True Lies (17 page)

Emma craned her neck. There wasn’t any plastic bag full of white powder in this one, either. Nor was it packed with newsprint like the others. It appeared to be a handful of wires and a clock, of all things. A clock.

“This explains why McQuaig’s group didn’t want to give you the real thing,” Bruce said. “They didn’t want to waste it.”

The roller coaster did another swoop through her stomach. “What the...”

“I'll wedge myself in back here and keep it steady, but I strongly advise you to find a place to bring us down as soon as possible.”

The significance of what she was seeing dawned on her all at once. “Oh, my God!”

It was a bomb.

Chapter 9

B
ruce used every shred of his wavering control to fight down the instinctive flash of panic. He had to think, to plan, to reason, to stamp out the gut-level terror evoked by what he was holding. He couldn’t let himself remember the other time. He had to do his job.

He moved his flashlight, forcing himself to study the explosive device. The dynamite would be enough to blow off the tail of the plane, virtually guaranteeing a fatal crash. He focused on the glowing red numbers on the timing mechanism. They had less than fifteen minutes left. Evidently the bomb was timed to go off while they were over the sparsely populated region of the north woods.

“Throw it out of the plane!” Emma shouted.

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“What if it hits a camper? Or a lumberjack? What if it starts a forest fire? I'm not going to be responsible for the death of some innocent bystander.”

“Then pull out the wires or something.”

“I won’t risk disarming it while we're in the air. If something went wrong, neither one of us would have much chance of surviving. Stop wasting time, Emma. Land the plane.”

“You're crazy. I'm calling for help,” she said, reaching for the radio.

“Don’t do that, or they'll know you found the bomb.”

“So what?”

“McQuaig’s people want you dead. If they find out you're not, they'll try again.”

“This isn’t one of your games, Bruce. I'm not going to risk my life to play along.”

“We have fourteen minutes left. The risk is minimal if you can find somewhere to land.”

The background noise that they had been shouting over wasn’t loud enough to drown out the string of four-letter words she uttered. She shoved the hand mike back into its cradle and nosed the plane downward.

Nausea threatened as Bruce propped his feet against the side of the fuselage and steadied the bomb between his palms.

“I'll try for the lake we just passed,” she said. “It’s small, but it would take us too long to find a better one. How much time?”

“Twelve minutes.”

She swore again, but didn’t waste her energy by arguing. She made one quick pass and banked smoothly. Moonlight flooded into the cabin for a breathless, silver instant before the plane completed the turn and began to descend.

Bruce pressed the back of his head against one of the wooden crates and braced himself. The noise of the engine dropped. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tightened his grip on the bomb. There was no floodlight to illuminate a path for landing, no time to check the surface for obstacles, yet he had complete faith in Emma’s ability to get them down safely.

The pontoons struck the water and the plane slewed like a car going through sand. A crate toppled over. Bruce curled forward to prevent anything from striking the explosive. His flashlight bounced and another crate fell, catching him on the shoulder.

“It’s going to be close,” Emma yelled. “Hang on.”

From his position on the floor he could see a dark outline looming in front of the starry horizon. The outline shifted and grew until it became a ridge of trees. The plane bucked as Emma fought to rid them of their forward momentum. A precious minute went by as they slowed. By now the entire sky was filled with nothing but huge pines.

The plane shuddered to a stop with a dull thud of metal against wood. Emma shut down the engine and was out of her seat before the echoes died. She wrenched open the door. “Okay, we're down. Now throw that out of my plane.”

Bruce left the bomb where it was and pushed himself up. “Grab whatever you can. Maps, compass, flashlights. Have you got an emergency kit?” He leaned over to take a look outside. They were less than twenty yards from the shelf of pale rock that marked the shore. One of the pontoons had ridden up on a half-submerged log. If they had been going any faster when they struck it, they would have flipped over. “Wrap them in the tarp to keep them dry. We've got seven minutes left.”

She lunged toward him and grasped his arm. “What are you doing?”

“In seven minutes this plane is going to blow up, just like your friends expect it to.”

Her grip tightened. “You're insane. I'm not going to stand by and let my plane be destroyed.”

