Chapter Ten

Perry turned away from the locked door, frowning to himself. How was he going to open it? It was sealed with an electronic keypad; only the code could break it. Or overriding the code, and he would not have the slightest idea where to begin. Had Bartlett kept whatever password was originally installed? If he had chosen his own instead, it would be easier to think of what it might be.

He glanced to the console. He was unfamiliar with how to operate that, as well. And it would likely prompt him for a password first even if he found how to unlock the door. But it was worth a try. Maybe if Bartlett were already signed in to the account it would not ask further questions.

Several minutes later Perry turned away in frustration. On the middle screen was the flashing password prompt. He had tried several possibilities without success. He did not have time to waste on this! Wasn't there something, anything else he could try?

He glanced down at the transmitting device in his hand. It did not require a code, did it? If he knew how to send a signal, perhaps he could override the password from here.

Or perhaps he could have someone else unlock the door for him.

The first order of business was to tie up Bartlett. He would not stay unconscious for long. And the last thing Perry needed was to fight with him now.

Within moments Bartlett's hands were restrained, courtesy of Perry's tie. He returned his attention to the satellite transmitter. The buttons on top were a small number pad. Was there a way to signal one specific person? If so, did each number on the keypad correspond to a particular party? Bartlett had only hit one key when he had used the device to signal a specific transmitter. By contrast, he had said that the bombs required a combination. Perry frowned in concentration, tapping the device with his fingertips. What would Bartlett's friend's number be?

For a moment his forefinger hovered over the 1. Then, changing his mind at the last moment, he looked to 2. Bartlett was vain. He was not likely to list his friend in the first spot.

But there was another problem. How would he know that pressing the number would signal the friend to come here? What if it would instead mean to do something abominable, such as arm the bombs?

Was there a choice? Phone service did not work down here; he would not be able to send the accomplice a text message on Bartlett's phone, telling him to come. And it was too much to hope that the bearded man would suddenly show up now that Perry needed him.

Maybe if he could figure out how to make the red light flash instead of the green, it would be a signal that something had gone wrong. That might bring Bartlett's friend.

Bartlett had hit the device once to signal someone to attack. Perhaps that had shown up as a green light on that someone's transmitter. Would two taps change that to red?

He was going to have to try.

Praying that he was doing the right thing, Perry pressed the 2 twice.

And waited.

xxxx

Lieutenant Tragg climbed into his car, waiting for Sergeant Brice to get in on the passenger side before gunning the engine and pulling out of the parking lot.

Brice was as tense as Tragg felt. "Do you think this is going to work?" he asked.

"I don't know," Tragg said grimly. "We have to assume that Bartlett realizes we'll figure it out eventually and is planning on our arrival. And we also have to assume that the entire building may be under siege."

"Bartlett might also realize we'll try to distract him by splitting up and having some officers come in the back," Brice said.

"Probably," Tragg agreed. "Our best chance is to surround the building from all sides, so we'll have to take the risk."

"And do you really think Mason's secretary and Drake will stay back?" Brice wondered.

"They won't want to do anything that might put Perry in further danger," Tragg said. "If Bartlett wants to use anyone against him, he'll most likely try to harm one or both of them. They're Perry's nearest and dearest friends."

A bullet sailed past the police car. Tragg and Brice looked back in shock. A sole figure was leaning out the window of a vehicle coming up from behind them, a gun gripped in his hand.

"Would you like to rephrase that, Lieutenant?" Brice exclaimed. "Apparently we're targets too!"

Tragg's expression darkened. "Well, we're not going to stand for that," he said. With the road clear ahead, he abruptly swung the car out in a broad U-turn and then turned it sideways, blocking the lane. The gunman was already starting to turn his own car around for the escape. Tragg leaned out his window, delivering a shot squarely into the rear right tire. It blew, sending the vehicle skidding and careening across the street. Another bullet, aimed at the rear left tire, finished it off.

Tragg and Brice were hurrying out of their car in the next moment. The assassin was leaping out of his own, keen on taking flight.

