Why had they arrested him? Sure, he’d had an altercation with Adams, but so what? That’s suspicion, not evidence. They were running a gunshot residue test on him — but that was being done to bolster the evidence they already had.
Uzi tried to compartmentalize his anger and fear to reason this through. If Adams was killed, it had to be someone from ARM — someone who’d discovered Adams was a government agent. But Adams had been there two years. Who would suddenly betray him — and why now? Fallout from his and DeSantos’s incursion on their compound?
Perhaps the incident had been captured on film and Adams was killed for incompetence — an example to the others of what would happen if they didn’t do their jobs properly.
He stuck to known facts. They were running a GSR and had recovered a slug from Adams’s body. It was from a .40 caliber Glock — the weapon Uzi, and just about all FBI agents, used. Combined with the altercation they’d had, someone must have convinced a judge to issue an arrest warrant. Yet no judge would authorize the arrest of a federal agent unless he had damn good proof. But the magistrate had said there was a ballistics match.
A ballistics match. How can that be?
He stood up and grabbed the bars, closed his eyes and leaned his head against the painted metal. This was not helping. He needed to know what the cops knew.
Suddenly the main door to the room cracked open. And Uzi’s head snapped up. DeSantos pushed through.
“Boychick… I came as soon as I heard.”
“What the hell is going on?”
DeSantos settled himself in front of the cell, placed his hands on the bars. “I wish I could tell you everything’s under control, but things are all fucked up.”
“What could possibly be fucked up? I didn’t kill Adams. What could they have on me?”
“All I know is Coulter signed an order authorizing Fairfax PD to access the Academy’s ballistic profile database. They ran the slug they pulled from Adams. It’s a match.”
“For my gun.”
DeSantos hiked his eyebrows. “Apparently.”
“That’s impossible, Santa. How could someone steal my gun, kill Adams, and then return it to me?”
“Unless the Glock you’re carrying isn’t really your Glock. If it was switched at some other time, say a few days ago, you wouldn’t have known.”
Uzi felt his heart skip a beat. He slumped down onto the cot. “Either way, I’m fucked.”
“Not on my watch.”
The two men turned to see Douglas Knox standing in the doorway to the cell block.
“Mr. Director,” Uzi said, quickly rising to his feet. He glanced at his partner for an explanation, but DeSantos seemed just as surprised.
“Obviously, there’s been a mistake,” Knox said. “Detective?” He turned to the open doorway.
Paulson walked in, keys dangling at his side. He didn’t look pleased. He unlocked Uzi’s cell, then walked away without saying a word.
Knox shut the door to the room and stood toe to toe with Uzi. “GSR was negative.”
Uzi knew that was a bullshit explanation— the GSR could’ve been negative even if he had killed Adams. And if that was the reason for his release, Knox would not have wasted his time showing up at the local police station.
“I’ll leave you to get your belongings,” Knox said. “Hector, with me.”
DeSantos gave Uzi’s shoulder a shove, then left with Knox.
As Tim Meadows made a U-turn, he took another glance at the sedan down the block from his house. It was one he hadn’t seen before. Although some considered his self-preservation measures paranoiac, he had seen more of humanity’s seedier slices than most individuals would experience in a lifetime.
And this car bothered him. Sure, its windows were tinted, but there was an intangible something about it that set off his internal alarm.
He checked his mirrors, then got out of his vehicle and hustled up the path to the front door. He disabled the house alarm and descended the basement steps to grab a pair of binoculars. He’d find a safe place where he had a clear view, get the license plate, and call it in.
As he lifted his Leupold Mark 4 tactical glasses from their case, he noticed something in the darkness. Rather, it was what he didn’t see that caught his attention: the lack of green power LEDs that normally glowed from his PC across the room. He flipped on the lights. The computer — and a couple of projects on the workbench — were missing. And the door to his gun safe was ajar.
Meadows bit his lip. Someone had broken into his home and stolen his PC. Why? Was it related to the Russian 7.62 round Uzi had brought him? As he reached for his cell phone, his eye caught sight of a red light on the floor, attached to a device that wasn’t supposed to be there: a detonation unit piggybacked by what looked like multiple blocks of C-4.
“Jesus Christ!”
Meadows darted forward, as fast as his thick legs would carry him, toward the basement’s side wall. He grabbed the heavy gun safe door and pulled it open, then shoved his body inside, rotating his beer gut and squeezing himself against the velour interior.
He struggled to swing the door shut. But he couldn’t lock it— This was a safe, with hardened steel lugs that latched into the frame. As long as he didn’t secure the handle, he could get out. But if the mechanism engaged accidentally, or if debris piled in front of the door, he’d die from asphyxiation.
If the blast didn’t kill him outright. He gambled the explosion would push the door tight enough for the duration of the pressure wave, then leave the path free of rubble for his exit. Gambling. With his life. Damn it…
Images flicked through his mind like an out-of-control movie projector. Calm yourself. Think!
He pictured the device, analyzing its setup. Reviewing his options. What options? Defeat it. Difficult, but not impossible. If he had time to study it. But if he guessed wrong, or if it was booby trapped, the fat lady would be singing so loud everyone in the neighborhood would hear her.
Then there was that car. If the bombers were sitting out there waiting for the right second to set off the device, they’d probably shoot him dead if he tried to leave the house.
No, there was no defeating it and no escaping. The only thing left to do was hope the safe would survive the explosion. It was fire resistant and blast proof. But even though the force would be directed upwards, he was so damn close to the bomb.
Just how blast proof was “blast proof”?
He was sure whoever planted it had to be associated with Uzi’s case. Who else would want him dead? He was a likeable guy. No enemies, aside from that sixth grade bully he popped in the eye—
So freakin’ hot in here. He struggled to breathe, wishing he’d stuck to the diet and exercise plan he’d started two years ago. Would’ve been a lifesaver in more ways than one.
Nothing to do but wait. His skin was clammy and fear-slick. Mere seconds had passed, but it felt like hours.
His arms ached from pulling on the door to keep it closed— but not locked — not locked!
Cell phone— Would it work in here? Call EOD. Yes! Before the damn thing goes off. But in the next second, that thought vanished.
The blast was deafening.
Uzi retrieved his belongings — sans his Glock — and met DeSantos in the parking lot. His partner started talking before Uzi reached him. “Knox said your palm had trace barium and antimony.”
“From handling my weapon, putting it in my holster.”
DeSantos nodded. “That was all they found. Otherwise, GSR was negative.”
They got into DeSantos’s vintage Corvette and swung the doors shut. “Santa, you and I both know they’re not throwing out a murder charge based on a negative GSR. What gives?”