Pure Dynamite

  A STRONG HAND GRABBED THE BACK OF HER SHIRT

  "Renata, stop!"

  "No!" She surged forward. "Let me go!"

  Adam tightened his grip, yanking her backwards. The wet fabric of her shirt ripped, costing him his hold.

  The unexpected momentum of being released made Renata lose her balance. She pitched forward awkwardly, grasping her ruined shirt with one hand as she struggled to regain her footing. Staggering, she leaped away.

  He tackled her, hugging her close as they hit the ground and rolled down the embankment toward the ditch. They stopped just short of the water, Adam on top, Renata trapped beneath his large frame.

  She sank into the wet ground, her scraped side burning. The disappointment over not getting away cut to the bone, crushing her tenuous hold on her temper.

  She drew back and punched him. "Let me go, damn you!"

  He caught her wrists, yanking them over her head and pinning them.

  "Give it up," he shouted hoarsely. "You don't stand a chance against me. You never did."

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  850 Third Avenue

  New York, NY 10022

  Copyright © 2004 by Kathleen G. Holzapfel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  All Kensington titles, imprints and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 850 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10022. Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Printing: October 2004

  CLS 1098765432 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Kate Duffy

  Editorial Director, Goddess, Genius.

  For believing, guiding, inspiring.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author wishes to thank the following for their time and assistance. All errors are mine, not theirs. I tend to bend/break/ignore rules...

  Rosale Lobo, R.N., M.S.N., C.L.N.C., Lobo Consulting Group, for medical expertise, friendship, and encouragement.

  Karen Tapp, M.D., U.N.C. Hospital, Chapel Hill, for answering questions and being so cool.

  FBI Special Agent Bret Kirby, for help on C-4, and other stuff, like not laughing.

  WOl Michael Desmond, U.S. Army, for helicopter information.

  Heartfelt thanks, also, to:

  Lori Harris, Karen Kearney, and Jean McManis, for reading drafts and giving valuable feedback. Nolen Holzapfel, for evil ideas. All the folks at Kensington Publishing, particularly Kate Duffy and Creative Director Janice Rossi Schaus. And two special friends: Carly Phillips and Janelle Denison.

  Chapter One

  The tan-colored bus—inmate transportation stenciled crudely on its sides—skidded to a stop in the center of the rutted gravel road. The driver, one of two armed prison guards, set the hand brake and climbed out.

  Adam Duval strained against his shackles, unable to see anything beyond the windshield. That they had stopped before reaching their designated work site was a bad sign.

  Shoulders hunched, he tried peering between the dirty metal slats welded across the side windows. He saw little. Just eye-blistering-blue skies, a tobacco field, and a gray squirrel. Typical central North Carolina flora and fauna, except that the squirrel was dead, its bloated carcass floating in an ocean of scummy water that left only the tops of the tallest tobacco stalks visible.

  Earlier in the week, a tropical weather system had stalled and dumped a record-breaking eighteen inches of rain on the state, spawning catastrophic flooding. Thousands were homeless, few had electricity, and transportation was at a standstill.

  With the state's emergency resources stretched to the max, the governor had pledged the entire prison work force to recovery efforts. While Adam had been assigned to a road gang three days ago, this was the first time the busses had actually made it off the flood- ravaged prison grounds. If they were forced to turn back it could be days before they got out again as more rain was predicted later that night, courtesy of a second system creeping in from the Midwest.

  Frustrated, he waited. And watched. Then waited some more. What was taking the driver so damn long?

  "Ten bucks says we turn around and head back," Franklin Potter, one of the three other inmates, whispered.

  The senior guard, Irv Wallace, who'd ignored them up till now, turned. "Who said that? McEdwin?"

  When no one responded the guard swung his black club in the air. "Y'all better shut your traps or somebody's going to be working with a cracked skull."

  Adam narrowed his gaze to the back of Potter's head, willing him to keep quiet. The last thing they needed was grief from the guard.

  Tempers on both sides of the bars shortened as the heat index inside the bus topped a suffocating one hundred degrees. Not that the lack of air movement bothered anyone but the prisoners. The guards had a small fan mounted on the cracked dashboard. They didn't care that the back of the bus felt like the inside of a sealed fifty-five gallon drum. Or that the exhaust system leaked.

  The greasy sausage and biscuit Adam had for breakfast burned a hole in his gut. Perspiration trickled down his neck. He shook his head realized he'd actually been praying—a habit he'd abandoned in childhood. Desperation did strange things to a man.

  Finally, the driver returned and motioned for Wallace to climb off. Adam shifted, watching the guards confer outside. Neither man looked happy.

  With no guards on the bus, Potter, the inmate with ten dollars, grew vocal again. "Leaving a dog locked in a vehicle this hot is against the law. Damn dogs got more rights than we do."

  "Shut the fuck up," Lyle McEdwin, the prisoner seated behind Adam hissed. "I already owe you for letting me take the heat earlier."

