STILL
in handcuffs, Jones opened the silver shell of the explosive and carefully probed the interior of the bomb for booby traps. He found several. If he had removed the anklet’s casing without care, the device would’ve exploded in his face, triggered in a millionth of a second by a series of trip wires that protected the outer core of the mechanism.
Thankfully, he noticed them in time.
After neutralizing the safeguards, Jones dug deeper, examining the high-tech circuitry that filled the unit. “I’ll be damned,” he said, impressed. He had never seen a portable explosive filled with so much modern technology: data microprocessors, external pressure sensors, satellite uplink antennae—which he broke off—and digital detonation switches. The kind of stuff that couldn’t be bought at Radio Shack. “This is some serious shit!”
Using the sharpened lever from the toilet, Jones continued to explore, searching under the electronic hardware for the actual explosive. In order to take out the door, Jones needed to understand how much force the device was capable of producing. He assumed that the component was filled with a relatively stable explosive, something that could handle sudden movements and exposure to body heat or static electricity, but he wasn’t sure what. C-4, a commonly used plastic explosive, was a possibility, so were RDX, TNT, and pentolite. Because of the high-tech craftsmanship of the anklet, Jones figured that the manufacturer would use something newer, sexier. Perhaps a synthetic hybrid.
When Jones finally discovered what he was dealing with, he gaped in fascination. The device was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Two vials, three inches in length, sat tucked underneath the circuitry. Each plastic cylinder was filled with a liquid—one red, the other clear. They were connected to a third vial, which was twice as wide as the others, through a series of slender plastic tubes. Each one was color-coded and approximately the width of a pencil.
The cylinders, the liquids, the tubes. All of them were new to Jones.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
As the words left his mouth, his problems actually worsened because he heard the distinct sound of keys rattling directly outside. Someone was about to enter the cabin.
Jones hastily looked around for a hiding place but found nowhere to stash the equipment. The mattress was probably his best possibility, but Jones knew if he was forced to sit on the bed, there was a chance that his weight could detonate the device, and the thought of shrapnel being launched up his ass was a bit unsettling.
Finally, with no other options in mind, Jones scooped up as many parts as he could and ran toward his bed. After setting the explosive on the floor, he turned his mattress on its side and angled it across the back corner of the room like a child’s fort. He figured, if he timed things just right, he could throw the explosive at the guard the moment he entered the room, then duck behind the bed for protection.
The knob twisted with a squeak.
Jones knew the plan wasn’t perfect, but he also realized that this could be his only chance to escape. That was why he was willing to risk everything on this plan. His entire life on one moment.
The door swung open.
Making things tougher, Jones had to throw the explosive with his hands bound together, forcing him to use an overhead soccer toss. And on top of that, his ribs still ached from the beating that Greene had given him earlier.
A man wearing black fatigues entered the cabin.
Jones had no choice. This had to be done.
In one swift motion, he launched the explosive at the dark figure and dropped to the floor behind his protective foam shield. In anticipation of a powerful blast, he covered his face and ears, curling into the fetal position against the back corner of the room. He was lucky he did. The cylinders ruptured on contact, creating a bright ball of flame that tore across the cabin in a tidal wave of heat and light. Thunder ripped through the enclosed space with the ferocity of a jackhammer, stinging Jones’s ears despite the presence of his hands. Shards of metal sliced through the mattress, narrowly avoiding the exposed flesh of his back.
Slightly dazed from the jolt, Jones peeked over the tattered barrier to see how much damage had been done. Large streaks of red and orange danced from the far wall toward the unprotected surface of the beamed ceiling. Billowy puffs of smoke filled the enclosed space, making it tough for him to breathe. The door, shaken free from the concussion of the blast, sat unhinged and heavily dented, covered in debris and awash in flames. And the guard was . . .
Wait, where was the guard?
