Pure Dynamite
Authors: Lauren Bach
Tags: #Mystery, #Psychological, #Man-Woman Relationships, #Fiction - Psychological Suspense, #Escapes, #Prisoners, #Fiction, #Romance, #Suspense, #Crime & mystery, #Crime & Thriller, #Romance - Suspense
A STRONG HAND GRABBED THE BACK OF HER SHIRT
"Renata, stop!"
"No!" She surged forward. "Let me go!"
Adam tightened his grip, yanking her backwards. The wet fabric of her shirt ripped, costing him his hold.
The unexpected momentum of being released made Renata lose her balance. She pitched forward awkwardly, grasping her ruined shirt with one hand as she struggled to regain her footing. Staggering, she leaped away.
He tackled her, hugging her close as they hit the ground and rolled down the embankment toward the ditch. They stopped just short of the water, Adam on top, Renata trapped beneath his large frame.
She sank into the wet ground, her scraped side burning. The disappointment over not getting away cut to the bone, crushing her tenuous hold on her temper.
She drew back and punched him. "Let me go, damn you!"
He caught her wrists, yanking them over her head and pinning them.
"Give it up," he shouted hoarsely. "You don't stand a chance against me. You never did."
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Copyright © 2004 by Kathleen G. Holzapfel
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First Printing: October 2004
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To Kate Duffy
Editorial Director, Goddess, Genius.
For believing, guiding, inspiring.
The author wishes to thank the following for their time and assistance. All errors are mine, not theirs. I tend to bend/break/ignore rules...
Rosale Lobo, R.N., M.S.N., C.L.N.C., Lobo Consulting Group, for medical expertise, friendship, and encouragement.
Karen Tapp, M.D., U.N.C. Hospital, Chapel Hill, for answering questions and being so cool.
FBI Special Agent Bret Kirby, for help on C-4, and other stuff, like not laughing.
WOl Michael Desmond, U.S. Army, for helicopter information.
Heartfelt thanks, also, to:
Lori Harris, Karen Kearney, and Jean McManis, for reading drafts and giving valuable feedback. Nolen Holzapfel, for evil ideas. All the folks at Kensington Publishing, particularly Kate Duffy and Creative Director Janice Rossi Schaus. And two special friends: Carly Phillips and Janelle Denison.
The tan-colored bus—
inmate transportation
stenciled crudely on its sides—skidded to a stop in the center of the rutted gravel road. The driver, one of two armed prison guards, set the hand brake and climbed out.
Adam Duval strained against his shackles, unable to see anything beyond the windshield. That they had stopped before reaching their designated work site was a bad sign.
Shoulders hunched, he tried peering between the dirty metal slats welded across the side windows. He saw little. Just eye-blistering-blue skies, a tobacco field, and a gray squirrel. Typical central North Carolina flora and fauna, except that the squirrel was dead, its bloated carcass floating in an ocean of scummy water that left only the tops of the tallest tobacco stalks visible.
Earlier in the week, a tropical weather system had stalled and dumped a record-breaking eighteen inches of rain on the state, spawning catastrophic flooding. Thousands were homeless, few had electricity, and transportation was at a standstill.
With the state's emergency resources stretched to the max, the governor had pledged the entire prison work force to recovery efforts. While Adam had been assigned to a road gang three days ago, this was the first time the busses had actually made it off the flood- ravaged prison grounds. If they were forced to turn back it could be days before they got out again as more rain was predicted later that night, courtesy of a second system creeping in from the Midwest.
Frustrated, he waited. And watched. Then waited some more. What was taking the driver so damn long?
"Ten bucks says we turn around and head back," Franklin Potter, one of the three other inmates, whispered.
The senior guard, Irv Wallace, who'd ignored them up till now, turned. "Who said that? McEdwin?"
When no one responded the guard swung his black club in the air. "Y'all better shut your traps or somebody's going to be working with a cracked skull."
Adam narrowed his gaze to the back of Potter's head, willing him to keep quiet. The last thing they needed was grief from the guard.
Tempers on both sides of the bars shortened as the heat index inside the bus topped a suffocating one hundred degrees. Not that the lack of air movement bothered anyone but the prisoners. The guards had a small fan mounted on the cracked dashboard. They didn't care that the back of the bus felt like the inside of a sealed fifty-five gallon drum. Or that the exhaust system leaked.
The greasy sausage and biscuit Adam had for breakfast burned a hole in his gut. Perspiration trickled down his neck. He shook his head realized he'd actually been praying—a habit he'd abandoned in childhood. Desperation did strange things to a man.
Finally, the driver returned and motioned for Wallace to climb off. Adam shifted, watching the guards confer outside. Neither man looked happy.
With no guards on the bus, Potter, the inmate with ten dollars, grew vocal again. "Leaving a dog locked in a vehicle this hot is against the law. Damn dogs got more rights than we do."
"Shut the fuck up," Lyle McEdwin, the prisoner seated behind Adam hissed. "I already owe you for letting me take the heat earlier."
"Hey, can I help it if Wallace has a hard-on for you?" Potter sneered. "The man is always riding your ass."
"Yeah? Well, when we get outside, I'm gonna—"
The doors banged open, signaling the guards' return. A lethal silence fell over the prisoners. Adam shot Lyle a scowl, prayed it registered. Unfortunately, hints the size of a B-52 routinely went right over the kid's head.
The youngest man on the road gang, Lyle McEdwin's immaturity was legendary. He had a big mouth and a reputation for making stupid moves. He was also Adam's cellmate.
