-perfect neighborhood street. “Get in.”

  What? Madison pulled up short. If she got in that trunk, there were no guarantees she’d ever leave. No guarantees she’d make it out alive, that her son would survive. Panic triggered her flight instinct, and she stepped back into her attacker. She twisted into him and shoved at his chest as hard as she could. Her throat swelled. He latched onto her wrists with both hands and forced her closer to the car. “No. No!”

  His arms encircled her upper body, and he hefted her feet off the pavement. Another hand cut off her screams as he hauled her feet over the lip of the trunk. Madison kicked out with everything she had, her heel flying into the middle of the road. This had been a quiet neighborhood until a couple of hours ago when a bomb had detonated a few houses down, and now she was being taken in the middle of broad daylight. Someone would hear her. Someone would see what was happening and tell the police. Rough interior fabric burned the backs of her legs as her abductor forced her into the small, dark compartment. She clawed at him, so consumed with the need to get out that she didn’t notice the back of his hand swinging toward her face.