Jones knew he’d hit him—he
had
to have hit him, didn’t he?—so, despite the crackling flames that raged throughout the cabin, he climbed over the mattress and searched for a body. It didn’t matter that the fire was quickly becoming an inferno, shooting tiny embers into the air like bottle rockets. He
needed
to find the guard. He had to get the man’s gun and take his keys. He had to question the bastard about Payne and Ariane before it was too late.
Hell, he had to do something to even the odds.
Unfortunately, the blaze was making his mission impossible. The smoke grew thicker and blacker every second, limiting his vision to a scant few feet. And the heat was so intense that Jones felt like he was standing in the core of an active volcano, one that was getting angrier by the minute. But still he searched, heroically digging through scraps of plastic and wood, hunting for the guard until he could take no more, until the hair on his arms literally started to sear like ants under a magnifying glass.
At that point he decided to flee the firestorm before he fried in its wake.
Covering his eyes with both hands, Jones ran from the burning cabin, shielding his head from the flames as he burst through the smoldering doorway. The nighttime air brought him instant relief, but he wasn’t able to enjoy it. Jones realized that the Posse would be there any moment to investigate, and when they arrived he needed to be long gone. Using the orange glow of the cabin as his torch, he probed the area for cover, but his plans to flee were quickly altered. Before he found a hiding place, Jones noticed the guard sprawled on the nearby sod, a weapon sitting on the ground next to him.
No time to waste.
He rushed to the man’s side and grabbed his TEC-DC9 pistol. Then, in a moment of greed, he frisked him, looking for anything that could help, and as he did he made a startling discovery.
The injured man was Payne.
CHAPTER 44
BECAUSE
of the black fatigues and face paint that Payne had found in the first cabin, he looked like a Posse member in the darkness. It wasn’t until Jones stared at Payne’s face in the light of the fire that he recognized his best friend.
“Is there a reason you tried to blow me up?” Payne asked. He staggered to his feet, shaken from the powerful blast but injury free.
“I thought you were a guard,” Jones argued.
“If you don’t want to hang out anymore, that’s fine! But you don’t have to blow me up.”
Payne shook his head in mock anger, then jogged away from the cabin. He knew the Posse would be arriving shortly, and he didn’t want to be there when they did. Once they were far enough away from the scene, he turned back toward Jones and unlocked his handcuffs.
“What was that stuff anyway? It had some serious kick.”
“Some kind of high-tech chemical explosive. Some African guy with bad teeth strapped the sucker to my leg to prevent my escape.”
“Hakeem did that?” The thought of Ndjai in the Devil’s Box made him laugh. “Locking a soldier in a wooden cabin with a firebomb? Pretty good thinking on his part, huh?”
“That was more than just a firebomb. That was a first-rate piece of hardware. I’m not sure what we’ve stumbled onto, but the Posse isn’t hurting for cash. Not with that kind of technology lying around.”
“You don’t know the half of it. Let me show you what I found.”
Payne led Jones to the first cabin that he had explored. Instead of containing prisoners like he thought it would, it was filled with military accoutrements: rifles, pistols, ammunition, explosives, detonators, camouflage paint, etc. All labeled and packed in crates for shipping.
“Whoa!” Jones glanced at the gear, smiling. There was enough equipment to start a war. “This is some kind of collection.”
Payne corrected him. “This is more than a collection. This is a business.”
“They deal arms? Where’d they get this stuff?”
“Where do you think?” Payne pointed to one of the invoices on the wall. The initials
T.M.
were highlighted at the top. “Does that ring any bells?”
Jones glanced at the sheet. “Terrell Murray? Mr. Fishing Hole?”
“You got it.” Payne strolled through the stacks of weapons, looking to add to his personal stock. He needed as much firepower as possible if he was going to rescue Ariane and the others.
“What are you saying? The Posse sells Terrell all of his weapons?”
Payne shook his head. “From the looks of Murray’s office, he’s too established to be buying from a new group like the Posse. So I’m guessing it’s the other way around. The Posse gets their guns from Terrell.”
