Page 19 of Silk and Steel

“What? I can’t go with you? But I thought it was clear.”

“I need to make sure it’s safe on the inside first, before I let you come in.”

Emory swallows hard, her eyes glassy with fear.

“All right. I understand.”

“I’m leaving the keys in the ignition. If you feel your life is in imminent danger, I want you to drive back to the Platinum Security office. Don’t stop for anyone, not even the police.”

Emory nods, and I get out of the truck. I keep my eyes focused on the darkened windows of her abode. No cover from gunfire. If Lovejoy is sitting in there, with a gun trained on me, I’m a dead man.

No gunshots as I approach the front door, but that doesn't mean it’s safe. I remember that Banner is an expert with chemical based poisons. Could he have applied something dangerous to the doorknob?

I dig out a handkerchief and use it to open the door. Only then do I realize I’ve forgotten to disable the alarm. A loudscreech pierces my eardrums. I quickly punch in the keycode and stop it.

Then I realize that the keypad could have been poisoned too. If so, it’s too late now.

I push open the door. The smell of stale air recycled by the AC unit reaches my nostrils. Emory doesn’t cook in her huge, open concept kitchen much. Otherwise, there would be some trace of seared meat or spices in the air. Probably she doesn’t have the time.

I watch the corners, check my six, and work my way through the house in increments. I’m starting to think nobody’s home. It still doesn’t hurt to be cautious.

Besides, I’m learning little bits about Emory as I go.

Photos decorate the mantle in the living room. I stop to examine one of Emory, maybe three years younger, posing between two people who are likely her parents. She has her mother’s eyes, but her father’s nose. Somehow it all works for her.

The three of them seem happy, big smiles, a view of the Pacific in the background. My finger traces over the contours of Emory’s face.

I move away, both from the photo and the feelings it inspires. In other photos, Emory’s father stands with the assistance of a cane, sometimes even a walker. Health issues? A chronic illness, or rehab after an accident?

I remind myself that I’m supposed to be clearing her home, making sure it’s safe for Emory to enter.

On toward the bedroom. I hesitate to enter. This is Emory’s inner sanctum. I don’t belong here, as much as I might wish I did.

I gently nudge the door open. My gaze falls on the neatly wrapped package in the center of her crisply made bed.

I’m afraid to enter her room for a totally different reason now. I retrace my steps and exit out the front door, moving around the outside of the house until I reach the window looking into her bedroom.

My finger traces over a thin, shiny groove in the metal. Someone has picked the lock to this window, and it wasn’t a particularly skilled attempt.

Now there is no way Emory is going inside her home. Not until I know that the package isn’t a bomb.

Bombs don’t have to be big or elaborate affairs to do damage. Just a simple nail bomb can kill or maim. They’re simple to make, with parts easily obtained. And instructions are available on the internet.

I don’t have my kit with me. As many demo details as I did in the Navy, I’m not used to improvisation. My best bet is to use a lifeline.

Moving slowly, hoping that if there is a bomb it won’t go off because of the signal, I bring out my cell phone and unlock the screen.

I find my contact right at the top, literally the first entry.

Now let’s just hope he’s around.

I send a text first, 911, and then call, putting the phone on speaker and setting it carefully on the mattress.

It rings several times. I’m about to give up hope when a deep voice comes over the speaker.

“Hey, man, you good?”

“I’m good, Axel,” I say. Then I have to laugh. “Well, no, I’m not really good. I have a problem, but it’s not the one you think.”

---