I’ve searched many a drug den in my day, yet they never cease to make my skin crawl. This one is no exception.

As soon as I cross the threshold, I’m hit with a stale, musty smell. Wrinkling my nose, I step farther inside and slowly start moving from room to room.

In the den, I see a few pieces of stained, mismatched furniture. Littering the floor are old newspapers and some Popeyes fried chicken wrappers. Books, too. Including some in Spanish, others in Arabic.

In the kitchen, dirty plates and glasses are stacked on the counters. The fridge is open, the inside speckled with mold.

I enter the bedroom and see two queen-sized mattresses squatting on the grungy carpet. Some lumpy pillows and sleeping bags are draped over them.

My light falls on a tiny human form lying in the corner and I step back with a lurch.

Holy shit! With dread, I look closer, and then relax.

It’s just a plastic doll. How did that get in here? And why?

But I’ve got much bigger questions. Who all was crashing here? And why? What the hell is the sleeper cell planning and where did they go next?

I kick a brittle wall in anger and frustration, denting it with my foot.

After I prowled around this disgusting—and dangerous—neighborhood, located this safe house, and searched every room, it looks like all I’m leaving with is a new barbecue shrimp recipe.

Damnit!

Wait. Something comes to me.

The garage. I forgot about the garage.

CHAPTER 55

I exit the house and stride across the overgrown lawn.

The garage’s side entrance is boarded up with another new piece of plywood. But the main door is only secured at the bottom, with a single rusty padlock.

I lean down and position the short end of my pry bar underneath the latch. I stomp down on the long end—hard—and the old lock pops right off.

I yank the door open. The garage floods with sunlight, exposing a space crammed with all kinds of junk. Shelves are lined with paint cans, cardboard boxes, scrap metal, spools of wire, tools.

How strange. The house was practically empty. But the garage looks like it’s been used recently … as a workshop?

I step inside for a closer look—when I’m hit by another smell, sharp and intense.

Ammonia. Or maybe chlorine. Whatever it is, it’s much stronger than any household cleaning agent, that’s for sure. Industrial strength.

Those kinds of chemicals aren’t used to make meth or cut coke.

They’re used to build bombs.

I really wish now I was still on the force. Or at least had access to some of my old resources. I’d have a forensics team dust this place for prints, fibers, DNA, top to bottom. Swab and analyze every chemical trace in here. Cross-reference everything with the ATF’s databases to search for any bomb-maker signatures.