Sherrilyn Kenyon - Silent Truth

“Check,” Hunter answered.

Fifty-eight minutes until someone died.

He considered where the sniper might choose to position himself along the ridge west of the house. Tall windows stood around the curved third floor, which faced west, toward the spectacular sunsets. “Shooter could be anywhere from one hundred feet to three hundred feet up there.” He nodded, indicating the obvious location for the closest shot through the glass windows. “I’ll determine the prime minister’s position in the building. You cover the grounds and see if the shooter’s got any eyes down here. Once we split up, stay far enough off me that he doesn’t see you or he’ll change the game.”

“Got it.” Armed heavily and dressed in a pewter-gray arctic suit just like Hunter’s, Mako’s wide frame melded into the night when he moved away.

Hunter owed him for agreeing to be his backup. No one volunteered, that’s for sure. With a little luck, he’d figured Jackson’s intentions correctly.

If not, Abbie would pay for his mistake.

Bile stung his throat at the thought of her out here terrified, because Jackson would have to keep her close enough to play out his next move.

Thinking about that instead of the mission was fruitless and dangerous. He had to focus to have any hope of getting her back alive.

Hunter moved around to the left, lifting his binoculars to study the quiet cocktail mixer going on. All activity appeared to be contained on the third level of the seven-thousand-square-foot vacation home belonging to British friends of the prime minister.

The UK leader came into view among a group of men, allowing no clear shot… yet. Hunter’s radio clicked once.

Mako had detected someone on the grounds.

Hunter lowered his binoculars, searching for… there. A tall man with a thick build moved carefully from the building to vehicles strewn across rutted, snow-covered ground to…

Hunter focused in on the man’s right cheek… a scar.

Fuck a duck. There was the guy who had been in Brugmann’s compound in Kauai and at the Wentworth party.

Need a location, Gotthard,” Joe said, striding across the research analyst’s area in BAD’s underground operation center.

Gotthard hit the refresh button on the chat board where he and Linette left posts on Saturdays. They used a different site for every day of the week and the seven chat boards changed monthly. “Everyone set?”

Joe paused. “Yes. Twenty teams spread across the country, ready to contact bomb squads and emergency warning systems in every city. Plus our five best bomb specialists. If the detonation time for the bomb was twenty-two hundred Eastern Standard Time it would have happened already. Must be tied to the Colorado event if it’s really going down tonight.”

“Too bad we don’t have twenty demolition experts as good as Korbin.”

“No shit.”

Gotthard hit the refresh button and Linette’s message appeared. “Got something.” He decoded as he copied her text. “She sent coordinates. Strike is in Chicago in twenty-three minutes.”

Joe stabbed the air with his fist. “Fucking A! Retter and Korbin are in Chicago. Get the coordinates to Retter and I’ll contact local authorities for emergency management in Chicago.”

Gotthard picked up his phone, hoping Linette had covered her ass with the Fratelli. She was obviously involved up to her neck.

Retter straddled a Suzuki GSX-R motorcycle, studying the traffic rolling past Chicago’s courthouse. Citizens unaware their city might be scheduled in some terrorist’s Day-Timer for tonight. He glanced around at his team, who were on identical black Jixers.

Korbin, their demolitions expert, had a backpack full of any tools he needed. He was armed with a 9mm in a shoulder holster, but Rae, Jeremy Sunn, Nathan Drake, and Retter would cover his ass if Korbin had to disarm a bomb.

Drake’s beefed-up body dwarfed the bike. His weathered look had been earned in the big house when he took his twin brother’s place in prison after his sibling was conned by a drug lord. That had been on the heels of Drake’s tour of duty as a Special Forces soldier. Sunn had spent his share of time in lockup, but mostly under orders, though he’d come to BAD with his own rap sheet. His blond hair stuck out haphazardly when he removed his helmet that was now hooked on a handlebar.

Rae hadn’t twitched a muscle in a while, her helmet on and latched, backpack slung across her shoulders. Tall, toned, and tough, she wore a thin all-weather suit in black like the other agents.

Retter’s phone beeped through his Bluetooth. He pressed the button. “Go ahead.”

Gotthard said, “Got a location. Chicago. Clark Street Bridge and Lower Wacker. Bomb detonates in twenty-one minutes.”

Ending the call, Retter spoke into his transmitter, passing the information to his team. “Take off, Korbin. We’re right behind you.”

Korbin flipped his face shield down and rolled on his throttle, squealing rubber in a streak as he left.

Retter took off right behind him. Korbin wove between cars then cut over after a truck to take a fast right turn. Retter followed around the same curve, pressing hard and leaning close to knee dragging the pavement. He straightened up quickly before plowing between traffic cluttering every lane ahead.

Korbin sliced over to the sidewalk, which had little foot traffic. Some guy jogging in sweats flew up a set of steps. Korbin zigged and zagged, blaring his horn and missing anyone in the way. The pedestrians he passed had vacated the sidewalk by the time Retter and the other three bikes roared down.

Retter slid around the corner when Wacker Drive turned right. He faced a wall of people running away from the Clark Street Bridge. Gotthard and Joe had contacted local police by now, under the guise of being with the FBI, ordering the police to put out announcements for evacuation of vehicle traffic and pedestrians anywhere near that bridge. Joe would have informed Chicago PD an FBI bomb squad was heading to the scene on motorcycles, which gave Retter and his team a half hour before the PD showed up. Maybe.

If the time for the detonation was accurate a half hour would be plenty of time. Unless they didn’t disarm the bomb.

Retter slammed on his brakes, his back tire coming off the ground, then dropping down. He kicked the stand down and climbed off the bike, pulling out his FBI windbreaker. Rae parked and pulled her matching jacket on, then shouldered a high-powered LaRue Tactical OBR rifle. All four of them plowed through the crowd.

“I’m at the base of the bridge,” Korbin’s voice said calmly in Retter’s earpiece.

He hated fucking bombs.

“Got it,” Korbin muttered, indicating he’d found the bomb. “Still scanning… shit… see a second one.”

Retter stopped at the top of the bridge on the south side, sending Sunn and Drake across to cover the north bank of the river. Rae didn’t slow until she reached the park area below and to the southeast side of the bridge. She had the best vantage point to keep an eye on Korbin’s movement and any unexpected activity beneath the bridge.

“Goddammit,” Korbin said.

Retter said, “What’s wrong?” He leaned over to see Korbin swinging under the bridge, using his hands to carry his weight and the backpack.

“Five, repeat, five bombs.” He was breathing faster with the exertion. “Let me get a look.” Silence for a few seconds, then, “Material appears possibly uranium based, but not a large amount.”

Retter had seen Korbin teaching Rae how to disarm minimally complex bombs in seconds. Let this be quick and simple. “How much time will each one take to disarm?”