Free A Father's Sacrifice by Mallory Kane Page B

crawling all over my private property, I can’t even keep the damn cops off.”
    Natasha took a deep breath as she eyed the smoke billowing above the twenty-foot gate. The air was tainted with the odors of gasoline, oil and other less-pleasant odors. Smoke stung her nostrils.
    “That’s how it’s done,” she commented. “The entrance to your estate is now a crime scene.”
    He sent her a glare worthy of a laser scalpel.
    She met his glare, shook her head and turned back to the rising smoke. “You really think you can control everything, don’t you?”
    “ No. Alfred says the same thing. You’re both wrong. I just want to know what’s going on.”
    “The very definition of control freak,” she muttered.
    “What did you say?”
    A noise to their left caught her attention. She stepped around Dylan and raised her weapon just as Mintz appeared through a steel mesh door obscured by a tall hedge, accompanied by a dour-faced man in a rumpled suit.
    The stern man eyed Natasha’s Glock and swept his suit coat back to reveal his weapon and shield. A police detective.
    Natasha lowered her weapon. She dipped into her fanny pack and pulled out her own badge. “Special Agent Rudolph. FBI.”
    The detective nodded. “Frank Buckram. Homicide.”
    Dylan’s shoulder brushed hers as he stepped forward. “I’m Dylan Stryker. Did you say homicide?”
    “Yes, sir,” Detective Buckram said.
    “What the hell is going on?” Dylan looked at his trusted friend, whose face was creased with worry and smudged with soot. That Alfred was shaken alarmed him. “Are you all right?”
    He nodded and squeezed Dylan’s shoulder with his big rough hand. The gesture both comforted and worried Dylan. It was Alfred’s version of a hug.
    “The vehicle was an old delivery truck,” Buckram continued. “Apparently the driver was on a suicide mission. The truck was a rolling bomb.”
    The words slammed into Dylan with the impact of .38 slugs. “Bomb? Suicide?” He looked from Alfred to the detective to Natasha.
    Her jaw was set, her face fiercely controlled. She exchanged a glance with the detective. Had she been expecting something like this?
    Had Alfred? Was that why the ex-POW who’d rather chew rifle slugs than have anyone tell him what to do had been so adamant about accepting the FBI’s help?
    “I don’t get it. Are you saying somebody deliberately blew themselves up trying to get through the gates?”
    “Yep. Could be one of those terrorist fringe groups. We’ll have to wait and see who claims responsibility.” Buckram pulled out a notepad. “You’re working on some secret government project, right?”
    Dylan grimaced. “You could say that.”
    Natasha moved closer. “What do you know so far, Detective?” she asked.
    Buckram looked up from under his brows. “Not much. My men are still assessing the situation. The truck has no license plate, and we haven’t recovered a Vehicle Identification Number. Our CSU will be here in a few minutes.”

    Alfred spoke. “They’ve got the surveillance disks from the two guardhouses the truck broke through. Only took him about eleven seconds the way he was driving.”
    The detective bobbed his head up and down. “Chances are slim to none, but we’re hoping to get an ID on the driver or the vehicle.”
    “Hold it.” Dylan wiped his face. “How many people are going to be involved in this? I can’t have investigators and police running around all over the place.”
    “You don’t have a choice, son,” Alfred said. “It’s out of our hands. Until we know otherwise, they’re treating this as a homicide, a possible terrorist act.”
    “Fine. As long as Ben and the lab are safe. Buy me enough time to finish.”
    He turned to Natasha. “As soon as I can get the implant inserted into Ben’s back, attach all the fibers and make sure it’s compatible with his immune system and the computer, the FBI and the NSA and whatever other letters want it can have the whole stinking thing. I