“He’ll know why.” But Cade considered the interpreter’s words. If he did need to talk to Michael for any reason, it’d be smarter to keep McNab alive. At least until he’d taken care of the boy.

He grabbed McNab’s collar and dragged him into the cell where the pedo had kept his prisoners. Cade had already checked the man for weapons, and he was clean, which made sense, as he’d been planning to go into the police station. He slammed the cell door shut and checked that he had the key.

Then he went into the weapons room and stocked up, arming himself. He selected three more handguns, an automatic rifle that he’d converted from semiauto himself. And two of the old pedo’s vintage grenades.

He’d never had to use one, but if he was surrounded and needed to make a quick getaway, he could use them as a distraction.

Because he’d had time to think about this while questioning the interpreter. He still didn’t know where Michael was. Consensus among the reporters online was that he was in custody in a safe house somewhere. Probably well guarded.

Cade wasn’t going to be able to get into a safe house. But if he could find out where it was, he could smoke Michael out. And then he’d shoot him.

Or bring him back here and drug him. That might be easier. On both of us. He wasn’t relishing the cold-blooded murder of a fourteen-year-old, especially now that McNab had so bluntly asked him his plans.

He scanned the shelves to figure out what he had that could be used to smoke the kid out. A smoke grenade wouldn’t do it. He needed real smoke, from a real fire. He could go old-school with matches and gasoline, but if it was a safe house, the cops would have cameras set up. Whatever he did, he’d need to do it from far enough away that the cops couldn’t see him coming and stop him.

His gaze fell on the glass bottles on one of the shelves. They were covered with years’ worth of dust. But the can sitting next to the bottles was new. No newer than four years, though, which was when Cade had chucked the old pedo into the river.

It was tar. Next to the tar was a neatly wound coil of fuses. And a small gasoline can. Cade shook it. It still had some gas in it.

He knew exactly what those bottles were for. Sometimes low-tech was best, and a Molotov cocktail was about as low tech as it got. Only thing lower would be a rock.

He busied himself making up the concoction and gently pouring it into the bottles. He’d smoke out the kid and snatch him in the confusion of a fire.