“This is the only way. For whatever reason, you've been set up. They'll be checking, and they have to believe they succeeded. With my people set to move in within twenty-four hours, I can’t jeopardize—”

“To hell with your investigation, Mr. Policeman. I'm saving my plane.” She tried to slip past him. When he didn’t move, she shoved at his chest. “Get out of my way.”

He knew by her tone there was no reasoning with her. He moved swiftly, grabbing her around the waist before she could guess his intentions. Swiveling around, he squeezed out of the plane, hauling her with him. As soon as he stood solidly on the pontoon, he swung her over the water and released his grip.

She shrieked as she splashed into the lake. He paused only long enough to be sure she resurfaced before he ducked back into the plane. A clock in his head was counting off the minutes. Wasting no more time, he took the tarp that he’d concealed himself with and laid it flat behind the cockpit. He snatched up everything that was loose and piled it into the center, added his holster and his gun, then drew the corners up and fastened the whole thing closed with a length of rope.

The plane rocked as Emma clambered onto the pontoon. Bruce stepped to the open door and tossed the bundle to her. “Here, catch.”

He heard her hit the water again. This time instead of shrieking, she splashed in rhythmic strokes toward the shore. He picked up his flashlight and shone it one last time around the cabin, looking for anything else that might be useful. Open packages of worthless newsprint littered the floor. Several wooden crates lay on their sides. The numbers on the bomb’s timer glowed red as they worked their way downward. Pausing only long enough to grab the nylon sleeping bag from the jumble of Simon’s camping equipment, Bruce stepped out of the plane for the final time and eased himself into the water.

The cold was a shock, stealing his breath and sending icy needles through the shoulder that the crate had fallen on during their landing. He raised himself up enough to fling the tightly rolled bag onto the shore, then lowered his head and stroked after it.

Emma sat at the edge of the water, the bundle he’d tossed to her rested high and dry on the rock ledge behind her. Her fingers were a pale blur as she unlaced her boots. She yanked them off, threw them toward the bundle and stepped into the lake. In the moonlight her eyes seemed huge, her face leached of color as she looked toward the abandoned Cessna.

Bruce felt the bottom under his feet and rose in front of her. “Get back, Emma.”

She didn’t respond.

“It’s going to blow in four minutes,” he said, reaching for her arm. “We've got to get away from here.”

She pulled against his grip and moved further into the lake. “No. I can’t let you do this. I can’t just stand here and let you destroy my plane.”

He could read the desperation in her expression and feel the latent panic tremble through the arm he still held. “Move, Emma. Now.”

“No!”
With a burst of strength, she twisted out of his grasp and dived into the water.

Bruce plunged after her. He clamped a hand around her ankle and pulled her backward. She came up sputtering and tried to kick out of his hold. The clock in his head clicked another minute toward zero. “Damn it, Emma,” he gasped as her foot struck his chin. “It’s too late.”

“No! Let me go!”

There was no time left. He wrapped his arms around her waist, hauled her out of the water, and flung her over his shoulder.

“Put me down,” she yelled, pummeling his back with her fists.

His waterlogged sneakers slipped on the smooth rock at the shore. He went down hard on one knee before he recovered his balance and staggered onto dry land. Keeping one arm like a vise around the back of her thighs, he paused only long enough to take his bearings before he strode rapidly toward a ridge of boulders. Once they were in the shadow of the huge, square slabs of rock, Bruce shifted his grip to allow Emma to slide to her feet. He knew she would make another suicidal attempt to save her plane the moment he released her, so he held her firmly to the front of his body.

The blast blew the white Cessna apart as if it were no more than a paper toy. A second explosion followed the first when the fuel that still remained in the tanks detonated and a sudden fireball burst toward the sky. Debris cartwheeled across the lake and flew in spinning, smoking arcs.

Bruce pushed Emma to the ground and fell on top of her. The boulders provided shelter, but pieces of jagged metal clanked onto the rocks around them. He felt something hot strike his back and the smell of singed cotton mixed with the oily smell of smoke. Ignoring the pain, he remained motionless until the last of the debris had fallen. Cautiously, he levered himself up on his elbows and raised his head.

