As he followed Miller's slow ascent, the voice grew louder with every step. But he still couldn't make out what it was saying.
At the top he and Hursey squeezed up beside Miller, pistols at ready.
A quick peek showed the level as they'd left it except for one detaiclass="underline" The black, elongated oval of a boom box sat on a table against the front wall. It was plugged into the wall socket and attached to an FM antenna taped to the bricks behind it. It had a CD and cassette player; the radio dial glowed.
Here was the source of the voice, but accompanied by too much static to be understood.
"Be careful," Miller said. "Could be just a distraction. Spread out and secure the space."
The third level offered fewer hiding places than the first and Jolliff figured the other two could complete their sweep in less than a minute without him. As Miller and Hursey moved away, he stepped up to the box. Not understanding the words was making him crazy. After all, he'd been the first to hear it. That made it his discovery.
He bent close. The voice seemed to be repeating something over and over. Closer. One of the words sounded familiar.
He bolted upright when he recognized it.
He called out, "It's coming over the radio. I'd swear I just heard it say 'yeniceri.'"
He looked around at the others. Miller and Hursey had stopped and turned to stare.
He leaned forward again and reached for one of the knobs.
"Maybe if I tune it in better…"
Jolliff heard Miller say, "Wait."
But why wait? He wanted to hear what the voice was saying.
As he gripped the knob to adjust it, a small corner of his brain let out a silent shout of warning. But he ignored it.
Miller again: "Jolliff, maybe you shouldn't—"
Then the boom box exploded.
Leaning against the outer wall, Jack felt the blast more than heard it. Little chunks of mortar rained from the bricked-up windows on the third floor, but all the bricks remained where they were. He'd planted a small charge—deadly at close range but not overly destructive. He didn't want officialdom here just yet.
He dropped the microphone and reached for the brand-new set of keys he'd had made this afternoon.
Earlier in the day he'd picked open the three locks and then removed them. After taking them to a locksmith to be rekeyed, he'd replaced them but left the door unlocked. Wouldn't do to let Miller and company learn too early that their keys were no good.
Sure now that no one would hear him, Jack inserted each new key and turned it, triple-locking the door. Then he left the keys in place and waited.
Would have loved to trot back to the warmth of his car and keep track of events on his computer, but he had one more thing to do here. He raised his fist and swung it toward the door.
The sound of the blast paralyzed Gold for a few unbelieving seconds.
An explosion? Here? At Home?
Had someone booby-trapped the third floor? He couldn't wrap his mind around it.
Finally he reconnected to his limbs and got his body moving toward the stairwell. He stopped at the bottom step and cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Miller! Hursey! Jolliff! What happened?"
No answer. No sound. Not even a groan. Just fine plaster dust drifting from the upper level.
He pulled his pistol. He'd have to go up.
But as he put his foot on the first step, someone began pounding on the front door.
He froze. Who the hell—?
He looked up the stairwell, then at the door. Maybe the bricked-up windows had blown out and this was a cop, or a fireman, or a neighbor.
Shit!
Couldn't let anyone in—not with eight corpses lined up against the wall here and maybe three more upstairs. The fact that they were knocking instead of entering was a good sign. He'd left it unlocked and they could have walked right in.
Another look up the stairs. He heard voices now—loud, echoing down the stairwell. Whatever had happened up there, they were still alive.
But he couldn't go up just yet—whoever was out there eventually would try the knob and then the MV would be in even bigger trouble—if that was possible. He had to see who it was, and the best way to do that was a peek through the camera over the door.
He ran back to the monitoring station. They'd shut it down before leaving.
As he hit the ON switch he had a premonition—an instant before the explosion—that he'd made a terrible mistake.
The blast slammed against the inner surface of the steel door like a giant fist. Jack had placed himself to the side as he'd pounded on it—just in case it blew. But it held. So did the bricked-up windows—sort of. He saw bricks bulge in the frame of the nearest, but only one fell out. He hurried over, grabbed it, and forced it back into its slot. It would go only partway in, so he left it like that.
He stepped to the curb and looked up and down the street. Only a couple of pedestrians out in this cold, and they seemed oblivious to the muffled booms from within the warehouse. No one in the park. The passing cars were clueless.
All praise nonresidential neighborhoods.
He headed back to the car to watch.
Miller pushed himself up from prone to his knees. He shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears. For a few dazed heartbeats he wondered where he was and what had happened. The air was smoky, and what was that smell? Almost like burning…
Then he remembered.
Jolliff!
He turned as he struggled to his feet. Movement to his left: Hursey rolling over and groaning. Something—someone—sprawled in the middle of the floor, burning. Miller stepped closer for a better look. Bile rose in his throat. If he hadn't known it had to be Jolliff, he never would have recognized him.
The man lay spread-eagle in a pool of blood. His face was gone. Crisped. Blown off. No skin, no eyes, no hair, his broken jaw twisted at an angle. The blast had ripped open his throat as well. Blood still oozed from the torn arteries within. His jacket was on fire.
Miller took off his own jacket and beat out the flames, then stepped back and watched for movement in the chest. He couldn't see how anyone could look like that and still live, but you never knew.
But no movement: not a twitch, not a breath.
Beyond Jolliff's remains he saw Hursey stagger to his feet and wag his head like a dog trying to shake off a fly. He gave Miller a dazed look, then his gaze dropped to Jolliff. He paled and moved his lips.
At first Miller thought Hursey had lost his voice, then realized it was his hearing. He couldn't make out a word over the whine in his ears. He stepped closer.
"What'd you say?"
No problem hearing his own voice, though he sounded like he was under water.
Hursey's surprised look said he'd just realized that his hearing was on the fritz as well. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. "Don't tell me that's…"
Miller nodded.
Without speaking they both skirted the body and approached the spot where the boom box had been. The table still stood, though its top was scorched. Tiny bits of black plastic lay scattered everywhere.
Hursey leaned close to his ear. "Jesus!"
Miller was studying the wall behind the table. It looked unscathed—not even scorched. That meant only one thing.
He turned to Hursey and pointed to the wall. "Shaped charge."
Hursey stared a few seconds, then said something. Miller didn't have to hear him—he could read his lips.
"The fuck!"
Right. The fuck. But a smart fuck.
A shaped charge—the basis of armor-piercing rockets and antitank grenades—focused the energy of the explosion. It allowed a lot of bang from a small amount of plastique. The guy hadn't wanted to blow out the walls, so he'd used an inverted cone-shaped charge to do most of its dirty work directly in front with the least amount of collateral damage.