Boyd Morrison - The Midas Code

Obviously the warehouse was rigged to explode, which would destroy all evidence of Crenshaw and Orr’s operation.

And if Crenshaw escaped, he’d set them off before the police arrived.

Sherman pocketed the phone without turning it off. He had to see what Crenshaw was doing. He gritted his teeth and hopped up onto his one good leg.

He slid the door’s portal aside, but he couldn’t see Crenshaw. Where did he go?

At that moment, the semi’s engine cranked up.

Crenshaw was making a break for it.

The external door of the warehouse was opening too slowly. Crenshaw had the truck in gear ready to go, but the door rose at a maddening rate.

He glanced out the window and saw General Locke staggering toward him, his gun pointed at the cab. Two bullets pierced the door just above his lap, smashing into the dashboard. Crenshaw returned fire.

His first two shots missed, but the third hit the general in the chest. He couldn’t tell how crippling a shot it was, but the general went down in a heap, the gun flying to the side.

The garage door was almost fully open, and Crenshaw could hear the distant wail of sirens. The general must have called the police with Phillips’s phone. No way Crenshaw was going to stick around with this mess.

The original plan, now literally shot to hell, had been to leave one of the Muslims they’d kidnapped in the wreckage of the burned-down warehouse and bring the other with them to leave at the scene of the explosion.

But Crenshaw couldn’t corral one of the Muslims and drive the truck, not without Phillips. So instead the Feds would have to think that a third bomber had gotten away in Manhattan. Same difference. They’d still pin the attack on Al Qaeda.

Crenshaw took one last look at the general, who was still motionless on the concrete floor. He put the truck into gear and roared out of the warehouse.

No cars were around to see him exit. He turned onto Business Parkway and built up speed, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror to make sure the general didn’t make a last-second escape through the open garage door, which was now closing behind him.

The aptly named road was lined with other small warehouses and industrial workshops. None of their residents had any clue that amid the distribution centers and manufacturing buildings was an operation that would change history.

Crenshaw could see two police cars approaching. As long as they didn’t notice the bullet holes in the side of the door, they’d never suspect that he was coming from their destination.

They raced by him. Crenshaw was now a half mile away, with plenty of space between him and the warehouse. He flipped open the safety on the detonator and pushed the button.

A huge orange fireball erupted behind him, followed almost immediately by the noise of a tremendous blast ripping the air. Even though he was ready for it, the size of the explosion startled him. He grinned as he realized that he’d used far more of the explosive than he needed.

The police cars skidded to a stop behind him. One of the officers got out to look at the shattered building, but they never glanced back at him.

Crenshaw turned onto Greencastle Pike, which was only a block from the interstate. Ninety seconds later, he was on I 81 heading to New York. He breathed easier when he’d gone another two miles and the only emergency vehicles he saw were three fire engines speeding in the other direction.

A t an outdoor cafe along Via Chiaia in Naples, Orr checked the tracker signal while Gaul ate a slice of pizza. When he saw where the tracker was, he nodded with satisfaction. His plan was working out perfectly.

It was now eight o’clock, but Locke and Benedict had been in the city since 3 P.M. Orr tossed back an espresso and smiled at the thought of having the Midas Touch in his possession by the end of the night after all these years of searching.

His phone rang. It was Crenshaw.

“Where’s the video?” Orr said. He was supposed to have received the last proof-of-life recording thirty minutes ago.

“The video?” Crenshaw said, his voice cracking. “Jesus, that’s the last thing on my mind!” Orr heard an engine downshift in the background. Something was wrong.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the truck heading up to New Jersey. The warehouse is toast. Had to blow it early. Phillips is dead.”

Dead? That idiot Crenshaw. “What the hell happened?”

Gaul stopped chewing and looked at the phone.

“General Locke got loose somehow. He killed Phillips, but I was able to shoot the general twice. I would have stayed, but the police were on their way. Locke must have called them.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s in pieces, along with the girl and those two Muslim guys.”

Orr stopped himself from screaming in frustration. This was why he kept his team small. He had to do everything himself if he wanted it done right. Still, if Crenshaw completed his part of the mission, the situation could be salvaged.

“What about the truck?” Orr said. “Is it ready to go?”

“I’ve got the bomb rigged. It’s buried in the trailer under the sawdust.”

“Good. You know where to park it, right?”

“You think I’m doing this on my own?”

“Crenshaw, we are a couple of hours away from finishing the mission. As soon as I call you, I want the timer on that bomb set.”

“No way. You think I’m dumb? I know that you’re after the treasure of Midas. And I want my share.”

Orr’s lip curled in anger. That was not the plan, and no one changed his plan but him.

“What do you want?” Orr said.

“I know that what I’m doing is worth a lot more to you than two million dollars. I want twenty million.”

Orr heard the plastic seams on the phone crack as his grip tightened. “Fine. But you’d better do your part.”

Orr planned to sell off the Midas Touch in a private auction. When the price of gold shot through the roof after lower Manhattan was rendered uninhabitable, he would start the bidding at a billion dollars. Crenshaw was jeopardizing everything.

“I’m not setting off the bomb by myself,” Crenshaw said. “I want you here.”

“What?” Orr yelled, drawing the stares of the other patrons. “Why?”

“Because I want to see the Midas Touch in person. I want to know that it really works.”

Orr snorted in disgust. Asking for more money was one thing. But this weasel was going too far by blackmailing him. He vowed silently that Crenshaw would never get to spend the twenty million.

“Okay,” Orr said, “we’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Oh, and when we see each other, don’t try to kill me. I’ve designed the detonator with a code. You’ll never be able to set it off without me.”

That little pig. Orr couldn’t believe it, but he had no choice but to agree.

“All right. We’ll do it your way. I’ll call you when we have it.”

Orr hung up. He wanted to indulge his rage somehow, upend the table or throw the phone through a plate-glass window, but he had to control himself. The Midas Touch was all that mattered right now.

“What’s the problem?” Gaul asked.

“Sherman Locke and Carol Benedict are dead. Some shootout at the warehouse.”

“Phillips?”

“The general killed him.”

Gaul nodded slowly as he mulled over the news, his face revealing nothing more than his concentration on how it affected their scheme. “What now? Locke won’t show himself without the proof-of-life video.”

Orr checked the tracker again. It was headed straight down Via Don Bosco. If it kept going, as he thought it would, it would be near Piazza del Plebiscito in ten minutes.

Instead of Locke’s number, he dialed Stacy Benedict’s.