The alarm shuts off, the silence that follows deafening.
Lee barrels into the room, gun in one hand, walkie-talkie in the other, dark face shining with sweat and the smell of charred rubber rolling off his suit. He brings with him an overwhelming sense of having-things-under-control, or nearly so.
“Hal,” he barks, all professionalism.
Hal stands over the prone, gray-clad body of Malcolm Davis. Even with his eyes shut and his nose mashed into the floorboards, Luke recognizes him right away. Hal puts a bare foot on the back of the man’s neck and says, “You got cuffs?”
Lee holsters his walkie and produces some from his waistband.
Hal kneels and cuffs the bomber’s hands together behind his back.
Lee radios to someone: “Suspect is contained. Direct the cops up here to the house.”
Luke isn’t aware of sitting down. Suddenly he’s just parked on his ass in the middle of the hall, someone gripping his arm.
It’s Matt. “You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah…fine.”
~*~
At ten ‘til midnight, Malcolm “Muhammed” Davis, dressed in dark clothes and carrying a dark backpack, crept through the five-acre swath of forest that borders the Maddox property. He moved slowly, cautiously, making as little noise as possible in the dry leaf litter. He lingered for long moments when he reached the tree line, evaluating the security measures put in place. His backpack was heavy with homemade bombs, a knife, and a handgun. In the woods, hidden beneath a rotted log, was the other fifty-grand of his hit payment; he’d brought it with him this time, planning to flee on foot and use the cash to buy a one-way bus ticket to Atlanta.
He noted the sheriffs in their patrol car, and two Breckinridge security guards melting in and out of the shadows around the house.
He moved low, keeping to the deepest shadows, until he reached the black Tahoe parked in front of the carriage house. He set a fuse in one of his homemade bombs, lit it, rolled it beneath the vehicle, and then ran toward the house.
He felt the heat of the explosion licking at his back when he reached the house. Used the chaos as a chance to kick the door in.
This is the timeline they piece together in the kitchen, based on what Davis spilled to them when the FBI showed up to take him off the sheriffs’ hands.
“Is he gonna rat out Maxwell?” Tara asks.
“I feel sure,” Matt says. “It only helps him to confess at this point.”
“Plus what I told the cops,” Luke says, and takes another slug of his heavily-whiskeyed coffee. He shouldn’t mix pain killers and liquor, but the moment calls for a little liquid courage. “That’s two against one.”
Matt gives him a look. “I meant what I said about not wanting to drag you into this, Luke.”
“And I said I’m not letting some criminal get away with trying to kill you just ‘cause I’m a pussy.”
Maddie’s eyes widen.
Tara snorts into her own mug.
“Pardon my French,” Luke adds.
“Someone’s gotta have heard what Maxwell was up to,” Diego says. “Another senator. One of his aides. His wife, maybe.”
“Or mistress,” Mitch puts in. “If he’s got one of those.”
“He can’t hide,” Hal says. “However we get him, wewillget him. His life as he knows it is over.”
“Thank you, boys.” Sandy surveys them all in turn, her gaze meaningful, thankful. “I mean it. You’ve…” Her voice, always so sure, catches a little. “You’ve saved my family. I can’t thank you enough for that.”
Luke ducks his head, though he isn’t deserving of her gratitude. He does it for the same reason all the other guys do it: because the full force of Sandy Maddox’s appreciation is something vulnerable and awesome they don’t feel worthy of receiving.
Hal says, softly, speaking for everyone, “It was our pleasure, ma’am.”