“Yes, sir.”

“The rest of you boys take cover. Don’t want any debris to hit you.”

Griffin heard gravel crunching beneath booted feet, the sound moving away from them. He climbed out, grateful that the broken wall shielded them from view. Sydney handed him the wired explosive device. After he helped Sydney climb out, they dropped down behind the broken wall and Griffin peered through the bush, seeing an officer walking toward the shed, his AR–15 slung across his back. The chief, his attention on the house, stood by his car, holding a remote in his hand, his sidearm still holstered. One officer was crouching behind the trunk of the chief’s car, the other behind the car nearest Griffin. Both had their rifles aimed toward the house.

Perfect.

Griffin signaled to Sydney, then pointed at the nearest officer.

She nodded, and together they approached, careful not to disturb the gravel.

By the time the man realized they were on top of him, it was too late. His eyes widened as Sydney shoved the nose of her gun to the back of his neck. “You talk, you die,” she said quietly. “Now stand, slowly.”

As the officer complied, she reached around him, grabbed the AR–15, and slung it over her shoulder, while Griffin removed the man’s sidearm from his holster.

“Back up slowly,” Sydney said.

The moment he did, Griffin slapped the sticks of explosive against the man’s chest. “Hold tight. Because if you let go, boom!”

The officer looked down, would have dropped to his knees had Griffin not been holding him.

He walked the uniformed man toward Parks, who was fingering the control in his hand. Parks looked up, saw Griffin. “What the—­”

“I wouldn’t press that remote if I were you.”

“Except you’re not. So I think I will.”

“Your funeral.” Griffin pushed the officer forward, and he stumbled toward the chief, still holding tight to the makeshift bomb.

Parks took a step back. “What the hell . . . ?”

“You know anything about explosives?” Griffin asked him.

It was a moment before Parks drew his gaze from the officer and what he was carrying. “You’re asking me? Who the hell you think wired that rig down there?”

“Then you undoubtedly recognize the remote timer that used to be connected to the initiator on those four cases of military-­grade explosives.”

“I’m just trying to figure out how you got it off without getting blown up. What the hell kind of reporters are you?”

“The kind that work for the U.S. government.”

Sydney raised the AR–15 and pointed it at the chief. “Actually, the impatient kind. Drop your weapons to the ground. Everyone!” The other two officers hesitated, until Sydney aimed right at them. Both AR–15s went down, followed by their handguns.

“You know what I think?” Parks said, making no move to unholster his gun. “I think you’re not stupid enough to connect that firing switch to the detonator. I think that wire is wrapped around it just for show.”

“Feel free to take a closer look. But like I said. Your funeral.”

Sydney gave a frustrated sigh. “I’ve got plans for the weekend. How about I just shoot him?”

“Remote on the ground,” Griffin ordered again.

Parks glanced at Sydney, as though wondering if she might actually pull the trigger. When she lifted the rifle higher, he held the remote out, slowly placing it on the ground.

“Now the gun,” Griffin said. “On the ground, then kick it forward.”

Sydney leaned in, probably wishing the chief would make a wrong move, but he tossed the handgun to the ground, then kicked it toward them.

Griffin removed the makeshift bomb from the first officer’s arms, then set it on the ground. In short order, they had all three officers and the chief cuffed. Once they were secured, Griffin sat each man on the wall. “So which one of you men wants to tell me where we can find Garrett Quindlen?”

The three officers stared at their feet. Chief Parks spit on the ground, then glared at Griffin. “You’re insane if you think any of us will talk. We’d be dead in a heartbeat.”

“Even if we made a deal?”

“Especially if we made a deal. It’s his boss that pulls the strings, and even I don’t know who that is.”

“Somebody really high up,” one of the officers said. “Brooks.”

“Shut your trap, boy,” Parks told him. “You’re gonna get us all killed.”

Brooks was a name Griffin had heard before, an aka. What they needed to know was the identity of the man behind it. All Griffin knew was that he was rumored to be a very large player in the Network, the criminal organization suspected of running the drugs and guns. And that made a lot more sense than someone like Quindlen, a low-­level ex–CIA agent, pulling the strings. Quindlen was obviously running one arm of the operation from here, not the whole show. But now they had a link between the two names. A step in the right direction, he thought as Calvin Walker and Max emerged from the house, followed by Trish. Calvin was talking on Griffin’s phone as he and Max walked down the long drive, then over to the wall where the officers waited.

The three officers looked down, as though ashamed for their part in what happened. The chief continued glaring as Griffin asked Calvin, “You get ahold of my partner?”

“I did,” Calvin said, holding out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

Griffin took it. “Tex. I take it you heard the news?”

“I did. Border Patrol’s sending a helicopter to pick up the prisoners. You get the information on Quindlen?”

“Just that he’s involved.” He stepped a few feet away, not wanting to be overheard by Parks or his men. “One of the officers said that Quindlen was working for Brooks. The chief shut him up. Said they’d all be dead if they talked.”

He heard Tex talking to someone else, probably their boss. A moment later, he was back on the line. “McNiel wants you and Sydney back here at once. If this is Brooks’s operation, he’s bound to find out even before you get to Quindlen.”

“My understanding is he lives nearby. We should at least—­”

“Sorry, Griff. The boss says back here for debriefing. If there’s any chance we can get Brooks, last thing we need to do is spook him by going after Quindlen. You’ll get him later.”

He disconnected, walked up to Sydney, saying, “We’re heading back. Today.”

If she was bothered, she didn’t show it. Or maybe it was more that her attention was focused on Max as he stopped suddenly, refusing to move forward, when Calvin was walking past the officers on the wall. The dog eyed Parks, lowered his head, then growled.

Parks inched back. “Should’ve shot it when I had the chance.”

Calvin grabbed Parks by his arm, pulled him to his feet, his free hand clenched, shaking.

“What’re you going to do, boy? Hit me? While I’m cuffed?”

“I should.”

“You always were a coward. And you smell like piss.”

Griffin reached out, grasped Calvin by his shoulder. “Not worth it.”

Calvin hesitated, then lowered his fist. He walked Parks to the patrol car, pushed him into the backseat, then slammed the door shut.

Unfortunately the window was rolled down and Parks leaned out, apparently not knowing when to shut up. “Pissed your pants like a coward! I should’ve killed you and your dog. You stink, boy!”

Sydney slung the AR–15 onto her back, then picked up the remote and the bomb Griffin had made. “Calvin? Get Trish and the dog and leave out the gate. Now.” And then she walked over to the patrol car where Parks sat. She set the bomb on the front dash with the timer facing toward him. When she was certain he saw it, she held up the remote so he had no choice but to look. “What was that you said about cowards?”

His eyes widened, but then the bluster returned to his face. “If that thing were real, you wouldn’t be standing here.”

“Guess you’ll find out at the last second,” she said, then looked toward the officers sitting on the wall. “You might want to hit the ground.”