Chapter 85

CHAPTER 85

DOZENS OF RIFLES came up as cops spun toward the sound. Holmes stepped forward, his adrenaline pumping. Poe jerked Marple back behind the cargo container.

“Who the hell is Sherlock?” asked Duff. He looked at Holmes. “You?”

Holmes scanned the upper level, staring in the direction of the sound. “It’s a nickname,” he muttered. “Unsolicited.”

“Look how well things turned out today, Sherlock.” Oliver Paul’s voice boomed from above. “All those young lives saved, thanks to your partner’s intuition. Good for her. Remember the days when you solved mysteries on your own?”

One of the cops jabbed his finger toward the catwalk. Holmes peered into the shadows on the second level. All he could see was a long stretch of metal grating leading to a boxy structure at one end.

A SWAT sergeant made a quick circling gesture with his hand. A squad of five gathered behind him. At his signal, they all began moving in a crouch toward a rusted metal staircase on the far side of the building.

Holmes turned to Poe. “You and Margaret stay here,” he said. “Do not move from that spot!” He pulled out his pistol again and followed the SWAT team toward the stairs.

“Holmes!” Quinn shouted. “Get your ass back here!”

Holmes didn’t answer, and didn’t stop. This was his fight. His right foot was already on the bottom tread of the staircase. As the cops moved up, he pressed in tight behind them. He was still wearing his body armor, but he felt completely exposed. He was beginning to realize that Oliver Paul could see him anywhere, hear him anywhere, get to him anywhere. Always one step ahead.

Holmes looked up to see red sight beams crisscrossing the darkness at the top of the staircase, tracing the length of the catwalk and bouncing along the metal wall behind it. In another couple of seconds, his shoes were on the metal grate. He glanced down to see cops and agents crouched behind shelving and cartons, weapons pointed up. From this height they looked like toy soldiers.

“You’d better hurry, Sherlock,” said the voice, even louder now. “Time is running out.” With each step, Holmes felt his fury building, overwhelming the fear.

The small squad turned left toward the small rectangular structure at the end of the catwalk. It looked like a pillbox. Holmes peered into the shadows. The structure had no windows, just a single door made of solid steel. A triangular sign to the side read, DANGER! HIGH VOLTAGE!

“All those officers,” Paul’s voice called out. “All that firepower.” His tone was mocking now. “What a waste, Sherlock. Remember when all you needed was your ingenuity—your impressive powers of deduction?” The sound was coming from inside the box.

Red beams danced across the doorway. The squad leader held up one arm with a closed fist. “Hold right here,” he ordered. “Wait for the bomb squad.”

Holmes felt a bitter taste in his mouth as bile pumped up from his gut. God! Not now! He held his stomach and lurched forward, shoving his way past two SWAT cops. He grabbed the heavy door handle.

“Yo!” the commander shouted. “Go back!”

“No!” Holmes yelled in return. “Take cover!” He wrapped both hands tightly around the vertical handle grip. “If I blow up, find Oliver Paul!” He braced himself and yanked the door open, eyes closed, waiting for the blast that would end his misery. Maybe hoping for it.

Nothing.

Holmes opened his eyes. The space was bare except for a metal worktable. On top sat a large Bluetooth speaker and an antique clock with a gold-plated second hand. The time read 12:30.

The cops were crowding in behind him now, laser sight beams tracing the outlines of the tiny room. The speaker crackled to life one more time.

“Less than twelve hours left, Sherlock. Remember, accidents happen. No mother is safe today. Not even yours.”