“And why didn’t you do that, Walsh?”
Silence. “I didn’t get around to it.”
“Really? Then maybe it was fate,” she said mockingly. “Maybe you were never meant to have it. You don’t seem to have handled it very professionally since the moment you killed that poor FedEx driver in Georgia.”
“That’s a lie,” he said harshly. “There’s no one more professional than I am. I tell you, I just didn’t get around to it.” He changed the subject. “Forty-five minutes, and you’ll see all your work vanish as if it had never been.” He hung up.
Forty-five minutes.
She almost wished that Walsh would destroy the skull now.
If Joe heard the shot, then he’d know there was no reason to go after that reconstruction. He would be safe.
But she couldn’t rely on wishes. Don’t think about what Joe was doing.
Think about what she could do to make him safer.
She quickly dialed Nalchek. “I need your help.” She quickly gave him the location. “Walsh is here. I don’t know how much time we have.”
“Not my jurisdiction. I’ll have to—”
“I don’t care. Get someone up here.” She hung up.
Now find Walsh.
*
Joe cocked his head, listening for the rustling brush. The sounds had stopped. Whatever or whoever it was was only fifteen feet away, maybe twenty. Had he been spotted?
Doubtful.
But he couldn’t stay here, that was for sure. The bomb beneath his left foot clearly put him at a serious tactical disadvantage.
Understatement.
He looked down at the half-buried mine. He knew what he had to do, but it wasn’t going to be easy. Shit.
He jabbed his knife into the ground beside him and grabbed the short blade from his ankle scabbard. He’d been taught a trick that might work, but, of course, his teacher had been missing his right arm and half his face, Joe remembered ruefully. From a mine a hell of a lot less powerful than this one.
Joe thrust his hand into the soft earth and moved his fingers underneath the mine. He stretched his thumb over the top triggering pedal and gripped its muddy surface next to his boot. It was slick and wet, and the spring pushed against his clenched fingers.
One slip, and he was a dead man.
Joe slowly, carefully raised his foot, eyeing the triggering pedal to make sure that it remained in place beneath his thumb.
His foot was free. Now for the tricky part.
He pulled the mine from the damp earth, wincing as his thumb slid over the slippery pedal. He looked at the mine for a moment, keeping it at arm’s length from his face. As if that would help if it exploded. The temptation was strong to just throw the damned thing, but there would be only a second between release and the deadly blast.
And it was probably how his old instructor had lost half his face. No, he had to take care of this another way. Joe slowly turned over the mud-encrusted explosive device and looked at its underside. The top half fit cleanly over the bottom, almost like an oval-shaped shell. A thin ridge separated the two parts, a ridge just wide enough for …
Joe looked at the short blade in his left hand. It seemed about right. He’d know soon enough.
He slowly loosened his grip on the mine. The spring-tensioned top half rose slightly …
He stopped. Hopefully, the thicker part of his blade would catch and keep it from rising any more. He probably had only a few more millimeters to play with.
He loosened his grip even more.
It didn’t move. The wedge was holding.
He held his breath.
So far, so good. Here goes nothing …
One … two … three!
He let go.
And the pedal held in place.
He let out his breath. He cradled the mine in both hands. He bent over and carefully, gently, placed it on a large rock.