Page 74 of Duty Compromised
“The temperature variance shouldn’t exceed plus or minus two degrees Celsius,” I said as we walked. “And I’ll need a stable power supply. Any fluctuations during the calibration phase could corrupt the entire dataset.”
“The generator out back should handle it,” Ty replied. “Industrial-grade. Won’t even hiccup.”
All the while, we were really looking for two things: the window Ben had identified as our escape route, and the explosive device we knew was waiting to kill us.
The garage was accessed through a door off the kitchen. It was mostly empty except for some old tools on a workbench and a few cardboard boxes stacked in a corner. The concrete floor was stained with old oil spots, and the air held that particular combination of dust and automotive fluids that all garages seemed to share. The window was small, maybe two feet by three feet, set not too high in the wall. It would be a tight fit, but we could make it through. We’d have to.
“Good workspace,” I said, running my hand along the workbench. The wood was scarred but solid. “Sturdy surface for the equipment.”
Ty had moved to the corner where the furnace unit sat, an older model that looked like it hadn’t been serviced in years. He crouched down, using his body to block the view as he examined it. I watched his shoulders tense, the muscles in his back going rigid for just a second before he forced himself to relax. When he stood and gave me the slightest nod, my stomach dropped.
He’d found it. The bomb that was supposed to look like a gas leak accident. A tragic malfunction that would leave no evidence of murder.
He pulled out the burner phone, typing quickly to Donovan:
In position. This thing would blow us to high heaven.
Then he looked at me, and I saw my own fear reflected in his eyes for just a moment before his expression smoothed into something calmer. This was it. Once we started this, there was no going back. We’d have two minutes to get out before the explosion. Two minutes to sell our performance and escape through that window without the surveillance teams realizing what we were doing.
He gave me a nod. The signal.
“Is it just me, or is it cold in here?” I said, rubbing my arms. The shiver was real—fear had turned my blood to ice water. “Could we turn on the heat?”
“Sure,” Ty said, already moving toward the furnace. “I’ll get it going.”
As soon as he turned on the heat, a tiny clock started counting down on the explosive device. Two minutes. We had two minutes.
I was trying not to vomit. We’d been through exactly what I was supposed to do. Get to the window, get it open, get out.
Easy.
I positioned myself by the window. My hands were shaking as I reached up and pushed on the window latch.
It wouldn’t budge.
I tried again, putting more force behind it, using both hands now. Nothing. The window was locked from the outside, sealed tight. Painted over, maybe, or deliberately secured. We couldn’t get out this way.
But Ty had already flipped the furnace switch. The countdown was already going. We had one minute and thirty-eight seconds.
He jogged over to where I stood frozen by the window. I pointed at the latch, trying to convey the problem without words. The surveillance teams were still listening. We couldn’t let them know we were aware of their trap.
Ty reached up, muscles straining as he tried to force the window. His jaw clenched with effort, biceps bulging as he put his full strength into it. The frame didn’t even creak. It might as well have been welded shut.
I caught his eye and mouthed silently, Other exit?
He shook his head minutely, then gestured toward the doors with his chin. I understood. Both exits—the front door and the side door to the garage—would put us directly in view of the surveillance teams. The moment we ran out in obvious panic, they’d know we’d discovered the bomb.
The whole plan would be blown, no pun intended. They’d know we were onto them, and the next attempt on my life wouldn’t be subtle. It would be a bullet, quick and efficient.
But dying in an explosion wasn’t exactly a better option.
Ty’s hands moved in quick, sharp gestures. Military hand signals, maybe, though I didn’t know what they meant. But his message was clear enough—we try the window again, together.
We both reached up, our hands overlapping on the frame. I could feel the tendons in his arms straining, the heat of his body as we fought against the sealed window. It was like trying to move a mountain. My fingernails bent backward with the effort, sending sharp pain up my fingers.
Nothing.
My mind was keeping track of the seconds without my even trying to get it to. One minute, seventeen seconds.
