up your lunch. No need taking a chance on someone getting to your food again. It’s going from my hands to yours.”
“I appreciate that,” Sahara said.
“And I am happy to do it,” Lucy said. “So, what’s going on in the new scenes that required wardrobe changes?”
“I don’t know. Let me see,” Sahara said, and she plucked a cold peeled shrimp from the bowl and dredged it in the spicy cocktail sauce before popping it in her mouth.
* * *
After waiting to see if Sahara Travis would ever come back out of that penthouse, Bubba was getting antsy. Right after he learned that the wrong woman died eating the poisoned food, he’d begun preparing the next wave of attack. His plan? Bomb the elevator. It had to work because it was the only way she could leave her apartment.
He got the name of the company The Magnolia used for mechanical repairs and set the next step in motion. That meant finding someone to build and place the bomb. Once that happened, there was nothing he could do but wait.
It was midafternoon a few days later when he learned Sahara would be leaving the penthouse the next day. He contacted the bomber he’d arranged for with one text message.
Go fix the elevator. It needs to be in place this evening. She’ll be leaving the penthouse by 5:00 a.m.
The bomber reacted calmly. Everything was ready. He put on the disguise, slipped the bomb into a big yellow toolbox and then carefully covered it with tools and headed to The Magnolia. He circled the building several times before he saw a service vehicle pull around to the back. He waited until the vehicle left, then parked, grabbed his toolbox and headed inside.
There was a small hallway that led to a check-in window. He walked up, quickly eyeing the security camera in the far corner of the room behind the receptionist’s desk. He tapped on the counter to get her attention.
She looked up, recognized the uniform, saw a company ID tag from where she was sitting and smiled.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“Got a call to check brakes and cables on the penthouse elevator.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“I go where they send me,” he said with a shrug.
The receptionist was hesitant. It was Magnolia policy to never bother the residents. Their job was to make life as private and luxurious as possible, so calling to confirm a repairman who wasn’t going anywhere near the penthouse itself could mean a black mark against her work record.
“Well, I guess it’s all right. Sign in on the clipboard and sign back out when you leave.”
He signed in, then tapped the counter once more.
“Which way from here?”
“Down the stairwell to the basement. The residential elevators are on the west wall. The single one on the south is the penthouse.”
The bomber nodded, picked up his toolbox and shuffled off.
Once in the basement, he went straight to work. Someone had obviously come down in the elevator earlier, because the car was on the first floor, and it didn’t take long for him to get to the controls to bring it one floor farther down. At least he didn’t have to climb up the ladder inside the shaft to get to the car, although he’d been prepared to do so, if needed.
After a quick glance around, he climbed up on top of the car to set the bomb, fastening it right against the cables, then set a small camera on top of the emergency exit in the ceiling, aiming it down into the car so that when the Travis woman got in, he could see her and detonate. If she didn’t die in the blast, she certainly would when the car crashed into the basement.
Once he was done, he gathered up his tools and headed for the stairwell. Now that this was done, he needed to disappear. His only witness was the woman in the office, which concerned him some. However, when he got back to the office to check out, there was a sign on the window.
Back in Fifteen Minutes.
He signed out and left. A simple trip to the bathroom had saved the woman’s life.
By the time Sahara went to bed that night, she was comfortable with the new lines and mentally immersing herself back into the role. She was a little sad, a little bit afraid and definitely uncertain what tomorrow would bring, but it felt good to be resuming normal activities.
When her alarm went off the next morning at four o’clock, she had just enough time to shower and dress for the day before the car would arrive to take her to the set.
While she was getting ready to leave, the bomber was in the parking lot of The Magnolia watching the video feed inside the elevator car from a remote control camera, waiting to hit a button and blow her to kingdom come.
Oblivious to the impending danger, Sahara moved through the penthouse with comparative ease, opting to wear some loose terry-cloth slippers to work. Adam had just called to let her know her car arrived, so she headed out the door wearing gym clothes and a lightweight zip-front hoodie. She was carrying a small purse barely big enough for credit cards, her phone in one hand and her coffee in the other as she punched in the code to send for the elevator.
And up it went.
When the bomber saw the doors open and his target step onto the elevator, he grinned. He didn’t waste any time. He took a quick breath and detonated the bomb.
But Sahara had realized she’d forgotten the pages with all of her notes and comments for the day’s shoot and had jumped out of the elevator with her key card in hand before the doors had closed. She was already running back across the hall to get them.
She was three steps from her door when the bomb went off. It blew the elevator doors into the hall only feet from where she was standing, immediately filling the hall with flying debris and a cloud of white billowing dust.
The impact knocked her to her knees and sent the key card sailing out of her hand. She was down on all fours screaming and crying for help when she heard the elevator car fall. It slid down the shaft in a horrible screech of metal against metal, and the faster it fell, the louder the screech until it was a constant, unending scream.
Sahara had lost her sense of direction in the thick, billowing dust and smoke, and all she could hear was that shriek as she frantically crawled from one side of the hall to the other, screaming for help, trying to orient herself with where she was. When she finally felt the ornate carving on her front door, she scrambled to her feet.
The light in the hall was off, leaving her in solid darkness. When she finally felt the keypad, she sobbed with relief as she began trying to key in her code. But the feeling was short-lived, because the floor began shaking beneath her feet. The car had become its own missile, rocketing down the shaft until it passed the ground floor and smashed into the basement in a second explosive blast, filling the shaft with even more smoke and debris.
Out in the parking lot, the bomber drove away convinced he had succeeded, and while most of the other tenants thought it was an earthquake, Sahara feared it was no accident. She was ninety-nine percent sure that a second attempt had just been made on her life.
When she finally made it back into the penthouse, she locked herself inside and then sank to her knees, sobbing. Too weak to stand, she fumbled for her phone, then groaned when she realized it was somewhere in the hall, and she wasn’t going back into that choking smoke.
Slowly, she struggled back to her feet and then stumbled to the nearest bathroom, desperate to get the grit and dust from her face and eyes. Once she could see, she ran through the rooms to get to her bedroom suite, locked the door and then ran for the house phone at the end of the wet bar.
Her heart was hammering so loud she could barely think, and her hands