Sydney looked toward Griffin.

“I need to see what this wire’s for,” he said.

“Be careful, Zachary.”

He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her use his first name before. “You too.”

“Aren’t I always?” And then the sound of her footsteps as she raced up the stairs.

Griffin, phone in hand as his only source of light, entered the tunnel. He took a deep breath, and then another before starting forward. He’d had to train himself to get past the tight spaces, relax enough to let the claustrophobic feelings pass. The tunnel was not going to come down on him, and he kept his eye on the wire to the right, careful not to disturb it. At the same time, there was the box of explosives up ahead, and with the phone angled that way, the light bouncing as he moved, he half imagined there was another source of light shining on the dirt wall near the box in front of him.

He stilled.

It wasn’t his imagination. Nor was his phone the source of the light.

Even worse, the light he saw reflecting off the rocky wall looked suspiciously like it was some sort of digital device flashing in countdown mode.

He doubled his pace, dirt and rocks digging into his palms and knees, and he wondered if the dog had somehow set off a detonator on this secondary device. The box of explosives was nearly in the middle of the tunnel, and he leaned over it to view the timer.

Two minutes, thirty-­nine seconds. And counting down fast. A mercury switch. The dog must have brushed against it and set it off.

He heard something. Panting.

Max, he realized, but turned his attention to the detonator, vaguely aware that the air here smelled. Of urine.

Dead men didn’t urinate. Men who were trapped in tunnels did.

Trish’s brother was going to have to wait. He had a bomb to disarm. Using his phone as a flashlight, he examined the device on all sides. Whoever had set this up had used a simple connection. Finally, something going his way. He dug out his pocketknife, then cut the wire. The timer stopped. But then came that millisecond of worry, until nothing more happened. He took a deep breath, sat back, and was about to start down the tunnel again, when he eyed the mercury switch, suddenly getting a bad feeling. Why have a mercury switch and a wire connecting it to the other detonator? The mercury switch on this detonator would have set it off just from the vibration when the main cache exploded . . .

The answer suddenly became clear—­fail-­secure—­and he hurried back through the tunnel toward the basement, jumping out, then racing over to the four boxes of explosives sitting in the middle of the floor. Sure enough, the LED timer flashed down the seconds at warp speed. He cut the wire, grateful it was such a simple device, then stood there, his heart racing at the close call.

Not quite a dead man’s switch. More like a delayed dead man’s switch.

Just when the adrenaline started to leave, he heard Max barking.

Time to see what the dog found.

He reentered the tunnel, noticing that it widened at the curve just before he saw a thin stream of light filtering in through the grille overhead. Undoubtedly where the rocks covered the grille opening he’d seen from above. The shaft, slightly more than a half-­meter wide, allowed enough light to see the dog at the feet of a man who sat with his back against the tunnel wall. The dog looked up, his tail wagging. The man merely watched him, perhaps trying to decide if he was there to help or hurt.

“Calvin Walker?”

“Yes—­” He cleared his throat. “Who . . . ?”

“A friend of your sister’s.”

“Any—­” He stopped. “Sorry. Laryngitis . . . Shouting.” And indeed his voice was raspy. He held up his handcuffed wrist, the silver marred with his dried blood from trying to pull out of it. A long chain snaked from the handcuff to a large eye hook anchored in the rock wall of the cave. “Key?”

Griffin examined the locking mechanism. Standard handcuff, double locked, which made it more difficult to open, but not impossible. “No. But I have the next best thing.” He pocketed his phone, took out his wallet, removing the money clip, which, had anyone examined, was noticeably slimmer than what came with the wallet. About the thickness of a large paper clip, its end turned up slightly. In his line of work, it wasn’t a good idea to carry around a handcuff key, especially when working undercover. Too often identified with law enforcement, whereas a lock pick designed as a money clip was usually overlooked.

“How’d you end up here?” Griffin asked, inserting the tool into the lock, fishing it around to get a feel inside.

“Politics.” Calvin gave a weak smile. “I refused to join the chief’s party.”

Griffin found the double-­lock mechanism, turned the tool, and heard a click. Now for the main lock. “Who’s behind this?”

“A guy named Quindlen.”

“You know him?”

“Met him a few times. He’s a friend of the chief. I think they got to my informant, killed him. Haven’t seen him since my arrest.”

“So why keep you alive down here?”

“Quindlen’s idea. Harder to explain a bullet hole in an autopsy. Hence the water,” he said, holding up an empty bottle. “Don’t want your body—­if it’s found—­dying of dehydration. But an explosion? It fits the scenario they cooked up.”

“Quindlen’s behind this?”

“He’s behind everything here. But someone’s behind him. Someone big. Don’t know who.” The lock popped open, and Calvin rubbed at his wrist. “Thanks.”

Griffin replaced the pick into his wallet. “So this big investigation they have on you?”

“Set up by Chief Parks and Quindlen.” He reached out, scratched Max behind his ears. “Never saw it coming.”

“Any idea where Quindlen’s operation is based out of?”

“Unfortunately no. But it can’t be too far from here, because I see him in town a lot.”

“Can you crawl out, or will you need help?”

“I can do it. Perhaps not quickly . . .”

The sharp crack of gunfire echoed down the air shaft. The patrol officers were taking shots at Sydney. “Sorry. Gotta go.”

Calvin, one arm resting on the dog’s back, nodded. “We’ll get there.”

Griffin ducked back into the passageway, hurried through the tunnel. Just as he emerged from the basement, he heard several rapid shots coming from outside.

Sydney . . .

Griffin took the stairs two at a time. The ground floor was empty. Sydney had propped the extension ladder against the front door, undoubtedly to serve as a warning should someone try to enter—­she’d hear the ladder falling and know the entry was breached. Knowing she’d go for high ground, he raced to the second floor, found her in a front bedroom, her weapon gripped in her right hand. She stood next to the window, peering out through tattered curtains, yellowed with age.

“What’s going on?” he asked, taking the position opposite her and drawing his own gun.

“They’re aiming at the ground down by the wall. Three officers, fully automatic weapons. Considering they thought we were reporters, and don’t even know we’re armed, why not just shoot us? Spray the house with gunfire? There’s not a lot to stop it.”

“Good question.” He thought about what Calvin said, about no bullets being found at an autopsy. “If I had to guess, they want to blow us with the house. Make it look like an accident.”

The two of them stood like that for several seconds, watching, waiting, when she suddenly turned to him. “I wasn’t planning on dying this weekend.”

“Same here.”

“Any last words in case we don’t make it? You said you wanted to talk about—­”

He heard Max and Calvin enter the room, and was grateful for the timely interruption. Calvin ordered Max to stay, then he crouched down next to him in the doorway, keeping his head below the level of the window.

“That would be Calvin,” Griffin said. “Trish’s brother.”

Sydney turned, stared at the man for a full second. “Oh my God . . . Trish? Get in here.”