"Stop!" Tragg yelled after him. "Stop or I'll shoot!"

Instead of either stopping or quickening his speed, the hitman whirled and fired. The police swerved away, returning fire. One of their bullets found its mark; the gunman went down.

Tragg stormed over, clutching his weapon. "Why were you shooting at us?" he demanded. He stood over the gasping form, his visage and tone both declaring that he meant business.

"It was . . . just a job," the assassin heaved. The shot had been fatal. He would be dead within minutes.

"Not everyone is willing to risk gunning down officers of the law," Tragg said. "And even less try it on an open highway several blocks from a police station!" He bent down, taking note of the satellite transmitter on the man's belt. "Did you receive a signal to come after us?"

Sullen, the hitman looked away. "I was told to do it," he said. "Barlow Travis called me."

"Then he is involved!" Brice said.

"Where was Travis calling you from?" Tragg asked.

"I don't know." The assassin gripped the asphalt with his hands, stubbornly refusing to grab at the wound. "He . . . he said he'd rapped the D.A. over the head. Thought he was dead at first, then wasn't sure."

"He's not dead," Tragg said with a certain satisfaction. His voice rose. "Do you know that Perry Mason is being held in the Brent building?"

The assassin's eyes widened. "How'd you know?" he mumbled.

Tragg ignored that, but was inwardly triumphant. Now they had confirmation. "What is Bartlett planning for anyone who tries to rescue Mason?" he demanded.

By now the hitman was almost gone. "Bombs," he rasped.

Tragg stared at him. Stunned, Brice came closer. "Did you say bombs?" Tragg exclaimed.

"Yeah," was the thready reply. "He's going to set off bombs in the place. But . . . he really wants to do it after Mason escapes. Make Mason feel like he's responsible for killing . . ." He trailed off, suddenly growing silent and lifeless as his head turned to the side. The hired killer would not prey on humanity again.

Tragg looked up, grim. "This is going to change everything," he said. "Get the bomb squad."

Shaken, Brice hastened back to their car.

xxxx

It was only five minutes later when the electronic keypad came to life, beeping and whirring. Perry was immediately at attention. He moved to the side of the door, where he would be ready as soon as it opened.

"What's going on in here, Trevor?" the bearded man called as he began to push open the door. "Is Mason giving you trouble?"

In the next instant he froze as the cold barrel of Perry's gun was held to his head. "Mason's given him trouble," Perry said. He seized the astonished criminal. "And you'll be in trouble if you don't tell me where each bomb is and how to deactivate them all."

Bartlett's friend did not even bother to ask how Perry knew about their existence. "They . . . they're not armed," he said. "But . . . Trevor gave you a time limit. You didn't know about it, but he decided to give you twelve hours to get out. If you're not out by then, the bombs will automatically activate and then detonate in fifteen minutes, killing you as well as everyone else in the building."

"And you were just going to sit back and die with us?" Perry snapped. He pressed the gun harder.

"No!" his prisoner gasped. "I wasn't going to be here. I was going to high-tail it out."

"What if Bartlett wouldn't let you go?" Perry returned. "He doesn't care about anyone else's life. Why should he care about yours?"

"He wouldn't do that to me!" was the angry retort. But a definite hint of doubt had crept into his voice.

"You can't be sure, can you," Perry said. "Now! How do I deactivate the bombs?"

"I . . . I don't know!" the bearded man cried in horrified realization. "Trevor never told me!"

Perry shoved him forward, to where Bartlett had been stirring for the last few minutes. "Make him tell you," he ordered. "Make him tell you if you want to live!"

Bartlett turned, blinking blurry eyes as his friend crashed to his knees beside him. "Barlow?" he mumbled. "What are you doing back here?"

So, Perry thought to himself, finally he has a name.

Barlow was trembling in newly awakened fear and panic. "Trevor!" he pleaded. "Tell me how to turn the bombs off!"

The words had a remarkable and alarming effect. Bartlett became fully conscious, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "No," he hissed.

