Chapter 29

29

YORK

B y my estimate, my captors had waited about an hour after giving me breakfast to interrogate me. I'd seen three different guys so far: the two goons who had kidnapped me and another one whose English was much better, though still with a heavy accent.

"We want to know about chameleon technology," he said.

"Sure," I said amicably. "But can we start with an introduction? Like, what's your name?"

He laughed. "You are funny."

"Thank you. But I'm serious. I'd like to know who I'm talking to."

I wasn't stupid. They didn't want to kill me right away, not until I'd spilled my secrets, but I wouldn't survive once I'd shared my knowledge. I'd seen their faces, and all the movies and TV series I'd watched had taught me what that meant. My best chance was stalling them. I had zero desire to try to hold out under torture, so I'd decided on a different tactic. Hopefully, it would work, but that all depended on the level of knowledge of the person interrogating me.

"Call me Igor," he said.

"Okay. I'm York Coombe."

"I know who you are, Dr. Coombe."

"Good. Just wanted to make sure. What can I do for you?"

"Chameleon technology. We want to know."

"What's your background?" His deep frown of puzzlement told me he wasn't following. "Do you know math?"

His eyes lit up. "Yes. I am engineer."

They'd been smart enough to send someone with the brain cells to understand at least some of it. "Good. It involves complex math, like solving complicated differential equations and analyzing systems with a time-varying input by converting them into an algebraic equation, using the Laplace transform."

He blinked.

"Want me to start at the beginning?"

"Beginning, yes. Beginning is good." He retrieved an honest-to-good notebook and sat down, his pen ready. So I launched into the most elaborate lesson I'd ever taught, combining elements of electrical engineering, mechanical engineering, math, and even a little material science. After two hours, Igor's eyes grew glassy, and with a deep sigh, he closed his notebook. "We will continue lesson later."

"Looking forward to it." If I kept up this pace, I'd need at least a week to get to the point, which was fine by me.

As soon as he left the barn, the two other goons locked the door behind him. If they were planning on giving me lunch, I wouldn't have long. Not enough time to escape, but I should be able to make some headway. First, I had to get into that storage shed to see what was in it. With the pitchfork and two chains, I had everything I needed to create leverage to pry the door open. It still took me a good ten minutes and all my strength, but finally, the hinges broke off, and the door fell forward. I caught it inches from the ground and put it aside.

Holy jackpot, in here was everything I needed and then some. A couple of canisters with—judging by the smell and consistency—diesel fuel. Gasoline was thinner and smelled different. I also found motor oil, various tools, a bag of cleaning rags, and, best of all, three bags of fertilizer.

Even though I'd ended up going into controls engineering, I'd always loved chemistry and had been good at it. Part of that love was thanks to my chemistry teacher in high school. Mrs. Fountain had been passionate about the subject and had us do all kinds of fun experiments, focusing on practical chemistry, like the classic of combining Mentos with Coke, making slime, or showing us it was a bad idea to mix vinegar and bleach.

Because my brain seemed wired to remember everything that fascinated me, I had an endless amount of useful information stored. Like the knowledge that fertilizer, also known as ammonium nitrate, consists of nitrogen, hydrogen, and oxygen—three ingredients that, combined with the right fuel, can cause an explosion. All I needed was something to set it off. In other words, a spark. And if I wanted it to go boom in a big way, some extra fuel.

I had all three. I hadn't found any matches—that would've been too easy—but had gathered empty glass jars and cotton cleaning rags, which I could use as a fuse. Sunlight through flat glass did nothing, but the bottom of the jars had a curve, so if I could direct sunlight through that and have it focus on a specific point in a pile of hay for a while, it could start a smolder. The only thing I needed was said sunlight…and time. It was bright and sunny, so I already had the first part of the equation.

I put everything back and made sure the door to the shed looked locked, although I doubted they'd check it. It took a little longer than I had calculated, but eventually, they brought me lunch. More water and plain white rolls. They were taking that whole water and bread regime for prisoners quite literally, weren't they?