Emma’s eyes were squeezed shut, her face contorted.

Immediately Bruce lifted his weight off her and came to his knees, still straddling her body. “Emma? Are you hurt?”

“Is it gone? Is it over?”

There was no way to soften the blow. “Yes.”

With a sob she rolled to her side and slid out from underneath him. Clawing at the boulder for support, she pulled herself to her feet and faced the lake.

Emma didn’t want to look, but she had to. She could smell the sting of burning fuel, she had heard the fragments hit the ground around them. She knew with her brain what had happened, but still, she had to see.

It was truly gone. Her plane, the Cessna that was like an extension of herself, the wings that let her soar to freedom, everything was gone. Scattered chunks of wreckage littered the water’s surface, some of it smoldering, some of it drifting in lifeless silence like pieces of a shattered ghost. “No,” she mouthed, her voice failing her. “No.”

“I'm sorry, Emma.” Bruce stood beside her and laid his palm lightly on her shoulder. “There was no other way.”

Her wet clothes clung, the sodden fabric draining the warmth from her skin, but she didn’t feel the cold. She was too numb to feel the cold.

“We'll get out of here. We've got maps and a compass. If we head for the nearest logging road, we can follow it until we find a way to contact Xavier. I don’t know what kind of double cross I stepped into between you and your friends, but it won’t stop the rest of the team from taking in McQuaig and his group.”

McQuaig. Xavier. The names filtered through her head but she couldn’t deal with what they meant, what all of this meant. They had destroyed her plane, they had wanted her dead. She couldn’t think past that. It had happened too fast, too fast.

“We can turn this setback around, use it to give McQuaig a false sense of security while the net continues to be drawn together.”

“And that’s what matters, isn’t it?” she said, her throat tight with a lump she couldn’t swallow.

“That’s why I'm here.”

“And to hell with anyone caught in the middle. You don’t care, do you?” She whirled around, turning her back on the smoking remnants of the plane that had been her only joy. “You're like every other cop I've known. All you see is your job. You don’t care who you hurt or use along the way.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. His fingers were shaking. “I've heard all this before.”

“I could have saved that plane if you hadn’t pulled me back to shore.”

“There wasn’t time.”

“Yes, there was. You stopped me.”

“You never would have made it. And I already told you, it’s best this way.”

“Everything’s gone. You don’t know what you've done.”

“I know exactly what I've done. I did my job.”

“But I have to make that delivery tomorrow. My brother’s counting on me.”

“There was nothing to deliver. Can’t you see that yet? You were set up. Your deal with McQuaig is off. Your brother will have to take care of himself.”

“But I have to help Simon.”

“You should be worried about yourself. You're the one they wanted dead.”

“Then you should have let me blow up along with the Cessna. That would have guaranteed a successful operation, wouldn’t it? Not only wreckage to show McQuaig, but a body?” Tears of reaction burned behind her eyes. She blinked frantically, unwilling to let him see them fall. “Why didn’t you let me die, Bruce? I'm no longer any use to you. I can’t fly the drugs, I can’t lead you to McQuaig. Why did you bother?”

“That’s enough, Emma.”

Her bare feet slid over sharp fragments of stone as she took a step toward him. “Congratulations, Mr. Policeman. You've just made it a perfect score. The law has taken my family, my home, and all the plans I once had for my life. Now you've taken my plane.”

“I'm sorry, Emma. I know—”

“What do you know? You're just a cop. You think with your badge, you feel with your rule book.”

A blazing fragment slipped beneath the lake’s surface with a hissing splash. The night was suddenly silent, like the breathless pause between a flash of lightning and the inevitable roll of thunder. Bruce stood motionless in front of her, leashed tension humming from his fixed jaw to his curled fists. “Do you think you're the only one who’s lost anything?” he asked finally.

Some of the danger in his tone reached through her budding hysteria. She sensed it, but she pushed anyway. “You're still a cop.” She poked his chest with a stiffened finger. “You don’t care about anything except upholding the law. You're only worried about how this will affect your case.”