Barlow's mouth fell open. "What?" he cried. "No, come on, you've gotta tell me! I don't want to die in here!"

"Then get out," Bartlett retorted. Seeing Perry standing behind him with the gun, his lips curled in a dark sneer. "He won't shoot you, at least not to kill. He wants us to stand trial, remember?"

"But by now it's almost been twelve hours!" Barlow protested.

"Then we can all take a trip to Hell together," Bartlett growled, his face twisted in a grotesque manner.

Perry gripped the gun tighter. It was no use. Bartlett would tell them nothing.

And Barlow was quickly panicking. "No, no, no!" he screamed, leaping to his feet. "Mason is right about you. And I'm not sticking around to go down with you!"

He spun around, kicking out at the gun in Perry's hand. Not expecting the abrupt movement, Perry was unable to hold on to the weapon. It sailed into the console, shattering one of the monitors.

Barlow did not even care about going over to get it. He tore past Perry and through the door, leaving it open as he frantically ran for safety.

Perry frowned, watching him go. Then he turned, moving towards the fallen gun amidst the broken glass. His limp had become more pronounced. The blood loss and the exertion were getting to him. And by this point his wound could even be infected. It was unlikely that Bartlett or Barlow had tried to be careful in getting it cleaned.

He picked up the gun, letting the slivers of glass fall to the floor around him. Bartlett, still on the floor with his hands restrained by Perry's tie, watched with a sickening smirk.

"So now that you got the door opened with your tricks, you're going to escape," he said. "Leaving me here to die in the inferno I've created."

Perry turned to face him. Silent and angry, he walked towards the wretch who was bringing about all of this chaos and mayhem. Still holding the gun he bent down, hauling Bartlett up with his other hand.

"No," he said. "I'm going to evacuate the building. And you're coming with me."

xxxx

Della was sick with disbelieving horror as she hung up her phone. Paul glanced at her, then took a better look when he caught sight of her paling complexion. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Della shook her head, slipping the phone back into her purse. "An assassin just went after Tragg and Sergeant Brice," she said. "He said that Bartlett has wired the Brent building with bombs!"

Paul was stunned. "Bombs?" he echoed.

"The police are calling in the bomb squad," Della told him.

"And what are we supposed to do?" Paul frowned. Della had opted to ride with him upon departing the police station, but they had already wondered what they would be allowed to do once reaching the Brent building. Now it was unlikely that they would be doing anything other than standing and waiting outside. Not that Paul wasn't relieved for it to be such a slim chance that Della would be going inside.

"I don't know," Della said, helplessly clutching her purse with both hands. "More than that, Paul, what's Perry going to do?"

Paul heaved a deep sigh. "He'll think of something," he said. "He always does." And hopefully it'll be enough, he added to himself.

Not knowing what else to do, he drove the rest of the way to the Brent building. He frowned as he turned onto the block. Squad cars were roping off all sides that he could see, and likely were cutting off the entire block to traffic. He slowed, pulling up near the cars in his way.

An officer walked over to him. "I'm sorry, sir, you can't park here," he said. "This area is closed to all traffic."

"I'm a detective," Paul said impatiently, fishing out his badge and flashing it at the policeman. "Paul Drake. Perry Mason is being held hostage in that building!"

"I'm sorry," the officer said again. "You still can't get through. It's too dangerous."

Della leaned forward. "We know about the bombs," she said in desperation. "Lieutenant Tragg called to tell us."

"We're just waiting on the bomb squad now, Ma'am," the officer said. "They should be along soon."

"That could be too late!" Della fretted.

Another car pulled up behind theirs. "What's the problem here?" came Mr. Burger's voice as a car door slammed shut.

"We can't get through!" Della exclaimed, hoping to appeal to him.

He bent down, looking into the car. "No one can get through," he said. "I'm sorry, Della; this time I have to put my foot down. You and Paul can't go past this barrier."

Of course he was right. But Della did not want to think rationally—not this time, when Perry was in danger and all she wanted was to find some way she could help him. "What about you?" she said. "Are you going through?"

