Assuming no one was hurt in the operation, the worst thing that could happen if he and Sydney got caught was that they’d be punished for using government resources in a nonsanctioned, nonvital operation. They could be suspended without pay for such a move.

Then again, they could both be fired.

Least of his worries right now.

Ten minutes later outside the fence line, as Griffin eyed the dog through his binoculars, he told himself that he didn’t care if what he was doing went against the rules. In his mind, this was one case where it was better to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission. And if they took down a corrupt local government while they were doing it, all the better. “Exactly how did you plan on getting in there past the patrol officers guarding the place?” he asked Trish.

“There’s a gate on the perimeter fencing around the back. It’s locked. But there’s also a hole near the gate where the dog got through. I think it’s big enough for us.”

“What sort of patrols do we have?” Griffin asked.

“A uniformed officer drives the outer circumference, checking on the property about every thirty minutes, making sure the gates are locked. Ever since they discovered the explosives, they haven’t varied their schedule.”

“Beyond the chief, you think the officers are in on this?” he asked her.

“I don’t know. I never got the chance to ask my brother.”

“And the agents who they turned the guns over to? Could they be in bed with the corrupt police?”

“I don’t think so. The biggest problem with them is they’re too by the book. At least according to my brother.”

Of course, Griffin thought, there was one thing neither he nor Sydney considered when they set out on this mission. “What happens if we find your brother’s body? Any chance the police chief’s going to let us waltz out of here with it?”

Sydney gave him a sardonic look, but any quip she might have uttered died at the sight of a dust cloud in the distance.

Apparently the road coming from the south wasn’t paved. “That’s probably the patrol.” He checked his watch. “Now we know their schedule. Nice of them to make it easy for us.”

A minute later, the vehicle drove past the gulch where they hid. It stopped, the red dust settling as the officer got out, checked the chain on the gate, then stood there a moment, looking in their direction. Although they were hidden in the brush, Griffin felt Sydney tensing next to him. But then the officer turned away, got back into his vehicle, and drove off.

They waited until the trail of dust was long gone before they got up, moved to the gate. Trish showed them where the dog had gotten through, a hole beneath the chain link. Griffin lifted it, allowing first Sydney, then Trish in, before sliding under it himself. Sydney and Trish climbed the hill toward the house to have a look around, while Griffin, using the shrubs for cover, worked his way to the end of the broken wall, where the dog rested.

When he reached the break in the wall, the dog turned toward him, his sad eyes looking suddenly hopeful as he raised his head, then wagged his tail hesitantly. In that moment, had all the forces of Washington, D.C., ordered him off, Griffin knew without a doubt that he couldn’t walk away.

“Hey, Max,” he said quietly, not wanting to scare the dog. “C’mere.”

Max stood, but didn’t move, watching with a wary expression as Griffin neared. He looked thin, his coat dull from the dust.

“Max.” Griffin took a few more steps, held out his hand, then clicked his tongue. “C’mere, boy. Come.”

The dog remained steadfast.

At least he wasn’t growling. Griffin took that as a good sign, talking softly, moving forward, slow, steady, until he was just two steps away.

“Good dog.” He reached out, allowed the dog to smell the back of his hand. “Where’s Calvin?” The dog’s ears perked up. “Where’s Calvin? C’mon, boy. Show me.”

Max gave a slight whine, then jumped down and started digging in the hard, sandy soil, right beneath the foremost rock.

Griffin might still have doubts about Trish’s theory on the location of Calvin Walker’s body—­he saw no signs of a fresh grave, nor smelled the stench of decaying flesh that in this climate was a sure sign. But this dog was trying to tell him that something was beneath there.

He crouched down next to the dog, looking at the rocks, and the dog pushed his nose against Griffin’s arm, as though urging him forward. Max jumped so that his forepaws were on the rock. He barked twice, and Griffin wondered if perhaps there was a murder weapon, or something that belonged to his master that would explain why the dog had steadfastly remained in this one spot of all places. He leaned forward to peer into the shadows cast by the bush growing right against the break in the wall.

What he didn’t expect was to feel air moving against his face. Or a sound coming from beneath the rocks. Like the noise a seashell makes when you hold it to your ear.

The rocks weren’t there to cover up a grave. They were there to cover up an old mining shaft.

“Anyone down there?”

No answer.

Griffin pulled one of the rocks off and it rolled down the pile. Then another, until he partially exposed a metal grate covering the shaft. He cleared the remainder of the rocks from it and saw it was a little over a half meter in diameter. The bush growing next to it blocked the sunlight and he couldn’t see how deep it went. Someone certainly could have dropped a body down there, but after three days, there would have been some smell of decay—­unless it was too deep. “Calvin Walker? Are you there?”

He couldn’t tell if what he heard was a raspy faint response or an echo of his last word. The dog, however, whined. That was proof enough for Griffin, and he started to lift the grille when Sydney called out to him. He looked up to see her and Trish on the porch.

Sydney pointed toward the ser­vice road. “The patrol car’s coming back around.” Sure enough, there was a growing cloud of dust, which suddenly settled, indicating the car had stopped a ­couple of hundred yards out.

Sydney turned her binoculars back to the road. “Getting out of the car . . . Gun!” She pulled Trish down onto the porch a second before the first shot rang out. Bits of rock and dust went flying past Griffin’s face.

Griffin dove to the ground, on the far side of the rocks. A second shot rang out. Max gave a sharp cry.

Unsure if he was hit or simply scared, Griffin called him. “Max! Come!”

The dog obeyed. Griffin grabbed him by the collar, so he couldn’t run off. Although Griffin couldn’t see the officer, he wasn’t about to poke his head up over the low wall to look, so he held the dog to the ground next to him. From that distance, it had to be a long-­range rifle. “Sydney! Visual?”

“Clear! . . . Run!”

Gripping Max’s collar, he sprinted up the hill to the house, onto the porch where Sydney and Trish hid. Sydney was standing behind the trellis, the thick, leafless vines giving her cover as she watched.

“What’s he doing?”

“Backing up, I’m assuming so he can call in reinforcements.”

“We could use some big guns of our own,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. Tucson’s FBI field office was the closest. Only one problem. “No signal.”

In fact, no one had a signal, and Trish said, “Come to think of it, every time I’ve come, I haven’t been able to get ser­vice on this hill. I just thought it was my phone.”

“They must have a jamming device,” he said.

“What does that do?” Trish asked.

“Used by the military to block radio or phone signals that might detonate a remote-­controlled improvised explosive device. A good idea if you’ve got something wired to blow.”

“That,” Sydney added, “is a mighty sophisticated piece of equipment for a two-­bit town like this. So where do you think they have it?”