Once he was satisfied with the size and depth of the hole he’d whittled, he moved back to the workbench and started taking the cartridges apart and extracting the gunpowder. He emptied cartridge after cartridge until he had a small bowlful of black powder. Then he spooned it into the crevice and packed it tight, careful not to use so much that he risked doing permanent damage to the house. Yet he needed an amount capable of knocking a hole into the wall large enough to weaken the structure and allow him to get at the stone beneath. A delicate calculation.
Mal tested the fuses, found them dry, and took one in hand for a trial run. Moving to a clean spot on the workbench, he took a glass jar of canned string beans and used it to weigh down the edge of the fuse, leaving the rest jutting out from the bench at a right angle. Mal poured what remained in the drinking glass over his palms and fingers and cleaned off any gunpowder residue. He dried his hands thoroughly on a clean rag, then struck a match and lit the fuse.
It sizzled and hissed and burned fairly quickly, reaching the glass jar in about four seconds. He might have used a bit too much of the matchstick paste, but no matter. It worked.
“Should I warn Henry?” Bertie asked, her voice closer than he expected. He’d been so absorbed in the test, he hadn’t heard her approach.
Mal turned. “Yes. You might want to accompany her out of the house, too,” he said, rethinking his earlier position about letting her stay. The amount of powder was minimal, and the explosion would be small and well-contained, but debris could be unpredictable. He’d hate for her curiosity to result in an injury, no matter how minor.
“Don’t you dare light that fuse without me, Malachi Shaw. If you cheat me out of the chance to see you in action after reading about the excitement of your job in your letters for the past several years, I’ll never forgive you.”
The corners of Mal’s mouth twitched upward. Henry was usually the militant one, but it seemed Bertie had her fair share of bossiness, too. Reminded him of Emma. Which tightened his mouth back into a hard, serious line.
“Hurry back, then,” he said as he shooed her toward the stairs. “We’re running out of time without a guarantee that this will work. If the gold’s not there . . .”
Bertie paused on the second step and glanced back at him. “It’s there, Malachi.”
He jerked his chin down in a stiff nod and went to work arranging the fuse in the hole.
Over the next fifteen minutes, while he waited for a loudly complaining Henry to vacate the house with the necessary belongings, he carefully moved all the glass jars that could possibly be in the blast zone to safer locations against the far wall. Then he draped a pair of quilts over the remaining shelves to keep out the dust and small shards that the blast would send flying.
When he was finished, he stepped back and examined his handiwork, double-checking to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. The room looked secure. All he needed was Bertie to get back so he could light the fuse.
This would work. It had to.
You’re in control, Lord. Not me. Protect us in the blast, and grant us success.
It was the prayer he prayed before igniting any charge, but today the words felt different. Deeper. More desperate. So much more than a paycheck or a reputation rested on this job. The life of the woman he loved was at stake, completely redefining success.
He pulled a new match from his vest pocket and held it between his thumb and forefinger. A creak on the stairs told him Bertie had returned, but he didn’t turn. He never looked away from a fuse before he lit it.
She must have sensed his intensity, for she didn’t speak until she’d taken up her position in the place behind the support pillar that he’d pointed out to her earlier. Even then, she whispered. “Everything’s ready, Malachi.”
He stepped up to the wall, set his left palm against it while a final wordless prayer groaned through his soul. Then he bent his knee and with a flick of his wrist, dragged the match head against the sole of his boot. Scratch. Hiss. Then a tiny whoosh as the matchstick flared to life.
“Fire in the hole!”
Mal touched the flame to the fuse, and waved out the match.
One.
He ran to Bertie’s position, grabbed her about the waist, and bent his taller frame over hers.
Two.
He jerked her fully behind the pillar to ensure her protection.
Three.
He tightened his grip and braced for the explosion.
Four.
The concussive blast echoed through the basement, shaking the rafters and setting the canned goods to clinking and rattling on the shelves. Mal didn’t wait for things to calm, though. He released Bertie and darted forward.
Plaster dust filled their air, creating a thick, white haze that threatened to choke him. Chunks of brick and plaster covered the floor. Yet all Mal cared about was the jagged hole in the center of the wall. A hole as big as his head. And behind it? Glorious gray stones. Crumbling, weak stones loosened either by the explosion or from age.
Mal snatched up the hammer from the workbench and used the back side of the head like a pickaxe, stabbing inside the hole and yanking until entire bricks pulled free and pounded to the floor beside his feet. Slam. Yank. Slam. Yank. Over and over. Faster and faster. His urgency building with each swing.