The Last Second: A Novella
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Covert agent Zachary Griffin and FBI Special Agent Sydney Fitzpatrick are sidetracked from an ongoing investigation to follow up on a potential lead. In a small Arizona border town, gunrunning and drug trafficking into Mexico are a part of the landscape—but not when they're orchestrated by an officer in uniform. At least that's the story told to agents Griffin and Fitzpatrick.
But the dirty cop is now missing, and his sister says he's innocent, a victim of a corrupt police department. She is convinced they set him up to take the fall, then killed him, and she can prove it—with help from a highly unusual witness. Suddenly an open-and-shut case seems anything but, and the clock is ticking as Griffin and Fitzpatrick take on an entire police department in a deadly match that could go up in smoke at the last second.
took a deep breath, clearly uncomfortable with what she was about to tell him. “The thing is . . . he doesn’t speak English.” “I speak fluent Spanish.” “Actually,” Trish said, “he doesn’t speak Spanish, either.” “What language does he speak?” She gave a hesitant smile. “This is the part you might have trouble with.” “Try.” “My witness is a dog.” “A dog?” He wasn’t even sure how to react to that. Even Sydney looked stunned. “A dog?” he said again. Trish handed him
downstairs. She didn’t dare move, barely dared to breathe, until she heard the swoosh of the warehouse door as the intruders left. Suddenly she felt sick, the adrenaline starting to flush from her system, and she barely had the strength to hang on to the rafter. She looked at the man standing in the shadows across from her, his gun still pointed toward the stairwell. “Who are you?” she asked softly. He held up a finger, waited several seconds before answering, as though listening for
thing, and they assure me that house is going straight down, not out. Ain’t no one gonna get hurt, as long as they stay outside the fence line.” He walked over to the door and opened it. “But tell you what. You want to be here in the morning when we blow up the place? I’ll give you front-row seats. In the meantime, you leave the explosives to the guys who know what they’re doing and we’ll leave the article writing to you.” “Well?” Trish asked Griffin, once they were back at the car where she
“Be careful, Zachary.” He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her use his first name before. “You too.” “Aren’t I always?” And then the sound of her footsteps as she raced up the stairs. Griffin, phone in hand as his only source of light, entered the tunnel. He took a deep breath, and then another before starting forward. He’d had to train himself to get past the tight spaces, relax enough to let the claustrophobic feelings pass. The tunnel was not going to come down on him, and he kept
attention to the detonator, vaguely aware that the air here smelled. Of urine. Dead men didn’t urinate. Men who were trapped in tunnels did. Trish’s brother was going to have to wait. He had a bomb to disarm. Using his phone as a flashlight, he examined the device on all sides. Whoever had set this up had used a simple connection. Finally, something going his way. He dug out his pocketknife, then cut the wire. The timer stopped. But then came that millisecond of worry, until nothing more