down, he reached up and helped Orlando through.
“Musty,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
Quinn approached the steps leading up to the door, stopping a respectful three feet away. Stuck to the steps at floor level was a whitish glob of what looked like clay. Quinn had seen plenty of it over the years. C-4, a malleable plastic explosive that was the first choice of many a demolition expert. The wire that would set off the explosive ran from the glob along the steps, then up the wall and into a small plastic box attached to the doorjamb. Just opposite the box, on the door itself, was a small plate, its width and length equal to that of the switch. With the door closed, the plate and the box lined up perfectly.
Additional wires led out of the box to other mounds of C-4: one on each hinge, one along the base, and a last bit in the middle of the door itself, an arrangement sure to shred anyone standing on the other side into tiny pieces.
It was a pretty simple setup. Someone opens the door. The switch and the plate move out of sync. An electronic jolt is sent out.
And boom.
Dead and destroyed.
Whoever it was who actually used the door must have had a remote device that turned the switch off when necessary.
Quinn checked the setup again, making sure there were no hidden backup switches. Luck was with him. Everything looked pretty straightforward. Since there was only one perceived way into the room, no extra security measures would have been needed. The booby-trap maker would never have expected someone to come through the wall to get at his handiwork.
Quinn started with the C-4 next to the steps. He separated it from the wire, then repeated the procedure with the other mounds.
“You could have just left it,” Orlando said.
“I didn’t feel like climbing back through that hole to get out,” Quinn said. “Besides, this way some wino won’t stumble into it someday.”
Orlando cocked her head and smiled. “I knew there was a reason I loved you.”
“If that’s the only reason, then we’re both screwed.”
Quinn opened the door and stuck his head into the hallway. Al looked over at him, his eyes wide with fear. Nate looked over, too, but he seemed considerably less surprised.
“Everything all right out here?” Quinn asked.
“Couldn’t be better,” Nate said.
“You want to bring him in here?”
“I’m not going in there!” Al said, fear in his voice.
“It’s safe now,” Quinn said.
“I’m not. I told you I’m not. I’m not going in there.”
“We’re okay,” Nate said to Quinn.
“Quinn?” It was Orlando.
Quinn pulled himself back inside. Orlando was across the room, next to the gap between the stack of boxes and the exterior wall in the far left corner. She was looking at the floor.
“What is it?” Quinn asked.
“I think this might be the room Peter’s agent was looking for.”
Quinn hurried over. Instead of concrete like the rest of the floor, here was a four-foot-square piece of metal. It was dark and showing signs of rust along the edges, but otherwise was in remarkably good shape. There were hinges along the left side and a latch on the right. Through a loop on the latch was a large, very new padlock.
“Shall I?” Orlando asked.
“It might be wired also,” Quinn said.
“Should be easy enough to check,” she said. “The metal’s warped at this end.”
Without waiting to hear what Quinn thought, she got down onto the floor and pressed the side of her face against the concrete. She moved her light so that it played into the opening, moving it back and forth several times. After a minute passed, she sat back up.
“Clean,” she said.
“You’re sure?” Quinn asked.
“Enough to stake your life on it.”
“My life?”
She moved over to the padlock, removed her set of lock picks from her backpack, then set to work. It took her less than thirty seconds to open it.
“This is the part where you open the door,” she said after she removed the lock from the
“Musty,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
Quinn approached the steps leading up to the door, stopping a respectful three feet away. Stuck to the steps at floor level was a whitish glob of what looked like clay. Quinn had seen plenty of it over the years. C-4, a malleable plastic explosive that was the first choice of many a demolition expert. The wire that would set off the explosive ran from the glob along the steps, then up the wall and into a small plastic box attached to the doorjamb. Just opposite the box, on the door itself, was a small plate, its width and length equal to that of the switch. With the door closed, the plate and the box lined up perfectly.
Additional wires led out of the box to other mounds of C-4: one on each hinge, one along the base, and a last bit in the middle of the door itself, an arrangement sure to shred anyone standing on the other side into tiny pieces.
It was a pretty simple setup. Someone opens the door. The switch and the plate move out of sync. An electronic jolt is sent out.
And boom.
Dead and destroyed.
Whoever it was who actually used the door must have had a remote device that turned the switch off when necessary.
Quinn checked the setup again, making sure there were no hidden backup switches. Luck was with him. Everything looked pretty straightforward. Since there was only one perceived way into the room, no extra security measures would have been needed. The booby-trap maker would never have expected someone to come through the wall to get at his handiwork.
Quinn started with the C-4 next to the steps. He separated it from the wire, then repeated the procedure with the other mounds.
“You could have just left it,” Orlando said.
“I didn’t feel like climbing back through that hole to get out,” Quinn said. “Besides, this way some wino won’t stumble into it someday.”
Orlando cocked her head and smiled. “I knew there was a reason I loved you.”
“If that’s the only reason, then we’re both screwed.”
Quinn opened the door and stuck his head into the hallway. Al looked over at him, his eyes wide with fear. Nate looked over, too, but he seemed considerably less surprised.
“Everything all right out here?” Quinn asked.
“Couldn’t be better,” Nate said.
“You want to bring him in here?”
“I’m not going in there!” Al said, fear in his voice.
“It’s safe now,” Quinn said.
“I’m not. I told you I’m not. I’m not going in there.”
“We’re okay,” Nate said to Quinn.
“Quinn?” It was Orlando.
Quinn pulled himself back inside. Orlando was across the room, next to the gap between the stack of boxes and the exterior wall in the far left corner. She was looking at the floor.
“What is it?” Quinn asked.
“I think this might be the room Peter’s agent was looking for.”
Quinn hurried over. Instead of concrete like the rest of the floor, here was a four-foot-square piece of metal. It was dark and showing signs of rust along the edges, but otherwise was in remarkably good shape. There were hinges along the left side and a latch on the right. Through a loop on the latch was a large, very new padlock.
“Shall I?” Orlando asked.
“It might be wired also,” Quinn said.
“Should be easy enough to check,” she said. “The metal’s warped at this end.”
Without waiting to hear what Quinn thought, she got down onto the floor and pressed the side of her face against the concrete. She moved her light so that it played into the opening, moving it back and forth several times. After a minute passed, she sat back up.
“Clean,” she said.
“You’re sure?” Quinn asked.
“Enough to stake your life on it.”
“My life?”
She moved over to the padlock, removed her set of lock picks from her backpack, then set to work. It took her less than thirty seconds to open it.
“This is the part where you open the door,” she said after she removed the lock from the
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