Chapter 18 #3, The Devoted Game

Chapter 18 #3

Birmingham PD was scouring the city one hospital, morgue, church, and neighborhood at a time.

But the sweep was broad, not focused, because they didn’t know exactly where to look.

And, like Worth said, time was their enemy.

The good doctor’s survival depended upon Ryan’s conclusions.

If he was wrong about the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church . . .

“This is the one,” he told Worth with as much certainty as he could muster. “Grace and I aren’t waiting, we’re going now. We’ll meet the reverend at the church entrance.”

“Just don’t go inside without him.” Worth fixed Grace with a stern look. “Find Agent Arnold. Take him with you. He’s a damned good agent, and the fact that he’s African American will prevent the two of you from looking like a pair of white feds pushing your weight around.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ryan had to remember that there was a history of racial problems here . . . one that appeared to be in the past, but no one wanted to risk going down that road. Least of all him.

“One other thing,” Ryan said, remembering the circus outside. “We’re going to need Birmingham PD to hold those reporters back until we’re out of here. I don’t think you want any of them showing up at the church.”

“I’ve already taken care of that. When you leave the parking lot, you’ll get a five-minute head start before the roadblock is lifted.”

Grace rounded up Arnold, and the decision was made to take his sedan. It was a dark charcoal and far more nondescript than her silver SUV. As promised, barricades had been put into place by Birmingham PD at each end of the block, preventing the reporters from following.

4 hours, 15 minutes remaining . . .

4:45 a.m.

When they arrived at the corner of Sixteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, the Reverend Simmons waited on the steps leading into the historic church.

Ryan surveyed the area when he emerged from the car. Dark, quiet. But something in the air had his senses on alert. Those old instincts were humming. If they were all lucky, that was a good sign.

He leaned against the car, lit a Marlboro, and gestured to the reverend. “Explain what we need.” He looked from Grace to Arnold. “I’ll catch up.”

Arnold hustled up the steps, while Grace followed more slowly. She didn’t have to say a word; Ryan could read her surprise right there on her face in the glow of the streetlamps. Time was balls-to-the-wall short, so what the hell was he thinking taking a smoke break?

Because he needed it.

His hand shook as he lifted the cigarette to his lips and took another deep drag.

If he was wrong and Trenton wasn’t in this church . . . there likely wouldn’t be enough time to narrow down another location before time ran out. Trenton would die and so would Shelby.

Devoted Fan would be proven a fool, and Ryan’s inability to get the job done would confirm that the Bureau had been right to off-load him three years ago.

Sure, the big exposé that reporter had done revealed the war that had gone down between Quinn and Ryan, but any agent worth his salt would recognize that didn’t prove a damned thing.

Ryan’s retrieval plan could very well have gone wrong just as Quinn’s route had.

There was no way to ever be sure. Maybe the Bureau had been right .

. . maybe he had been destined to crash and burn.

And just maybe if he hadn’t been, Quinn wouldn’t have snatched control away at the last minute.

Any way you looked at it, Ryan couldn’t say it wasn’t his fault. All the more reason he shouldn’t be here doing this. People were counting on him, and he wasn’t sure he could live up to the expectations.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t shit he could do about it.

One last pull from the smoke, and he pushed away from the car. He dropped the butt on the sidewalk, ground it out, but then picked up the snuffed-out remains and shoved them into his pocket. This was a church, after all.

Sacred ground. Where four little girls had died in a bombing because some asshole had thought he was better than them.

. . . he must be humbled . . .

Confidence nudged at Ryan. This had to be the place. Devoted Fan wanted this high profile. He wanted the world watching . . .

Ryan rushed up the steps two at a time, reached the entrance just as Grace and Arnold followed Simmons inside.

The main sanctuary was filled with pews dressed in thick red cushions, and that same brilliant red spilled across the floor in the form of carpet.

A balcony circled the sanctuary, providing additional seating.

Massive stained glass windows, each telling a story, wrapped the room in biblical accountings.

The Reverend Simmons led the way through the sanctuary and to all rooms and halls on the upper floor. Ryan’s gut twisted as each area revealed nothing.

“What about the basement level?” he asked, when it was obvious that the sanctuary level was clear.

“This way.” The reverend indicated the door to his right. “I was here until around seven last night,” he explained as he led the way down the winding staircase. “Everything was fine when I left.”

“To this day the church gets bomb threats,” Arnold said to Ryan. “Every time the church is in the news, the threats filter in as if the news roused some lowlife—”

“Lord have mercy, Jesus,” Simmons gasped.

