Chapter 19
Nineteen
Acouple of hours later, I’m sitting in the woods with Carter listening to him talk about wires, charges and detonators. He drones on about which explosives work best for what and how to rig some basic household chemicals in a pinch.
Science isn’t my forte, but I can memorize anything. I set a charge and run the wires for a very small blast, just to get the feel for it. After double checking my work, Carter hunkers down behind a log with me.
“There are different types of detonators. We’re going to use this today.” He passes me a battery. “But this works too.” He pulls out a cellphone.
I try not to stare at the phone as he flips it into his other hand.
“Put the wires to the battery, and let’s do some damage.”
My little charge pops a moment after the wires connect with the battery, and I smile. I’ve never done demolition work before, but so far, I like it. Still, my attention falls back on the phone in his hand. “How does it work with that?”
He gives me a devious grin. “Let me show you.”
Grabbing his bag, he disappears for about ten minutes before dropping down beside me again and handing me the phone.
“The cell will send a signal via radio airwaves that energizes a relay connected to the blasting cap.” He taps it in my hand. “Just call it in and boom.”
I open the old phone and find one number saved in it. When he nods at me, I press the call button. There is a series of popping sounds, and then a large blast that is way too close. My heart leaps as dirt showers down on us and the ground trembles.
Carter hoots, turning on his knees, and shouts, “Heads up!”
I throw my arms over my head to the sound of crashing and wood snapping. Carter hops back over the log, and I look out to see a downed tree. Quickly, I type out the text message on the phone and send it before deleting the evidence and scanning around me.
About twenty feet away, Carter is inspecting the tree and none the wiser.
Climbing over the log, I go and join him. “That was cool.”
“Blowing shit up is always cool.”
Shaking the dirt out of my hair, I hand him the phone, and he pockets it absently. Next time I blow something up, I’ll wear a damn hat.
“Walk me through the mechanics of a bomb,” he says, turning away from the tree.
“What?”
“Teach me. Tell me what you remember.”
I start talking, parroting some of what he said but not everything.
He nods along with my words as I follow him in the direction of the camp.
Once he’s satisfied, he starts talking about disarming basic bombs, tools, and where to find supplies easily.
It’s a crash course, essentially, but I don’t think he realizes it.
He’s just talking about what’s interesting to him, and I’m absorbing it all like a sponge.
I can’t imagine when I’d ever need to build a bomb, but with the way my life is currently going, it’s more likely than not to come up at this point, so I listen carefully. When he winds down and falls into silence, I change the subject.
“How do you all know each other?”
“Work.” He shrugs.
“Obviously.”
“The more interesting question is how you know York.”
“Yes, and it’s an interesting story too . . . but just like you, I have no intention of sharing.”
“I’m not being dodgy.” He looks over his shoulder. “We met through work. There is nothing to tell.”
“Through service, or this work? Because I can run the timetables in my head for the conflicts you all would have participated in and the likelihood of whether you would have crossed paths, and in the off chance that you did, it wouldn’t have been a significant enough crossing to have formed a relationship worthy of pulling you into these miserable fucking woods at this time of year. ”
His brows shoot up, and he stops in his tracks. “You can run the timetables?”
“I’m well-read and versed in this country’s major conflicts, yes . . .,” I lie easily, but I went a bit too Rain Man on that one.
I also know all the army regiments, the location of every American base—home and abroad—and which regiments participated in which conflict since the Afghan War started, to say nothing of which allies were involved and when.
These guys didn’t meet while serving. They met as spies, and I can’t figure out how two Americans and a Brit came together in this world, let alone an unhinged independent like August, although I think he may really have served with William.
This just isn’t a world where you have real friends; it’s too much of a liability. Spies work alone, generally keep their identities well-concealed, and if they do have contacts in the network, they’d never meet in person, at least not like this.
The only thing that makes sense is that none of this makes sense, which means none of them are who they say they are, and that’s the most believable part of any of this. The only way I can confirm any of it is if I can get my hands on a computer, but it’s hard enough getting a phone.
“I bet you get told that you think too loud.”
“It has been said.” I pick my way around a minefield of slick, moss-covered stones and continue on.
So, what do a demolitions expert, a marksman, and a British spy have in common? William kept talking about patriotism. I’m not sure what August really is . . . a consultant? Maybe.
I take a deep breath and push on with the swish of Carter’s jacket still at my back. This is why I didn’t want to meet these people and see their faces. I’m not going to be able to let this go until I flesh it out and understand. It’s going to haunt me.
York is leaning against a tree, glaring again when I get back. He doesn’t say anything or approach me; he just watches from afar, and I can’t imagine what I’ve done now. He knew I was going with Carter. Maybe he’s just pissed about the explosion.