  "Hey, can I help it if Wallace has a hard-on for you?" Potter sneered. "The man is always riding your ass."

  "Yeah? Well, when we get outside, I'm gonna—"

  The doors banged open, signaling the guards' return. A lethal silence fell over the prisoners. Adam shot Lyle a scowl, prayed it registered. Unfortunately, hints the size of a B-52 routinely went right over the kid's head.

  The youngest man on the road gang, Lyle McEdwin's immaturity was legendary. He had a big mouth and a reputation for making stupid moves. He was also Adam's cellmate.

  Irv Wallace cleared his throat and removed his sunglasses. The guard's right eye was slightly off plumb, giving him a harsh look that matched his attitude. "Listen up. Bus can't go any further. Roadbed's washed out. We'll ha
ve to walk to the site. With the equipment."

  The inmates grumbled, but not too loud. Working a road gang—even under miserable conditions—beat being locked up in a prison cell. Anything beat that.

  Especially today. Christ, Adam would belly crawl across razor blades with all the equipment strapped on his back to get to the work site.

  The grumbling grew louder, which set Wallace off yet again. He clanged his metal clipboard against the interior bars.

  "North Carolina statute 148-26 says all able-bodied prison inmates are required to perform diligently all work assignments provided for them," the guard recited from memory. "Diligently means doing whatever I tell you. Got that? It also says 'failure to perform such work assignments may result in disciplinary action.' Anybody need a demonstration of disciplinary action?"

  When no one volunteered, Wallace locked his good eye on Adam before continuing in a drawl as thick and annoying as the late-July heat. "You're awfully quiet, Hollywood. Was there any part of that statute you didn't understand?"

  Wallace dragged the slur out. Holl-Leee-Wood.

  Adam knew what was whispered behind his back. Movie star face, Frankenstein body. He also knew the guard was spoiling for a fight. Part of him ached to oblige. But not now.

  Stifling the urge, Adam looked away.

  "I didn't think so." Pleased with his imagined victory, Wallace hiked up his pants and puffed his chest before speaking into the two-way radio clipped near his shoulder.

  The driver moved to unshackle the inmates, an easy process since there were only four. Prison road crews were usually composed of eight men, but under the governor's emergency disaster plan, they'd been split into smaller groups to cover a larger geographic area. Two armed guards still accompanied each squad manned with medium-risk inmates.

  As the inmates disembarked, Adam positioned himself between Potter and Lyle, who still swapped venomous glares.

  "You prisoners turn and put your hands on the bus. Any unauthorized movement will be interpreted as intent to flee." Wallace motioned with his shotgun, while quoting yet another statute granting use of deadly force.

  Flee? Adam eyed the flooded fields surrounding them. With no place to hide, no cover, it was a giant kill zone. A suicide run. Hell, there was scarcely enough ground on the raised access road for the men to stand beside the bus.

  Tuning out the guard's sermon, Adam put his hands just above shoulder height and eased his head back. It felt good to be off the bus. Off prison grounds.

  Squinting against the searing sun, he drew a deep breath. Free air. He'd missed it. God, he missed a lot. He'd only been incarcerated three months—nothing, compared to some others—but it still had felt like a life sentence.

  He thought of what he'd like to do to the man responsible for putting him behind bars. The double-dealing bastard had a lot to answer for.

  "Y'all turn around and pay attention!" Wallace pointed to a line of trees about a half-mile to the west. "Tarheel Creek runs behind those woods. There are ten ditches that empty into it. Every one of 'em is blocked with trash from the storm so they can't drain. And that's keeping the interstate flooded. Department of Transportation wants 'em cleared fast. Which means no slacking. You got that, McEdwin?"

  Adam slanted his eyes toward Lyle. The younger man had been about to say something—probably a smart-ass retort—but stopped. Maybe there was hope for the kid after all.

  "Then grab a wheelbarrow," Wallace shouted after each man had donned an orange safety vest emblazoned front and back with the word inmate. "Daylight's a-wasting."

  An hour later, Adam waded knee-deep in water swirling with the run-off from a nearby hog farm. He squashed a hungry insect buzzing near his neck.

  Two more flew in to take its place. The putrid flood- water provided perfect breeding conditions for mosquitoes and biting flies. As annoying as they were, the insects were the least of his worries.

  Now that they were actually getting on with the task, a new qualm surfaced with each step. The first two landmarks Adam had been instructed to watch for hadn't been there. The fact that they'd taken a slightly different route was probably to blame. At least that's what he hoped.

  They cut across a pasture, heading south. The land rolled and dipped, much of it underwater, but finally he spotted a stretch of split-rail fence. A hundred yards beyond it sat a red barn. Bright red, you can't miss it. He hoisted the shovels he carried higher on his shoulder. For the first time in months he felt a spark of optimism.

  Which died when they arrived at the first ditch.

  "Well I'll be a—" The driver held up a hand, indicating they should halt. "Hey Irv! Look at that!"

