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Enigma

HQN Books

Waleska, Georgia

ONE MORE JILTED LOVER pissed off at being dumped. At least that's the way it seemed to be playing out. Unfortunately, the jiltee knew his way around bombs, and the jilter was a pre-school teacher.

Which meant a hell of a problem. And to make matters worse, Frank Ingram, the rejected suitor, had swallowed a bullet less than an hour ago. A neighbor had found the body and the note. That was about the only break they'd caught so far.

The device, located in a second floor classroom of the First Baptist Preschool, was attached to a motion detector. Too much vibration and it was all over.Which of course meant there could be no evacuation. And very little access to the bomb.

The only reason the thing hadn't already detonated was the fact that the classroom where it had been placed wasn't currently being used. A small quantity of mold had been found beneath an air-conditioning unit, and until the sample could be tested, the children had been removed from the room.

Which left Samantha Waters with two scenarios. Either the bomber hadn't been aware of the mold, or he wasn't really interested in killing anyone. Considering the alleged lethal nature of the device, and the fact that the room was normally occupied by the woman he'd wanted dead, Sam was opting for the former. And thanking her lucky stars. If not for the mold, she'd be picking through the body parts of toddlers instead of trying to figure out how to evacuate them.

The thought sent a bolt of anger coursing through her. She'd seen the aftermath of a day care blown to hell. It still haunted her dreams. And she'd be damned before she'd let the same thing happen here.

There were three other classrooms in use on the second floor, one across from the room with the bomb and two down the hall. The staircase was at the opposite end of the building, which meant there was no way to use it.

Because of the mold, the intended victim and her class had been working in a different room today, a twist of fate that probably saved her life, since the Cherokee County Fire Department had successfully evacuated everyone on that level. So Maggie Carmichael and the three-year-olds of Waleska were safe for the moment. But that left the rest of the children. And Sam didn't like their odds.

Normally she wouldn't have been involved with a local situation, but she'd been returning from another case when she'd heard the radio dispatch. And quite frankly, she wasn't a siton-the-sidelines kind of girl.

"We've evacuated everyone we can, and deployed the robot." The county bomb tech slid to a halt beside Sam, the fine glisten of sweat across his forehead a reflection of the slight tremor in his voice. Not that Sam blamed the man. He couldn't be more than about twenty, the fine stubble of his beard indication that he probably hadn't been shaving all that long.

Most men volunteered for the bomb squad out of some sort of misguided testosterone-cowboy need to physically stand down the enemy. Unfortunately, the rush was the kind that induced incontinence, and more often than not the bad guys won the day, the carnage in places like the World Trade Center and the Murrah building silent testimony to the fact.

"There's a problem, though," the kid was saying, and Sam forced her attention back to the scene at hand. "In order to get the robot up there, it'll have to climb the stairs, and what with the age of the building and all, there's a good chance the clatter will set that sucker off before Max has a chance to make it halfway."

Max was a TR2000 robot. The ten-wheeled apparatus weighed less than forty-five pounds and was designed to operate in tight spaces. Unfortunately, it wasn't known for its athletic grace. She sighed, eyeing the school building. It was an unusually warm spring day and all the windows were open — including the ones leading into the room with the bomb.

She lowered her binoculars, a rush of adrenaline ratcheting up her heart rate. Maybe there was a chance. "I think I've got an idea." She smiled at the young tech, and moved past him toward the cluster of emergency personnel standing in the parking lot of the building.

"Captain McBane," she called, waving at the fire chief, the ranking officer at the scene and therefore technically in charge. He turned with a frown, his expression clearly stating what he thought of women on the job, especially tiny little women who soaking wet weighed less than the bomb.

She'd heard it all before, and didn't really give a damn, ex-cept that it sometimes made getting her way a bit more difficult. She forced a smile and approached the little group. "I think I know a way we can get at the bomb."

Two other firemen, both pushing fifty, turned to face her, shooting sideways glances at their captain, waiting to follow his lead.

"Well now," he drawled, stopping just short of adding little lady. "I'm open to hearing anything you've got."

He probably wasn't, but at the moment Sam didn't care. "What I want you to do is move the fire engine closer to the building."

"Sure thing, and then we can all stand back and enjoy the show. There'll be body parts spread over three counties," McBane said.

One of the firemen contained a snicker, and the other spat, refusing to look her in the eye.

She bit back her frustration. "The playground's covered with recycled rubber, it's meant to absorb a fall. In fact it'll absorb most anything. Even the movement of the truck. And it's practically under the damn window. If you approach it slowly from the south — " she pointed at the open field that flanked the playground " — the bomb won't detonate."

McBane's posture was still combative, but there was a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"If we load Max onto the extension arm," she continued, pressing the advantage, "I think we can lift it close enough for me to maneuver the robot into position for an X-ray. Once we have that, I can use the disrupter to shoot out the motion detector and our bomb won't be able to spray anything anywhere."

Silence followed as the three men digested the information. She waited, knowing already they'd have to capitulate. If they didn't follow the advice of an ATF EEO and things went south, there'd be hell to pay. And if she fucked things up, then they had an out. It was a win/win situation, but that didn't mean it had to sit easy.

"I guess it's worth a try." McBane's words were accompanied by a sigh meant to insult, but Sam was already halfway across the parking lot, motioning for the young tech to follow.

"What's your name?" she asked the kid.

"Jason Briggs."

"Well, Jason, you've been drafted to help me. Got a bomb suit?"

He nodded, his eyes widening as the meaning of her words sank in. "We're going in there?"

She laughed and shook her head, stopping at the back of her open Chevy Suburban. Her suit was state of the art. A Med-Eng EOD 7-B, it weighed in at around sixty pounds — over half her body weight. "We're sending Max up there." She pointed at the fire truck, already moving into place. "But it never hurts to cover your ass, you know?"

Jason nodded, his expression solemn. "You been doing this long?"

A fair question, considering he was about to trust her with his life. She stepped into the pants, adjusting the grounder straps. "For most of my professional life. Started out in a department a lot like yours."

"How long you been with the ATF?" He reached down for the ballistic inserts,...