The drug bust had not been a random event. The vandals, Calder’s attacker, Filmore. Mrs. Wilks’s kidnapper. The evidence planted to implicate both her and Riley in different crimes. None of it had been random.
As the search teams set off, Abby jogged along in Riley’s wake. She wasn’t about to let her newest ally face her enemies alone.
Chapter Thirteen
Riley didn’t hold out much hope that Mrs. Wilks would be at the first marker as he rushed down to the rocky shoreline. That would be too easy. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, checked the reception and entered Director Casey’s personal number.
“This is unexpected,” Casey answered.
“Yes, sir. Things are escalating rapidly. Do you have anything connecting the names I sent?”
“Not yet.”
Riley paused, picking his way around an outcropping of sharp slate-colored stones. “Calder is clean.” He’d thought Calder’s accident might have been staged to disguise his link to the terrorist cell, but not anymore. The man had no ties to the drug runners and while Calder knew Filmore, their association had been strictly professional. “It’s like ghosts taking potshots around here.”
“Stay on it,” Casey said. “Belclare needs you. We picked up the call to the state police for backup. FYI, they have a bomb squad but it likely won’t arrive in time.”
On that sour news the call ended. Riley put his phone away and checked his watch. He had to be getting close to the first marker.
He looked over his shoulder at the docks. The search teams Abby had put into play were combing other parts of the shoreline. Riley gazed out across the water. One of the tugboats was motoring out into the bay. Hopefully the team on board was working for their side and not the terrorists. Checking his watch, he had less than three minutes to find the marker or, if the map and timing were accurate, there would be another explosion.
“Mrs. Wilks!” he called out, praying there wasn’t another victim to rescue...or recover.
He chose his steps with more care, alert for a glimpse of a trip wire or any sign someone had been here. He saw it then, a rounded cache of stones that wasn’t quite as natural as the rest of the area. He approached with extreme caution despite the dwindling time, unwilling to rush and set something off prematurely.
A bullet whistled past his head, knocking the top stone from the cache. Riley had jerked back, seeking cover, when he heard the soft whimper.
“Mrs. Wilks?”
Another muffled response came from closer to the scruffy, wind-sculpted trees to his left. Rocks and twigs skittered down the slope toward him.
He took that as an affirmative.
The small cascade revealed red and green wires running from the cache of rocks up into the trees. Definitely a bomb, he thought grimly. “Hold still,” he called out to the woman. God help them both if she did something to set it off.
He peered up but couldn’t pick out the armed guard. The shooter could be anywhere, in a tree or undercover on the ground.
In the back of his mind, a clock seemed to tick off the seconds. He wondered about the twisted strategist who’d gone to such lengths just to get even with Abby. Whatever the goal, he had to deal with this first.
Stretched out on his belly, he inched closer to the wiring. Another bullet bit into the rock-strewn ground millimeters from his fingertips. Splintered rocks bit at his face. Even if he’d had a weapon it wouldn’t have done him much good at the moment. There was no time for him to stop and return fire.
Both he and the guard were equally determined to succeed, with Mrs. Wilks’s life in the balance. Riley shifted as fast as he dared up the slope and the radio at his belt crackled.
“At your back,” Abby’s voice came through the device.
Despite his precarious position, Riley smiled. Of course she had his back. Thinking about how the bomb in the car had been wired, he went for the cache of explosives closer to the water. He couldn’t afford to waste precious seconds with a panicked hostage.
This time when the sniper fired, another weapon returned fire. Out of habit, Riley kept track of the bullets from Abby. The Belclare P.D. used 9mm handguns with a fifteen-round clip. Whatever Abby was firing was beefier than that, the sound too deep for a standard 9mm.
His attention on the bomb, he ignored the shouting, knowing Abby would follow protocol and ask for a surrender. The timer was inside twenty seconds when Riley disconnected the detonator. He followed the wires up the bank, another volley of gunfire flying over his head.
“Mrs. Wilks!” Relief at finding her alive washed over him and he wanted to shout in victory when he saw the timer on the device strapped to her waist frozen at twelve seconds. “You’re fine. It’s over,” he said, cutting through the tape and sliding the explosives away from her.