Page 144 of Stone of Tears (Sword of Truth 2)
“Sleep for an hour or so.”
His face lit up with understanding. “Yes, yes. I tell them.”
True to his word, the two goons showed up a few minutes later with my white rolls and water. I thanked them profusely, making a show out of yawning and rubbing my eyes. They left without commenting, but I was confident they’d gotten the message.
As soon as they had left, I grabbed the ladder and rushed up into the hayloft. It was working! A whiff of smoke was forming in the little heap of hay I had prepared under the angle of the glass jar I’d broken into pieces. I’d done a rough estimate of the right angle, and it seemed I hadn’t forgotten my physics lessons because the hay was smoldering. Excellent.
I had torn the cleaning rags into small strips and twisted them tightly into a fuse. That had been the trickiest part. If I made the fuse too short, everything would blow up before I was at a safe distance, taking me out with it. If I made it too long, it could fizzle out before it got to the end or, worse, be discovered before it went off. Timing was everything, and I double-checked some numbers in my head. I should be good. Fingers crossed.
It took another thirty minutes before I had a little fire, and I could barely hold back a scream of joy. I carefully transferred the heap of burning hay into an empty flower pot I’d found and threw some more hay on top to keep the flames going. I brought the burning pot down and added some wood chips to it. It was a good fire now.
Near the door, I’d set up the ingredients for the bomb and run a fuse from the door to the back of the barn where I’d planned to get out. I’d expected to have to smash the window, but thanks to the rotten wood, I’d been able to wrench out the whole frame. I’d knotted the remaining cleaning rags into a short rope. The construction wouldn’t reach the ground, but it would come close enough for me to jump the rest.
I sprinkled diesel fuel over the fuse, careful not to drench it because that would accelerate it too much, and dropped the fuse into the burning pot. Time to get the hell out of there. I grabbed the bottle of water, raced up the ladder, and threw the makeshift rope out the window, which faced a pasture and not the main house. I launched myself out the window. Crap, I cut my hand on a piece of wood.
I couldn’t hold on to the rope with my bleeding hand and let go, landing with a thud. An ache tore through my body. Ouch. I ignored the pain and took off in a sprint. I had maybe twenty seconds, if even that, and distance mattered more than anything. I’d figure out where I was later.
Someone shouted. Shit. Had they spotted me? Or had the fire developed enough smoke to be detected? I risked a glance over my shoulder. Oh, definitely the latter. Smoke was billowing out of the barn, which meant…
I threw myself facedown into a cornfield. Two seconds later, a massive explosion rocked the ground, almost taking my eardrums out. Jesus, the boom was so much louder than I had expected. I looked backward, and my mouth dropped open. Oh fuck. As quickly as possible, I scrambled to my feet and set off again. The fire was spreading rapidly, and I had no intention of getting caught up in it. And so I ran and ran and ran until my lungs burned, and I was satisfied I was at a safe distance with no one following me.
Heaving, I bent over, bracing my hands on my knees. Fuck, I should’ve worked out more with Quillon. Everything hurt. My legs, my ass, my belly, but especially my lungs, which were gasping for oxygen.
I straightened. Was that…? Oh, hell yes, the unmistakable sirens of emergency vehicles. Good. Not that I was planning on taking my chances, not until I knew where I was. Somewhere rural, that much was clear by the endless fields of corn. I couldn’t see any buildings, so I’d have to walk until I reached civilization, but that was okay as long as no one was chasing me. But after that explosion, I’d be surprised if any of them were still alive.
For one moment, I felt sorry for Igor, but I squashed that down. He might’ve been nicer than the others, but he’d still held me hostage, so nope. He deserved death.
Once I could breathe again, I guzzled down half of the bottle of water and walked again. After thirty minutes, a building rose in the distance. After another twenty, I reached it. And when the license plate on the rusty, red pickup truck parked in front of the farmhouse came into view, I couldn’t hold back tears.
British Columbia. I was in Canada.
30
QUILLON
I’d been determined to stay up while York was missing, but a few hours later—it was three in the morning—I’d had to give up and surrender to my body’s desperate need for sleep. Someone had put out a sleeping bag and an air mattress for me so I didn’t have to leave the command center. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep.
When I woke up, Coulson had arrived. Once again, I was impressed with how he ran his team. He was focused, demanding the very best from his agents while still being kind and considerate. A rare combination. He’d informed everyone I should be read in on all details, so I was in the loop whenever updates came in.
“The big question is if we put out an international alert,” Coulson said to everyone in the room. “I’d like to hear your thoughts.”
“It increases the chance of getting leads on his location,” Dalia said. “If the public is looking for him, we may get tips that could help us find him.”
“It also puts pressure on the terrorists,” another agent said. “What if they feel things are getting too risky? They may end up killing him.”
He shot me an apologetic look. I swallowed. “Please don’t take my or anyone else’s feelings into account,” I said hoarsely. “Discuss the case on the merits, not based on personal sensitivities.”
Coulson sent me a warm look. “Agreed, but thanks for saying that.”
“Did the terrorists count on getting caught?” a female agent asked. “Or did they really think they could pull this off and get away clean?”
That was an excellent question. “If they knew they’d get caught anyway, it won’t make a difference whether everyone is searching for them or not,” I said. “Though it may speed up their timeline.”
The discussion continued, but in the end, Coulson concluded the benefits outweighed the risks and decided to alert the press. News vans descended upon Forestville, and Auden had his deputies control the traffic. Coulson had set up an FBI call center to process possible tips, and now all we could do was hope and pray someone had seen something.
Watching journalists do standups with the community center in the background was surreal, as was the endless footage they repeated of the site of the ambush—cordoned off and still being processed by the FBI—and the press conference with Coulson. He made a brief but thorough statement, then patiently answered questions. When York’s photo appeared on the screen, my throat tightened, and I had to look away.
In the meantime, the FBI worked with the leads they had, but tracking each one down took time. Their forensic investigators processed the scene of the ambush, and a few hours later, they knew what explosives had been used. Other agents analyzed footage from traffic cams to track the blue van and the route it had taken. Seattle PD worked closely with the FBI to investigate the theft of both vans in the hopes of finding more clues. Other FBI agents—with the help of local law enforcement—talked to residents of Halford and other towns on the route for any witness reports, and slowly but surely, more details emerged.