A moment later, Trish was barreling down the hallway. “What’s wrong? Did—­?” Her face crumpled when she saw her brother, and she dove into his arms. “I thought you were dead  . . .” She started crying. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I’m sorry.”

A smile lit Sydney’s face and she looked over at Griffin. “Nice job, Griff.”

More gunfire erupted.

Griffin saw the dirt flying up at the base of the hill. Sydney was correct. They were purposefully shooting low.

She pressed herself against the wall, away from the window. “This might be a good time to brainstorm, because I’m out of ideas.”

“I could give myself up,” Calvin said. “I’m the one they want dead.”

“No,” Trish said, burying her face in her brother’s shoulder.

“If I did, they might let you all go.”

“I doubt it,” Griffin said, “since they’re expecting to blow the house sky-­high and us with it. I’d just like to know what they’re waiting for.”

“Just be grateful they are waiting,” Sydney said, then eyed Griffin. “You did disarm the bombs?”

“Twice.”

Her brows went up.

“Technical glitch. Right now, we may have a bigger problem.”

“Like what?” she asked, turning her attention back to the window.

“Anger issues. Like what happens when they shut off the jamming device and the bombs won’t detonate.”

“Oh good. Because death by long-­range automatic weapon is much preferred. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re outgunned and outmanned.” She glanced down at his Glock. “With thirty-­two rounds between us, I don’t think we’re going to last that long, even if they did move into range.”

“You have a better idea?”

“Get the phones working and call in the damned cavalry.”

“It would have been nice to know we needed the damned cavalry before we got here,” he quipped.

“Like they would have come?”

She had a point. Their only evidence had been a dog sitting by a broken wall.

He glanced out, eyed the wall where he’d first seen the dog, then his gaze moved to the shed where the jamming device was probably located, far enough away to prevent injury if the explosives were detonated, and close enough for him or Sydney to shoot, if the men approached. But they hadn’t approached. And Griffin was certain it had nothing to do with them thinking that he or Sydney was armed, or they’d be taking better cover than they were. Undoubtedly they still considered the two of them as reporters. And yet, had any of the officers wanted to, they could still move closer, probably shoot right through the walls . . .

“They can’t switch off the jamming device until right before they detonate,” Griffin said. “Or they risk us calling for help. That means they’re waiting.”

“We’ve established that,” Sydney replied.

“But not what they’re waiting for.”

Calvin extricated himself from his sister’s arms, then joined them at the window, looking out. “The chief’s not there. They won’t make a move without him.”

“Maybe he really did have a meeting,” Sydney said. “That’s what he told us when we left his office.”

“Town council?” Calvin asked.

“That’s what he said.”

Calvin actually laughed as he peered through the curtains. “No wonder. After the meeting, Parks usually heads to the massage parlor for the chief’s special. I understand it involves handcuffs, leather, and a safety word, and he turns his police radio off.”

“This wouldn’t constitute an emergency?” Griffin asked. “Wouldn’t they call him on his cell phone?”

“Trust me. You do not want to be the guy who interrupts that. See the officer in the middle? He did that once. Lucky to still have a job. Probably wouldn’t, except it’s hard to find good sheep in cops’ uniforms these days.”

Griffin parted the curtain slightly, surveying the area. “So how long does Parks’s little interlude last?”

Calvin looked at his watch. “He keeps a pretty regular schedule, which means he’s probably on his way here.”

“Sydney?”

“God knows there’s enough explosives down there. Can’t we use that to blow the cops up?”

“No way to get a bomb from here to there, without them sweeping us with gunfire.”

“So how do we draw them closer without making us targets? At least then we could shoot them.”

“Just a thought,” Calvin said. “But couldn’t we let them blow up the house, then let them think we’re dead?”

“How?” Griffin asked.

“Use fewer explosives than they had wired up. We hide in the tunnel, the house goes down, they leave. We emerge unscathed.”

“Too risky. The blast will carry into the tunnel.” He peered out the window, his gaze following the length of the wall to the end, where he’d first seen the dog waiting . . . “What we need to do is get closer.”

“How?” Sydney asked.

“The tunnel. We use the ladder you found to climb out.”

“Will the ladder reach?”

Two eight-­foot extensions . . . Unfortunately he hadn’t paid too much attention to the height of the tunnel, but he didn’t think it was much more than fifteen feet. “I think so.”

They agreed. Sydney stood guard at the front door, while the three of them and the dog retreated below.

Griffin carried the ladder, but it wasn’t until he slid it into the tunnel that it occurred to him the thing might be too long to get around the curve near the air shaft. One way to find out. He grabbed one end, Calvin the other, both trying not to let it hit the ground or make noise. When they reached the curve, Griffin turned, pulling the ladder with him.

It fit. Barely.

Extending it, however, was another issue altogether. The ratchet mechanism rattled the aluminum and the sound echoed up the chamber.

“Slow,” Griffin said. “One click at a time, then wait.”

Calvin nodded. The dog wagged his tail.

“I’m going to get Sydney.”

He left Calvin and his sister to finish extending the ladder, then crawled out the tunnel, through the basement, before calling up the stairs to her.

She hurried down.

“Any sign of the chief yet?”

“No.”

Turning back, he eyed the boxes of explosives sitting in the middle of the basement. “Shame to waste it,” he said, then proceeded to gather the detonator and the length of wire from beneath the boxes.

“What are you doing?”

“Contingency plan, Sydney,” he said, rolling the wire as he moved toward the tunnel entrance. “Grab a few sticks on your way.”

“How many?”

“Four to six should do it.”

The others were waiting in the chamber, the ladder fully extended.

Max sat, his tail thumping, undoubtedly glad to be with Calvin.

Griffin wrapped the wire around the sticks as well as the detonator, outlining his plan to the others when a high-­pitched squeal followed by the sound of tires on gravel echoed down the chamber from the ground above.

Everyone froze.

“Chief’s here,” Calvin whispered. “That’s his car.”

Griffin placed the bomb onto the ground, then took hold of the ladder. “Everyone know what to do?”

At their collective yes, he started up the ladder, with Sydney following. Calvin and Trish held the ladder steady. At the top, Griffin lifted the heavy grate, metal hitting rock as he set it to one side.

“You hear that?” someone from outside said.

Griffin’s heart pounded. He reached for his gun, listening for a sign that someone was walking toward them.

After what seemed an eternity, he heard Parks say, “Probably that damned dog of Walker’s that’s been hanging around. If I didn’t think the town would lynch me for putting a bullet in its head, I’d a done it a long time ago. Now what the hell’s going on in that house?”

“Those reporters showed up here snooping around. We’ve got them cornered inside. No one shot, just like you said.”

“That right? Where are they?”

“Saw them upstairs a few minutes ago.”

“Apparently they didn’t believe me when I told ’em there weren’t any dead bodies. Boys? I think it’s time to move up that detonation from tomorrow to now. Guess that dynamite’s a lot more unstable than we thought.” Some laughter, then, “Richie, shut off the IED jammer.”