Page 2 of Blood Money

The men laid their cases on the floor beside the desk, and Pete opened the one containing a portable radiation detector. “Shine the light on the thing, would ya?”

Gray did as Pete asked, then with slow, precise movements Pete passed the detector over and around the laptop, then under the desk.

“Negative rad.” Pete packed up the rad meter while Finelli removed another device from the other case.

This gadget Gray recognized as a trace detection unit that identified explosives, chemical warfare agents, and toxic and industrial chemicals.

With motions similar to those Pete used with the rad meter, Finelli scanned the laptop and the entire area surrounding the desk. “Nada,” Finelli said, and began packing up the device.

Gray trusted Pete’s abilities to sniff out explosives as he trusted no other soul. Between his time in the Middle East and with the NYPD, Pete had detected and deactivated more devices than anyone in department history.

“This doesn’t make sense.” Dom dragged a hand across his stubbled chin.

“No shit,” Gray agreed. “No way would they leave a laptop behind. Sniff it again,” he said to Pete.

“I got a better idea,” Pete said as he left the room, returning a minute later with another hard-sided case. He opened it and hauled out a portable X-ray machine. Next he unstrapped the top portion of his Gumby suit and donned another vest in its place, this one containing protective lead panels. “You guys might want to step out while I grab a shot.”

Gray, Dom, and Finelli left the room and watched from the doorway while Pete X-rayed the laptop from several different angles.

“C’mon back,” Pete called, then shrugged out of his vest and dropped it onto the floor. He powered up the small laptop embedded in the cover of the X-ray case. Light from the computer’s screen lit the room with a dim, eerie glow.

Gray and Dom looked over Pete’s shoulder as, one by one, he cued up each image and zoomed in.

Pete nodded to his partner. “Finelli and I still need to check the walls, but this laptop’s clean.”

From the corner of his eye, Gray noticed the FBI agent now stood at Pete’s other side. Gray acknowledged the agent with a nod of his head.

Pete pulled a small flashlight from his belt, turned it on, then stuck it between his lips. He angled his head to illuminate the keyboard and began a 3-D scan.

“I got this,” the FBI agent said.

Got what?

The words didn’t register with Gray until the agent reached for the window blinds.

“No!” Pete shouted as both he and Gray rushed the FBI agent. “Don’t open the—”

“Shit,” Dom uttered, a step behind Gray.

The agent turned, but his arm was still in motion.

An explosion rocked the room.

The blast hurled Gray into the air. He slammed to the floor, using his hands to shield his face from flying debris.

Something sharp lodged in the back of his head. Excruciating pain seared his skull, his eardrums throbbing. Darkness closed in on his vision, and he nearly blacked out. From somewhere far away, he heard shouting. Footsteps pounding.

“Medics! Somebody get a goddamn medic!”

Smoke filled Gray’s nose, along with the pitchy, tar odor often associated with C4 explosives. But something else permeated the air, coating his mouth, his tongue, and his lungs. A distinctly familiar chemical, plastic-like smell.

“Sonofabitch,” Pete moaned.

Beside Pete, Finelli struggled to get to his feet. The Gumby suit had protected him from most of the flying debris, and he appeared unharmed aside from a few scratches on his face.

Gray tried hauling his ass off the floor, but something held him in place.

“Stay down,” Dom ordered in an eerily calm tone, his hand pressing firmly on Gray’s shoulder. “All that pretty hair of yours is covered in blood. Let the medics have a look before you go ballroom dancing tonight.”