Ryan moved down the last step to stand next to the reverend, whose horrified gaze had fixated on the abomination erected in the center of the large basement’s gathering place. What appeared to be a bomb in the center of it all launched a new blast of adrenaline through Ryan.

“Nobody move,” he warned.

He wove between the tables and chairs until he stood before the rudimentary cross where Dr. Kurt Trenton had been fastened crucifixion style. Using extreme caution, Ryan reached up, touched Trenton’s carotid artery. “He’s alive,” he called back to the others.

Alive and naked, save for the bomb on his chest. Trenton’s eyes were closed.

Written in black marker across his forehead was one word: godless.

His arms and legs had been secured in place with silver duct tape.

His mouth was taped shut the same as the other vics’ had been.

At least Devoted Fan was sticking with his tools of choice.

Except . . . for the bomb. That was definitely a little more high tech.

“Is that . . .” Arnold asked without coming any closer, “what I think it is?”

“Looks like.” Ryan watched the digital timer count down from three hours fifty-five minutes, and then he considered the IED, improvised explosive device.

The working parts were strung together against the doctor’s chest with no casing or enclosure of any sort.

Just the guts. As if the doctor’s innards had been bared for the world to see.

And they would be if this thing went off.

Ryan turned to face the man of the cloth waiting with Grace and Arnold.

“Reverend, I want you and Agent Arnold to go outside and start knocking on the doors of any houses or businesses close by where there might be people. Birmingham PD will assist when they arrive. If this thing goes off, I don’t want anybody in the possible blast radius.

I don’t know what kind of load this thing has, but better to be safe than sorry.

” Ryan’s throat tightened. He swallowed.

Didn’t help. “Grace, go outside with the others. Call Worth and tell him to get me a bomb unit over here. Now.”

“I’ll make the call, and then I’ll be back.”

He’d expected that. No way was he allowing her to play hero. “Arnold, if she tries to come back in here, restrain her.”

“Yes, sir.”

Returning his attention to Trenton, Ryan felt the daggers flying at his back. This was no time to argue. Grace could thank him later. If he didn’t end up splattered all over the block.

The digital clock was ticking right on down, but, barring any unexpected deviations from Devoted Fan’s usual MO, there was plenty of time for the bomb unit to get here and take care of this.

Ryan studied the assembly. The timer and battery were connected to a detonator, which led to a block of what looked like C-4.

Defusing this thing shouldn’t be a problem for a trained technician.

He had defused one during his career, but it had been a long-ass time and he had been in contact with an expert during the whole process.

He hoped that wouldn’t be necessary this morning.

He’d hate like hell to get this fancy doctor killed .

. . or be responsible for the loss of this historic landmark.

Unless . . . Maybe he could get it off the victim’s chest, lay it carefully on the floor, then get the victim out of here. That could work.

Careful not to touch anything, he leaned down and peered at the way the bomb was attached to Trenton’s chest since there was no tape or strapping visible.

Not seeing a thing, Ryan tried to work his finger between the timer and Trenton’s chest, but his skin seemed attached to the device. Then Ryan got it. Glue. Something powerful like . . . superglue. Maybe the same glue the unsub had used to trap Katherine Jones in that freezer.

“Smart bastard,” Ryan griped under his breath. Why couldn’t he have gotten a stupid unsub?

Trenton groaned. Ryan straightened, reached up, and started to peel the tape from his mouth. Trenton’s eyes snapped open. He tried to scream, jerked and bucked in a futile attempt to break free.

“Don’t move, Dr. Trenton,” Ryan urged, drawing his hands away from the man in hopes of calming him. “Don’t move!”

Trenton stilled, but his eyes were huge with fear.

“My name is Ryan McBride and I’m with the FBI. Help is on the way. There’s—” The readout on the digital timer jerked his attention there.

59:38

What the hell? A minute ago it had displayed more than three hours and fifty-odd minutes to go. Now there was less than sixty minutes? Ryan’s tension shot to a whole new level of anxiety.

Trenton started groaning and doing that wiggling-jerking motion again.

The timer went into fast-forward.

“Stop!” Ryan glared at him. “Don’t move! There’s a goddamned bomb strapped to your chest. Every time you move, the countdown speeds up.”

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.

Holy shit!

Desperation cutting off his air supply, Ryan 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 five minutes out.

Ryan 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.

Ryan met his gaze. The terror there twisted his gut.

This man, God complex or not, was going to die if Ryan didn’t do something. Being in a church wasn’t going to make one damned bit of difference. They were on their own.

Ryan damned well refused 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.