  On the opposite bank, the runoff had carved a steep ravine in the hill. A muddy chute formed, allowing garbage from an illegal dumpsite to slip down and obstruct the drainage ditch.

  This was no small blockage; there was everything from rusted washing machines to yellow bats of insulation. But the coup de grace: a mountain of black rubber tires. While the landslide looked recent, a virtual lake of floodwater already gurgled behind the well-packed dam, growing larger by the minute.

  Adam located the prearranged landmarks once again. The fence. The barn. Where the hell was the other?

  A sickening feeling of deja vu settled in his stomach. This had happened twice before. A dry run, he'd been told. But he'd been promised this time was it. God help him, someone would pay if it wasn't.

  Scanning the area one more time, Adam finally spotted his last marker. It was buried under some debris, barely visible. That it hadn't been lost in the landslide was a miracle. He released a pent-up breath, relieved he wasn't facing failure this soon.

  "Hold up while he checks this mess." Wallace pointed to the driver.

  "Me?" The driver glanced up at the hill. "I don't need to check it out. Any idiot can see there's a ton of garbage still perched up there. If I sneeze wrong it will fall."

  "Then don't sneeze. Idiot." Wallace didn't like having his authority questioned. "And hurry back."

  Adam clenched his jaw as the driver kicked at a large blue coffee can before disappearing from sight. Seconds stretched without end as they stood, broiling beneath the unrelenting sun. Potter mumbled threats under his breath, low enough so that Wallace couldn't hear, yet loud enough Adam wanted to deck him.

  The driver returned, dour faced. "It's worse than I thought. There's twice as much crap piled up behind this."

  Wallace shrugged. "So they have to work twice as hard. Big deal."

  "You don't understand. This is too big for four men and shovels. It'll take dynamite. Maybe a crane. We need to forget this ditch and move on."

  "Dynamite? It don't look that bad to me," Wallace said. "Now you sound like them. Always wanting to skip the shitty jobs."

  "That's bull—" The driver launched into defense mode, arguing his point.

  As much as he disliked the senior guard, Adam silently sided with Wallace on this one. Skipping this ditch was out of the question.

  "Five minute break," Wallace finally shouted. "You can sit down, just don't get too comfy."

  As Wallace turned his back to talk into his radio, the driver shifted away, more intent on eavesdropping on Wallace's conversation than watching the inmates.

  Lyle lowered himself to the ground beside Adam and picked at his fingernails. "What's going on?"

  "Not sure. A lot depends on him." He nodded toward Wallace, mentally measuring distances and weighing alternatives. One thing was absolutely certain: Adam was not going to return to prison.

  "Follow my lead if we're ordered to move to the next site," he said.

  "What if I—"

  "My lead." Adam noticed Potter watching them. He met the inmate's gaze, held it until the other man looked away. "And let me handle Potter."

  "I can take him." Lyle flexed his arm.

  "Sure you can. The point is: Don't. Brawling with him could blow everything."

  Wallace's radio crackled as the voice on the other end instructed him to s
tand by while they checked with the D.O.T.

  "Stand by? Right." The driver spat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Sounds like we'll be here a while."

  Wallace mopped his brow with a bandamia, then lit a cigarette. He frowned at the prisoners. "Well, what are you waiting for? The friggin' trash fairy? Start bagging that crap on the bank. Just don't touch anything near the water."

  "Be ready." Adam climbed to his feet, thankful their original plan was still operable. Lyle was not the type he'd want to ad-lib with.

  Grabbing a garbage bag, Adam moved across the sodden ground and claimed an area by stopping to pick up an empty soda bottle. Lyle moved off to the right leaving behind Potter and the other inmate who were just pushing up from the ground.

  "See there?" Wallace pointed to Adam. "That's the kind of attitude I expect. Show 'em how to do it, Hollywood." Grinning, the guard walked off to respond to a radio call.

  Pretending to pick up a piece of garbage, Potter bumped into Adam as soon as the guard's back was turned. "You trying to make the rest of us look bad, Hollywood?"

  Adam drew up his full height. At six-four, two-thirty, he towered over most men. So did his reputation. Inside the prison walls, he'd carved out his own niche, made his own rules. Most people gave him a wide berth. But he still had enemies. Everybody did. And Potter was everyone's enemy; a trouble-making prick who never thought beyond the moment.

  Adam wanted to end this before it started. "You don't want to go there. Not today. I'll pound you into sand."

  Potter glanced sideways, nervous, noticed the other inmates watching. Straightening, he tried to save face. "I don't care how many people they say you killed you don't scare me."

  "Then maybe I need to try harder."

  Potter backed down. "We'll finish this later."

  Later meant back at prison, where the ultimate jury of peers presided. There was an unwritten rule that inmates were supposed to look out for each other. No matter what. The old Us against Them. Except the rules shifted with the wind, often pitting inmate against inmate. Ultimately it was about power. Some had it, some didn't. Most abused it.