Jones furrowed his brow while glancing through the crates. “But why would they need to buy all of this stuff? I mean, this is like an armory.”
“Not
like
an armory. It
is
an armory. If my guess is correct, the Posse doesn’t own these weapons. They’re probably just holding them for Terrell as a favor. Remember what Levon said? Nothing goes on in New Orleans without Murray’s involvement.”
Jones pulled a Steyr AUG assault rifle from a crate. “Boy, this looks familiar, huh?” It was identical to the one that Greene had supposedly purchased from Murray. “So this is where Levon got his stuff? That son of a bitch! I can’t believe he played us like that! I can’t wait until I see him again. I really can’t.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait a while. The first thing we have to do is find Ariane. Once I know she’s all right, we can get as much revenge as we want.”
Jones nodded, thinking mainly of Greene. “Who do you have in mind?”
Payne walked toward the cabin door. “There are too many on my list to name.”
CHAPTER 45
OCTAVIAN
Holmes roared through the trees on his ATV while two truckloads of guards followed closely behind. Out of all the men on the Plantation, Holmes was the best equipped to handle military situations, since he was a professional soldier. He had worked for nearly two decades as a mercenary, renting out his services to a variety of causes, but this was the first time his skills would be used to protect something of his own.
The Plantation was a part of him. He would not let it be destroyed. Not if he could help it.
Holmes stopped his vehicle near the burning cabin and watched his men attack the blaze. There was little hope of saving the structure since fire equipment was very scarce on the island, but they needed to prevent the flames from spreading. The other cabins were nearby and susceptible to damage.
As Holmes watched their effort, he sensed a presence sneaking up behind him. He turned quickly, raising his gun as he did, but his effort was unnecessary. It was Jackson and Webster, checking out the damage.
“Any ideas?” Holmes asked calmly.
Webster nodded, slightly nervous. “It was the new guys. I was in my office and saw one enter the door with a key. Moments later it blew up.”
Holmes frowned. “Which of you lost your keys?”
Both men showed Holmes their personal sets, proving they weren’t to blame.
“Fine. Where’s Hakeem? He’s the other possibility.”
Webster shrugged. “I tried paging him on the radio, but he didn’t answer the call. I tried all of you the moment I saw the guy enter the cabin, but there was nothing else I could do from my office. I swear, I did my best.”
“Theo, don’t worry about it.” Holmes’s voice possessed a scary type of calm. His presence was almost stoic. “You aren’t here to do the dirty work. You’re here to handle our finances. We’ll handle the rest.”
Holmes moved closer to the blaze, still examining it. There was something about the flames that interested him. The way they moved. The way they danced. He had seen it before. “Theo? You saw the explosion, right? Tell me, what did it look like?”
“It was a big, mushroom-type blast. A big flash of light burst from inside. Flames spread quickly across the door and roof. An unbelievable amount of thick, black smoke.”
Holmes grinned at the description. Things finally made sense. “Well, if my guess is correct, we don’t have to worry about escapees. The blast you described sounds like one of the anklets was detonated.”
Webster disagreed. “Actually, I saw both of them survive. One of them went in, but two of them came out.”
Holmes’s grin grew wider. That meant the prisoners had discovered a way to remove the anklet without getting killed. The thought of two worthy adversaries piqued his interest. He’d take great pleasure in hunting them down. “What do you know about these men?”
Jackson answered. “Levon said they were ex-soldiers. They called themselves the Crazy Men or something weird like that. If you talk to him, I’m sure he can tell you more. He babysat the bastards for two days.”
“Crazy Men?” Holmes had never heard of a group that went by that name, and he considered himself an expert on the military. “Could it have been something else? Perhaps the MANIACs?”
“Yeah, that was it. Have you heard of them?”
“Yeah,” Holmes muttered as the smile on his face disappeared. “I’ve seen their work. They’re clean. Real clean. Some of the guys I worked with called them the Hyenas.”