Page 99 of Dark ’N’ Deadly

“Where are all the bomb techs?” he asked the closest cop.

“Still en route. The nearest one is ten minutes out. We’re waiting for one of the hotel managers to open the bay doors. They can only be opened from inside the office.”

Christ. That should have been worked out by now. Didn’t matter that this was potentially the most disastrous shitstorm since September 11. The logistics were totally messed up.

“Where is he?” Eric shouted. “Where’s the damn manager?”

“Right here,” someone shouted, and they all turned to see a man in dark slacks and a maroon suit jacket running down the sidewalk, carrying a ring of keys.

“Open it!” Eric pointed to the access door.

With a shaking hand, the manager shoved the key into the solid metal door and pushed it open.

Eric brushed past him into a small office. Through the observation window on the far wall, he saw a full-size tractor trailer. One of the rear doors of the trailer was open, and a man—Ruffalo—jumped out and began closing the door. In one hand was a padlock.

Oh, hell no. If he padlocked those doors, they might never get to the bomb in time.

He unhooked Tiger’s lead and flung open the door to the loading bay. “Stellen!”

Tiger bolted toward Ruffalo. Eric charged through the door after his dog. He didn’t have to look behind him to know Nick and Dayne were on his heels with their K-9s.

Hearing their approach, Ruffalo jerked his head around, his eyes going wide. He spun and hastily began hooking the padlock through the container door rings.

Tiger hit hard, clamping onto the guy’s thigh, dragging him from the door screaming in pain as his dog’s teeth sank deeper.

Ruffalo’s face twisted in agony, and still the man managed to drag himself back to the container doors and shove the padlock through the rings.

Not wanting to send a bullet flying into whatever was behind those doors, Eric launched at the man’s upper body, diving over Tiger and body-slamming Ruffalo to the ground. Air whooshed from the man’s lungs, and the back of his head whacked on the pavement.

Even with his mouth full of homicidal asshole’s thigh meat, Tiger managed a vicious growl, as did Saxon and Remy, who now stood nearby with Dayne, Nick, and the uniforms.

He flipped the semi-conscious man onto his belly, cuffing him.

“Nice job,” Nick said. “I’d give that dive a perfect ten.”

Leave it to Nick to find humor in the darkest of situations.

“Los.” Tiger released his jaws from Ruffalo’s leg.

Eric’s heart slammed as he carefully removed the still-open padlock from the container doors. Cautiously, and with delicate care, he opened the doors, cringing when they squeaked. The sight that greeted them made his pulse soar.

The container was packed to the gills with drums. Wires crisscrossed everywhere, linking the drums together with strips of Domox “sausages”—commercially manufactured explosives that looked similar to links of sausage meat.

“Holy mother of God,” one of the cops said.

Eric couldn’t have articulated it better himself.

“I don’t know much about bombs,” Nick said, “but I’m guessing that’s not good.”

“You got that right.” Dayne stared at the bomb. “What can we do to help?”

“Give me a boost up. Slowly,” he added, not wanting to jar anything and blast them all to Hell.

Dayne linked his hands together to heave Eric into the container. There was enough room to stand in the back, but he needed to get a better idea of what they were dealing with. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell everyone to beat feet, but if what he suspected was true, there was no way any of them could put enough safe space between them and the truck in time.

“Need a light?” one of the cops asked, about to flick on his flashlight.

“No!” Eric held up his hand. “The wrong kind of flashlight can be an ignition source. I’ve got this.” He tugged his flashlight from his belt, one designed not to blow shit up. He pushed the button, lighting up the inside of the container.