As soon as they were gone, Igor returned, and I launched into another lesson. Whenever he showed signs of impatience, I'd throw in some random difficult terms, then explain I was making my way there. It seemed to work. After two hours, Igor was yawning, and I was almost asleep myself, though his departure made my adrenaline jump.

How much time did I have till dinner? Two, maybe three? Time for the next phase. It was too late to create a spark because the sun didn't shine through the window in the afternoon. So I'd have to settle for preparing everything for the next morning. That was not a bad thing. When playing with fire—literally, in this case—hurrying wasn't smart. I needed to make sure everything would go the way I wanted it to.

My biggest challenge was that I had no idea where I was. Once I got out, I'd have to improvise based on what I'd find. But I would deal with that later. For now, I would focus on the things I could control. I set out the fertilizer and eyeballed how much diesel fuel I would need, running calculations in my head of how big the explosion would be. I wanted to create a diversion, not blow myself up.

I had my plan ready and everything back in order by the time the two goons brought dinner. Thank you, Jesus, no bread this time but a thermos of tomato soup and mac and cheese. An interesting combination, but whatever. I took the first bite of the pasta. Hmm, that taste was familiar. I'd eaten enough Kraft mac and cheese to recognize it. I spooned up some soup, blew on it, and carefully took a sip. Campbell tomato soup, another favorite of mine.

Shit. They knew my favorite foods. That was downright creepy. It meant they'd done their research and had me in their crosshairs for a while. But it also told me they'd either brought those brands from the US or… Or we were still in North America, where these items were readily available. Could it be?

After dinner, Igor came back but left after an hour. The two goons dropped off a sleeping bag and an air mattress with a hand pump. It took some effort to get the mattress pumped up, and when I was done, I was drenched in sweat, and my muscles were aching. And then I had nothing else to do but lie on the mattress and think of Quillon.

I'd never considered myself a romantic or someone capable of intense emotions, but Quillon had proven me wrong. He made me want to be a better man, to try harder, to do whatever I could to make him happy. And Jesus Christ, he made me sappy. I'd even attempted to write poetry. Bad poetry, but it still counted. I'd never had a chance to show him.

But instead of mushy declarations of love, I would create the biggest boom so he'd be able to find me. Because one thing I knew with one hundred percent certainty: he wouldn't rest until he found me. Not that I doubted the FBI wasn't trying to find me. I'd gotten a positive impression of Coulson Padman, but my money was on Quillon.

He had to be so worried about me…and blaming himself. The terrorists had come out on top against the FBI, but he'd blame himself. That was the kind of man he was—an honorable man with an oversized sense of responsibility.

"I'm coming home, Quill," I whispered, unexpected tears filling my eyes. I'd never been the sentimental type, but there was a first for everything. Maybe the stress of this ordeal had gotten to me, or maybe love had changed me, or maybe it was a combination of both. I didn't care. All I knew was that my love for Quillon and knowing he loved me was like a shining beacon, a lighthouse guiding me home. And that was the image on my mind as I succumbed to sleep.

The next morning was more of the same, though I was treated to a cup of coffee with my breakfast. Weak-as-shit coffee, but better than nothing. I had set up everything when the sun peered through the window, and it took all my efforts not to look up at the hayloft as I taught Igor for three hours straight.

How did the man not realize I could do this for days without telling him anything useful? Well, that wasn't true. He'd taken pages and pages of notes on advanced calculus, and I was certain he'd learned a lot. Just not the stuff he was hoping for.

"This is really interesting," he told me as he packed up. "You are very smart, Dr. Coombe."

"Thank you. It's taken me a long time to learn all this, so I hope you won't get discouraged that we haven't gotten to the good stuff yet."

He shook his head. "No, is fantastic, Dr. Coombe. I am learning many things."

"Good. Will I see you after lunch?"

Igor checked his watch. "Yes, at two o'clock."

Keeping my face blank was a struggle. He'd just given me the best gift ever: an exact time when he'd be back. "Can you maybe ask them to give me my lunch early? I didn't sleep well and would love to take a nap."

"Nap?" He frowned.

"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.