A flicker of helplessness went through his eyes. "No, I'm not," he said. "I'd only be in the way and cause more harm than good." He rested his hand on the top of the car door. "Bartlett would love to get us in there, I'm sure of it. He probably has more assassins in the building and would see to it that we were killed right in front of Perry."

Paul spoke up. "You know, I don't usually agree with Burger, but this time he's right." He gripped the wheel. "As much as I hate to admit it. I want to get in there too."

Della looked down. At last she weakly nodded. This was going to have to be left in the hands of the police.

And God.

She began another silent, heartfelt prayer.

xxxx

Perry frowned as he and Bartlett reached the stairs leading to the main floor. Bartlett had been strangely cooperative on their way up from the basement levels. It was highly unlikely that it was because of Perry's gun, so he must have something else planned. But what could it be?

"Are those bombs going to go off the moment we step over this threshold?" Perry demanded.

Bartlett sneered. "I told you I wanted you to get out of here," he said. "That's when it's supposed to go up. Of course, if you don't leave in time because you're trying to get everyone out, then you'll die with them."

"And no one was on any of the basement levels," Perry noted. "How did you manage to keep them out?"

"It wasn't me," Bartlett smirked. "It was a girl named Iola Van Pelt. Figure that one out."

"I will," Perry said. "When we're outside."

The reception area of the ground floor was empty when Perry pushed open the heavy door and stepped through with his prisoner. His frown deepened. Where was everyone? Barlow had undoubtedly had plenty of time to get out, but there should at least be a receptionist. Perhaps Barlow had taken her as a hostage. Or less likely, maybe he had developed a prick of conscience and warned her about the bombs.

Without warning, guns clicked from every side. Assassins stepped out, their sniper rifles all pointed directly at Perry as they began to close in. No longer with a choice, Perry froze.

"So this was why you came so quietly," he said.

Bartlett's face split in an ugly smile. "That's right."

xxxx

Della had no idea how long they had been standing at the edge of the barrier, waiting and watching for something to happen. Paul was restless, unable to hold still but trying not to pace. Mr. Burger shifted his briefcase from one hand and back to the other. Della fumbled with her gloves, taking one half-off and then pushing it back on again.

All around them a large group of onlookers had begun to congregate. The police had called repeated instructions for them to stay back, but when that did not fully work several officers began to work crowd control.

Della glanced at them, anxious. She and the others had only been allowed to stay because of their deep personal connection to what was happening beyond the barrier—and because of Mr. Burger's influence. But if the throngs continued to grow, maybe she and Paul would be shuttled away too.

The megaphone brought them all to attention.

"This is Trevor Bartlett!" came the amplified voice from the Brent building.

Della went rigid. "What's he doing?" she exclaimed.

Paul and Hamilton exchanged concerned and uncertain looks.

"I am holding this building captive," Bartlett announced. "My bombs have just activated, so the whole thing will go up in smoke in fifteen minutes. And if the police and their bomb squad dogs don't stay back, I will order my hitmen to fill your precious lawyer Perry Mason with holes. They're surrounding him right now. Tell them, Mason."

Any pigmentation left in Della's face vanished into sheet-white when Perry's voice came over the loudspeaker.

"He's telling the truth. But don't let that stop you!" Perry ordered. "Get in here, now! See that the bombs are found and disabled. Don't worry about me."

Della was no longer thinking. She ran forward at the barrier, her heart in her throat. "No, Perry!" she screamed.

Instantly two pairs of arms grabbed her, holding her back. She struggled against them, but in vain. "Perry!" she cried again. "Don't sacrifice yourself! There has to be another way. There has to . . ." She clutched at someone's arm, her knuckles white.

Paul was so shaken he barely noticed Della's deathgrip on his arm. "Now what?" he asked of an ashen Hamilton Burger.

"I don't know," Hamilton answered. He looked back to the Brent building and lowered his voice. "It's starting to look like no matter what we do, Perry is done for."