Split Second (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 1)

Buick Man and Simmons were completing their preparations. The generators were in place and fully operational. The wires had been laid, the explosives set, the detonators readied. The items that Buick Man had so diligently created were also in place and ready for the big moment. All equipment had been tested and checked a dozen times. All it had to do was work perfectly the thirteenth go-round, and victory was theirs.

As Buick Man surveyed his handiwork representing so much planning and work, he didn’t even allow himself a look of satisfaction. Simmons noted this and put aside the box he was rechecking.

“Well, it’s almost show time. Looks like we’re actually going to pull it off. You ought to feel good about that.”

“Go check on them,” Buick Man ordered crisply, and then sat in a chair and went over every detail again in his head.

Simmons made his way to the prisoners and eyed them through the separate doors of the rooms they were being held in. Unconscious for now—their food had been drugged—they’d be awake soon enough. And if all went according to plan, he’d be on his way out of the country with enough money to last him several lifetimes. He returned to where Buick Man still sat, eyes closed, head lowered.

“How long before you think they come calling here?” Simmons asked, breaking the silence hesitantly, for he knew how the man craved quiet.

Buick Man answered, “Soon. They should be hitting the Tennessee bunker any time now.”

“They’ll be surprised.”

Buick Man looked at him disdainfully. “That’s the general idea. Do you have any comprehension of the thought and planning that’s gone into this? Do you think this is all simply for your amusement?”

Simmons looked down nervously. “So when will she be getting back?”

“She’ll be here in time. She wouldn’t want to miss the next part. I’m actually looking forward to it myself.” Now he looked at his companion. “Are you ready?”

Simmons squared his shoulders and assumed a confident look. “I was born ready for this stuff.”

Buick Man stared at him intently for a moment or so and then lowered his head and closed his eyes once more.

CHAPTER

61

USING BINOCULARS, Michelle and King watched safely from the truck as a Suburban with a half dozen of Parks’s men inside rolled down the dirt road toward the house, or more aptly, the cabin. Looking around, King thought that the area could not be any more remote. They were on the spine of a ridge of the Great Smoky Mountains, and the tricky topography had pushed the truck’s four-wheel-drive power to its limits. Pine, ash and oak rose on all sides around them, forming a wall that would bring darkness here about two hours earlier than normal. Even now, at eleven o’clock in the morning, dusk seemed to be gathering, and there was a damp cold in the air that seemed to eat right through them, even inside the truck.

King and Michelle watched as the Suburban stopped in front of the cabin and the driver got out. There were no other vehicles visible; no smoke curled from the cabin’s chimney, and not even a dog, cat or chicken graced the dirt front yard. Inside the truck the heavily armed federal agents were invisible behind the tinted glass. Well, King thought, the Trojan horse tactic had worked for thousands of years, and he hoped it continued its winning streak here. As he sat there visualizing the agents lying in wait, another thought dimly took shape in his head: Trojan horse? He pushed it away for now and refocused on the coming siege.

The cabin was surrounded by the other agents, who lay in the dirt and grass and behind rock outcropping on all sides, their rifles pointed at precise locations along the target: the doors, windows and other prime kill zones. King thought whoever was in the cabin would need to be a magician to escape this net. And yet the underground bunker was problematic. He and Pa

rks had discussed this. The blueprints the marshal had been able to obtain were missing one critical element: the location of the bunker’s exterior doors and/or air vents, which it had to have. To guard against escape through these exits, Parks had posted men at points where it seemed logical the bunker would have outside access.

One of the agents walked up to the front door as another emerged from the truck and pulled out a surveyor’s tripod. County public works insignia had been hung on the sides of the door. Underneath the men’s bulky jackets was body armor, and their pistols rode on belt clips, ready to be pulled. The other men in the truck had enough firepower to take on an army regiment.

King and Michelle held their breaths as the agent knocked on the door. Thirty seconds went by and then a minute. He knocked again, called out. Another minute went by. He walked around the side of the cabin and reappeared on the other end about a minute later. As he walked back to the truck, he seemed to be talking to himself. He was, King knew, getting authority from Parks to hit the target. That authority must have been granted, because the doors to the Suburban burst open and the men piled out and flew toward the door that was blown open by a shotgun blast wielded by the point man. Seven men burst through this opening and disappeared inside. King and Michelle watched as men emerged from the woods on all sides of the cabin and moved toward it, rifles pointed and ready to fire.

All were waiting tensely for gunfire to signal that the enemy was there and prepared to go down in glorious flames. Yet all they heard was the breeze rustling the leaves and the occasional bird chirping. Thirty minutes later the all-clear was sounded, and Michelle and King drove down and joined Parks and the other hunters.

The cabin was small and contained only a few pieces of rustic furniture, an empty fireplace, stale food in the cabinets and a mostly empty fridge. They had found the entrance to the bunker through a door in the basement.

The bunker was many times the size of the cabin. It was well lighted and clean and had been used very recently. There were storage rooms with shelves that were empty, but the dust patterns showed that things had been stacked there not long ago. There was a shooting range that, from

the smell, had also seen activity. When they came to the prison cells, Parks nodded at King and Michelle, and they followed him down the corridor to one of the cells where the door was ajar. Parks used his foot to shove it fully open.

It was empty.

“They’re all empty,” grumbled Parks. “This was one big strikeout. But the place was occupied recently, and we’ll go over it with a fine-tooth comb.”

He stalked off to arrange for tech teams to scour the place. King stared at the inside of the cell and then shone his light into each crevice, flinching when something glinted back at him. He went inside, looked under the small cot and then said to Michelle, “Do you have a handkerchief?”

She handed him one, and he used it to pull the shiny object out. It was an earring.

Michelle examined it. “It’s one of Joan’s.”