Part 4

"VIN!"

Martin took an anxious step forward and lurched sideways against the tree, his injured ankle cruelly reminding him of its presence. Awkwardly frantic, he leaned down and retrieved the crutch, hurriedly fitting it under his now bruised arm. Ignoring the pain, Martin hobbled as fast as he could down the slope, forced to watch where he put his feet instead of the cabin. Frustrated eyes snapped from ground to cabin as he covered the yards, anxiety making him yell again.

"VIN!"

Finally, he reached the edge of the clearing where he forced himself to pause to both catch his breath and study an approach. Martin's heart pounded frantically as he studied the seemingly benign structure.

The front door and window was still intact. Along the side, he could see that the newspaper linings were yellowed with sun damage, but still firmly attached. One window in the back was broken, the paper wafting in the slight breeze. A hose faucet protruded from the wall under the damaged window - Vin's step to the crude entrance. Other than the broken frame, there was no indication of fire or, alarmingly, life. Martin finished his circle of the structure and then approached the front door with his gun raised.

Martin struggled up the two porch steps, wobbling dangerously. "Vin?" He called, the silence now becoming frightening. He studied the door, which was locked shut with a hasp and padlock as well as a dead bolt. For a moment, he debated shooting his way in, but then a memory was nudged awake by the lingering odor of smoke; he'd smelled it before, and the realization of what it was made him take a surprised step back.

"A flash-bang grenade?" Alarms went off in his mind. With added caution, he moved toward through the window and zeroed in on one upper corner where the newspaper covering had sagged down. Martin holstered his gun and put his crutch aside, needing both hands to support his body and cup around his eyes as he stretched up to look through the triangle of glass.

The darkness inside slowly rolled back and revealed shapes and forms as Martin's eyes adjusted low light, and soon a horrible scene emerged from the shadows.

Martin's pulse quickened when he saw Vin's sprawled face down on the floor. A ray of light cut a path into the single room from the broken window. The beam slashed across Vin's still face. Martin also saw a dark finger of . . . something . . . staining the floorboards outwards from under Vin's head. Blood? Martin forced himself to be still and evaluate the scene.

He pressed closer, the stressed glass crackling ominously. Backing off slightly to assess the glass, something clicked in the agent's mind when he noticed wire leading away from the inside of the window frame. Frowning, Martin looked back into the room, his attention focused on the other windows.

"Damn it," he whispered, frustrated at the lack of detail in the poor light. Martin felt his pockets with one hand finally locating the small flashlight tucked in an inner pocket. He twisted it on and pointed it inside, first pausing at Vin to confirm any signs of life. Martin was relieved to see his chest rising and falling, but he also noticed the many dark spots scattered over his body. More blood? Martin's jaw clenched. He had to force himself to check the rest of the interior and reluctantly moved the light away from his brother and to the cabin walls.

The bright beam skimmed around the window across from him, the wire he sought visible against the chipped white paint of the frame. From there, the light followed the wire to the floor where it ended at a duct taped cylinder tucked against the wall.

"Booby trapped!" Martin gasped and his heart raced again. Now knowing what to look for, other wires and wrapped devices sorted themselves out of the darkness in the probing beam. A surge of fear forced him back where he was stopped by the railing edging the small porch.

"Oh my God," he whispered, rubbing his eyes. Images of "Unibomber" Ted Kaczynski's cabin popped instantly into Martin's mind. This was the same, booby-trapped - laced situation and the last thing they needed was for the owner to arrive. The agent recognized the cylinders as gas grenades, but there were box-shaped devices in there, too. Were they stuffed with shrapnel? What other weapons would the obviously disturbed owner have if he returned? And how did Vin survive this deadly set-up? "Jesus, Vin, what did you fall into this time?"

Collecting his thoughts and reining in his panic, Martin gathered his crutch and began a slow circle of the wooden structure. He checked every window and looked in every opening, no matter how small. Eventually, he was able to put together a mental picture of what was inside. From what he could discern from his limited visual investigation, it appeared that each opening had two traps – an initial trap and a back up trap. There was only one door. Martin theorized that there had to be a way to disarm the door traps – otherwise, how would the owner get inside?

The only other item of interest he found on his inspection was a generator locked in a small shed attached to the house. The fuse box must be in there, too, Martin thought. He returned to the shed and tried to remember the details of what he'd read about Kaczynski's cabin – how had they initially entered?

The shed door was locked with a simple hasp and lock. Making a decision, Martin shot the hasp and the lock fell to the ground with a soft thud. Standing to one side and turning his face away, he carefully nudged the door open. The hinges' dry creaking scraped at his raw nerves, but Martin pushed again. The door fought movement but he finally got it open enough to look inside. The generator, a cracked garden hose and a breaker box on the wall were the only occupants, save for a few scrambling spiders.

The generator needed a key and Martin figured that the key was inside the cabin or with the owner. The breaker box was locked with a small padlock which the agent grabbed and twisted viciously, breaking the hasp from the slightly corroded metal box.

The two pairs of breaker switches were in the "Off" position.

Martin resisted the urge to throw the switches when he saw a lone wire trailing out of the box. A conduit ran from the top of the box and disappeared into the cabin wall, typical of all breaker boxes, but the sole wire taped to the outside of the conduit was not normal. He could see that the wire mingled in with the rest of the wires that spilled from the conduit to the breakers. That sole wire was obviously added after the breaker box had been installed. Could it be the way to disarm the door traps? It was a simple and clever design and an easy way to allow initial entrance to the cabin if all he had to do was throw the switches. Usually, though, nothing was that easy. Instead, Martin decided to follow the wire first. And with the shape his foot was in, it was going to be painful.

First, though, he needed a saw to take out part of the wall. He remembered the folding saw he'd teased Vin about and hobbled his way back to the packs. The folding blade was easy to find, as it was stored in an outer pocket of Vin's pack. He also found a sturdy hand axe, and tucked it into his waistband with the saw. Before returning to the structure he downed a few more aspirin and stuffed whatever first aid supplies would fit into his pockets.

Entering the shed Martin climbed on top of the generator, his leg and ankle screaming in protest, and paused to catch his breath, waiting for the pain to ebb. Then, when the agony was at least tolerable, Martin pulled out the folding saw and began working on the dry, aged wood around the conduit's juncture with the cabin wall.

Martin prayed as he worked.

MAG7WATMAG7WAT

"Come ON! Another flag? That was a good play!" JD's loud commentary was backed by the groans and grumbled curses of the rest of the team. It startled Chris back into reality, his twitch noticed by one other teammate.

"Mr. Larabee?" Chris snapped his head sideways to find Ezra staring at him curiously. "Are you all right?"

Chris scowled at him, slightly embarrassed, and turned back to the game. "Yeah, yeah. I was just . . ." He paused, thinking back to the disquieting feeling that had suddenly washed over him a few moments ago.

"Just what?" This came from Buck whose attention was now drawn away from the television screen.

Chris glanced at Buck, opening his mouth for a sharp reply, but found no words. The feeling was back again, stronger this time, and he frowned, searching for a verbal definition. Unable to do so, Chris rose and turned to stare out towards the mountains framed by the large great room window.

Sudden silence, save for the electronic mutterings of the football game, brought his attention back to the here and now. He glanced back to find five sets of eyes staring at him. He returned the looks for a moment before asking, "When does it get dark? About six?"

"Earlier," Nathan responded. "Closer to five-fifteen. Why?"

Chris glanced at his watch. It was a little past three o'clock. "Vin should be home by then or at least out of the hills." He looked around and spied his cell phone on the bar and stalked to it, snatching it up and dialing in one swift motion.

"Don't think you'll get him right now," Josiah said. "There's lousy to no reception up there. Once they're on the road, maybe."

The profiler's assessment proved to be correct as Vin's cell went immediately to voice mail. Chris snapped the phone closed with a soft curse.

"You think they're in trouble, don't you?" JD rolled to his knees from his prone position on the floor. His expression told Chris that the youngest team member already knew the answer.

Clipping the phone to his belt, Chris ran his hand through his hair and turned to look out the window again. Expectation weighed the air around him, settling an imaginary weight on his shoulders. This odd connection he had with Vin had become a fact of life for him and his team, proven true too many times to ignore. He turned back and did what he did best: took control.

"I'm not sure but I sure as hell can't sit here and ignore what my gut's telling me." Chris grabbed his keys from the same place he'd found the phone. "I'm getting my hiking boots and some supplies."

Before he could move away the rest of the team was on their feet, verbally dividing up tasks without question.

With a grim smile, Chris headed down the hall to begin preparations. He still couldn't pinpoint exactly what he was feeling but he did know that it felt better to move, and move he would until Vin and Martin were back in the fold or the worrisome feeling dissipated – whichever came first.

Chris was determined to make it the former as opposed to the latter.

MAG7WATMAG7WAT

Martin had managed to remove a sizeable chunk of the wall due to the dry nature of the wood. He was sweaty and his hands splinter-ridden but kept on with an unexplainable sense of urgency that wasn't tied to his injured brother. Finally, he was able to see inside after peeling away a thin layer of insulation and cutting through inadequate wallboard.

Now able to get his head and one shoulder in the cabin, Martin fished the small, powerful flashlight from a pocket and clicked it on to examine the inside. First, he checked on Vin.

Vin position on the floor hadn't changed. Satisfied his brother was still breathing, Martin probed further with the flashlight. Radio equipment was stacked against one wall across from the frighteningly still body. A table sat in what must have been the kitchen area was piled with boxes, some labeled "Explosives" or "Explosive Material". Notebooks, folders and books were haphazardly stacked on every surface, including the floor. Photos and newspaper articles were pinned to the walls. The single room smelled musty and vaguely chemical. Fine wires flashed silver when the light's beam crossed over them, and they seemed to be everywhere.

Martin took a shaky breath and refocused on his mission. Looking up, he found the single wire he sought and followed its path from where it separated from the conduit and climbed the wall to the juncture with the ceiling. The wire ran along the ceiling line, around the corner and to the front door frame. From there, it ran down the hinged side of the door frame to a box. From the box, another wire ran under a throw rug to a tripod. Martin could see the wire that ran from the tripod, about a foot off the floor, to another tripod on the other side of the door way. The door, when pushed open, would trip the trap. A grenade was taped to the floor under each set of tripod legs.

Martin swallowed hard. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he worked to control his breathing. Visually, he swept the small cabin once again and counted no less than eight other traps. He had to get Vin out of there.

Quantico had trained him to recognize a bomb but not how to disable one. Martin frantically tried to recall anything he'd seen or heard about this kind of trap, and how other agents had dealt with them. The trap wired to the door was different from the others. The breaker box had to be the way to disarm it, Martin thought with as much conviction as he could muster. Vin's life was at stake, and he knew he probably wouldn't be 100 sure about any plan he'd come up with.

He decided to go with his gut. Martin clambered down from the top of the generator, careful to not antagonize his injury more than he already had. He balanced on his good leg, panting heavily, and yanked open the breaker box again. His trembling fingers hesitated momentarily over the switches; then he swallowed hard and threw them to the "On" position.

The only thing he heard was a faint hum.

Releasing a deeply held breath, Martin snagged his crutch and limped his way to the front door where he was now confronted by the padlock and deadbolt. The padlock hasp was easily dispatched with a gunshot. The deadbolt would be trickier because even if he had two good legs and could kick the door in, there was a possibility of setting off another trap.

He could go in through the same window Vin had, but from what Martin saw there, again, was the possibility of setting off another trap. Each opening into the cabin had a primary and secondary trap. For some reason, Vin hadn't set off the primary window trap - he'd been injured by the secondary one once he was inside. Martin wasn't quite prepared to say the primary was a dud. Besides, with his injured ankle he wasn't sure he could make it in the window, anyway. It had to be the door and he didn't have a key but he did have . . .

Martin took off in an awkward stride to the shed. As he limped along, he tried to convince himself that the small voice in the back of his mind was wrong about running out of time. He retrieved the saw and returned to work on the door. Once he got safely inside and checked on Vin, he could use the radio to get help. It would be over soon and they would be back at Chris' ranch in no time.

He hoped.

MAG7WATMAG7WAT

The apartment was dark even as the full light of day struck the west facing windows. A smoke stained, heavy drape covered the glass to keep outside eyes from prying into his life. Any fresh air from the open window was rebuffed by the heavy material which also refused any of the stale air inside from escaping. As a result, the room's air was heavy and warm

He liked it that way. It was like an invisible blanket. It was comforting. It was his.

A radio murmured constantly from one corner, always tuned to a news station and continually infused the air with biased political commentary, debates and rude radio hosts. At the top of every hour there was laughingly called a news brief.

He knew the briefs lied because government lied and the government owned the radio waves. By keeping track of the government issued lies, though, he could hear what wasn't being said and those were the things that kept him ever vigilant.

Secrets – understanding them was the only way a common, working man could understand the government's real intentions. Those secrets were what constantly threatened his life and lifestyle. He wanted government completely out of his life and he wasn't above fighting to keep it that way. A short stint in the Army had taught him how to defend himself; demolitions proved to be an area he excelled in and he could have been the best if he hadn't have been dishonorably discharged because of lies. Government lies.

The phone rang and he jerked his head up from the mass of wires on his kitchen table. The clipper handles became slick in his palm from instant sweat. The phone rarely rang and when it did, it never brought good news.

He carefully set down the clippers and turned off the radio with a remote control. He reached for the telephone with a shaky hand. Slowly, he lifted the receiver from the cradle. In the sudden silence he could hear his own heartbeat as he drew the device closer. The hard plastic was cold on against his skin but it was the telltale coded message playing in his ear that turned his gut to ice.

His secret, private retreat had been breached.

Without a word he replaced the receiver and instantly fell into his well-rehearsed plan of action. He knew this would happen eventually, it always did. A deadly calm enveloped him. The alarm had been triggered and he rose to meet the challenge.

Grabbing the black duffle which was already packed and always ready, he strode from the room, leaving everything behind. Such were the wages of war and right now, his personal, private enclave was the front line and it had been violated.

He'd be there in about an hour, ready to fight to the death for his own secrets and what was rightly his.

First, though, he had to isolate the enemy. Leery of most electronic surveillance because they were too easily turned against you, there were still some basic electronic backups that were simple, untraceable and very, very useful. At this moment, he was glad he'd incorporated one such device into his security system.

Without power, the interloper would be cut off. It just took one call from the disposable cell phone he kept for just this scenario. Once he was away and on the road, he called the number.

MAG7WATMAG7WAT

Chris had an unshakable feeling that he was racing against time. Corded muscles stood out in clear definition along the tops of both hands and forearms as he gripped the steering wheel and pushed his truck to the edge.

"Whoa there, stud, we want to get there in one piece, right?" Buck slapped one hand onto the dashboard in front of him and threw his boss a tentative glance.

Chris pressed his lips tightly together and settled deeper into the seat without altering speed or course.

"I know Ez can really drive that fancy car 'o his, but I think even he's havin' a problem keepin' up. Slow down, will ya, pard? Don't think trucks this size are designed to take turns on two wheels."

With a disgusted snort, Chris glowered at his long time friend with the intent of shutting him up but the open-eyed fear he saw there shocked him into reality. He glanced down at the speedometer – 90 MPH. Surprised, he let up on the gas pedal.

"Thanks," Buck sighed, retracting his hand from the dash. "Wasn't sure these jeans'd be clean much longer."

That made Chris chuff a strangled laugh and his hands relaxed a bit on the wheel. "Just worried," he finally grumbled.

"Yeah, I can tell, old dog. We're all here with ya so just take it easy. We'll get Thing 1 and Thing 2 outta whatever fix you think they're in."

"I know. Thanks, Buck."

Buck glanced at his watch. "I figure twenty minutes 'till we're there. Not much time 'til dark."

"Did the Park Service call back yet?"

"Chris, JD only just called. What with it being Sunday afternoon and a holiday weekend I don't think they're gonna call back too quick. JD'll let us know when he hears from 'em."

Chris' grip on the wheel tightened again and he pushed a little harder on the accelerator pedal as Buck muttered a curse and grabbed the door handle for support.

To Be Continued . . .