Suicide Bomb

by Bobby Nash

  “What?” Charisma asked in that high pitched squeal that came so easily to teenagers. Her features were that of an innocent girl, all sweetness and light. But Jacks new better than that. She wasn’t buying it for a minute.

  “So, what happened?” Jacks probed as she unscrewed the cap off of a plastic Mt. Dew bottle she had pulled from the fridge. It was going to be a caffeine heavy morning.

  “Can’t I just come visit my big sister for no real reason?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Now that hurts, Cat,” Charisma said, with a pout, her feelings bruised.

  “How come you only seem to just pop by for a visit when you know I’m not home?”

  “And just how the hell was I supposed to know you weren’t going to come home last night?”

  “There’s this little invention called a telephone,” Jacks said, laying on the sarcasm. “They even make them small enough now so that you can keep them in your pocket. You should look into it.”

  “Well. I see somebody woke up in the wrong bed this morning.”

  Jacks’ stern look told her sister that continuing that line of commentary would do little to help her case. Oddly, Charisma picked up on the silent signal and let the matter drop. Usually, it took more than one attempt to subdue the teen once she was on a roll.

  Things must be pretty bad this time, she guessed.

  Jacks took a deep gulp from her drink and felt it sting on the way down as the carbonated bubbles fizzed. “You and Mom fighting again?” she asked a second later.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I’d like you to just answer the damned question for once!” Her voice was louder than intended and Jacks instantly regretted the outburst. Little sister often brought out Jack’s temper without even seemingly trying and today seemed no exception. She held her hands up in front of her in an effort to stave off an argument before it could get started.

  It was an oft-practiced maneuver.

  “I’m tired and I’ve got a massive fucking headache so I am really in no mood to play these games with you today, Chari,” Jacks said in a calmer, more reasoned voice, one she normally reserved for talking to suspects.

  “Oh please.” Charisma rolled her eyes. A trait she picked up from their mother. “I know you just love to swoop in and play the hero.”

  Despite the jackass playing a drum solo in her brain, Jacks closed her eyes and tried to breathe normally. I really do not need this, she thought as she padded back across the floor toward her room, careful of the kernels littering her living room floor.

  “I’m going back to bed," she said, choosing to retreat and try this conversation again when clearer heads were present. "Try not to make too much noise while cleaning this mess up.”

  Charisma watched her sister walk away from the argument. “I’m sorry I woke you,” she said, once more the voice of innocence.

  Big sister Jacks stopped at her bedroom door; her head hung to her chest, deflated. Defeated. “Look,” she started, but then let her voice soften. “I’m exhausted. How about this? I’m going to lay back down for a couple hours. If you’re still here when I get up we’ll talk.”

  The will power it took to lift her lead-lined head was tremendous, but she felt she had to look at little sister.

  “Okay?” She forced a tired smile.

  “Okay,” Charisma answered, feeling relieved and returning the smile. If she said anything else, it was lost as the DVD resumed its course and the sound of bullets zinging and tires squealing once again filled the room. Charisma quickly lowered the volume to a more respectful level. Although she was as defiant as they came, the fact that her sister trusted her enough with a key and a place to stay whenever she needed it, was enough to earn respect in Charisma’s book.

  Most of the time she even liked her big sister.

  Although she did have her moments when she was almost Mom-like, but Charisma was smart enough to keep that observation to herself. She needed Jacks on her side and there was a line that she knew not to cross. The comparison with Mom was way, way, way on the other side of that line.

  As much as she hated anything remotely resembling housework, Charisma began sweeping up her mess as Mel Gibson chased Gary Busey down the freeway with guns blazing.

  ###

  In the comfort of her wonderfully warm bed, Catherine Jackson dreamt.

  In her dream she was running down a road with gun in hand and in pursuit of someone. Obviously, her subconscious was being guided by the movie playing in the next room that she could just barely hear through the closed bedroom door. Just like Mel Gibson’s character in the film, Dream-Jacks leapt a fence and slid down a grassy embankment to the freeway below. She pulled her gun and fired several times at the retreating car, shattering the rear windshield. Unfortunately, the car sped off and the bad guy got away.

  “Dammit!” Dream Jacks shouted as a car screeched to a halt at her side.

  “Need a lift?” the dream driver of the dream car asked.

  Dream-Jacks leaned in for a closer look. She was not at all surprised to see Dream-Daniel behind the wheel, his perfect teeth smiling up at her. She swore there was a glint of light reflecting off his pearly whites.

  “Get in!” the man of her dreams said, his voice silky smooth.

  She complied without a word and seconds later they were in hot pursuit.

  “Damn, this boy can drive,” Dream-Jacks thought as her cell phone began to ring. She reached for the phone in her pocket, but it was not there. She could not find it. This caused her dream self much consternation. She always had her phone with her.

  “Where’s that damned ringing coming from?” she asked Dream-Daniel, who looked at her with a puzzled expression. Did he really not understand the question?

  When he finally opened his mouth to answer his words came out as another ring. “What?” she demanded. “What did you say?”

  Dream-Daniel tried again, but as before the only sound he made was that same damned ringing that made Dream-Jacks’ ears hurt. She was beginning to wonder if he had swallowed a cell phone or if she was going crazy. She probably would have accepted either answer. He tried to speak again, but the only sound that came out of his mouth was that damned ringing.

  And it was getting louder.

  Dream-Jacks clamped her hands over her ears as the intensity increased.

  “Will someone answer that goddamned…”

  ###

  The inhuman screech of the telephone broke her reverie.

  Jacks sat up straight in her bed, her hand instinctively drawn to the hip where her service weapon was normally holstered, but it wasn’t there. It took a moment before clarity followed wakefulness and she found herself once more in the land of the living. It was a place where telephones were evil and no one could escape their torturous ways. No news delivered early in the morning was ever good news. Good news always seemed to be able to wait. Bad news always woke you up from sweet dreams. She fell back against the fluffy pillows and hoped the noise would stop, that maybe it was all part of her dream.

  The phone rang again.

  No such luck.

  Eyes heavy-laden, Catherine still could not force herself to look at the clock for she knew it would only make her mad because she was too tired to have slept very long. The evil ringing sounded again and Jacks swore to never again succumb to the evils of telephones - or margaritas ever again. She rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, but as much as she wanted to, she knew she couldn’t ignore it.

  Fumbling for the phone with her eyes clamped shut Catherine angrily plucked it off the nightstand, knocking over the She-Hulk bobblehead that watched over her as she slept. Without checking the number, she swiped right with her thumb. If the phone had a neck it would have snapped under the pressure as she held it against her ear. Her speech was slightly slurred, what with her face still buried in her pillow, but somehow she managed to make her voice work.

  “This better be fuc
kin’ important!” Jacks mumbled with all the irritation her tired brain could muster.

  “Jacks?”

  On the other end of the line was the soothing voice of Detective Melvin Walker, her partner and best friend in the world. If there was one person that Jacks didn’t mind waking her up, it was Walker. Except when he called at the most ungodly hours. Then he was the devil. Of course, she knew he would not call without reason, especially not so early. Her partner hated mornings more than she did.

  “Shhhhht!” she hissed. “Not so loud, Mel. Do you have any idea what time it is? Or that it’s my day off."

  “I am aware of both, actually.”

  “Isn't it supposed to be your day off too?”

  “What's a day off?” he joked, sounding far too chipper for her taste. She could almost hear a Cheshire-like grin in his voice.

  “What do you want, Melvin?”

  “Well, the boss wanted me to call you. We’ve got a bad one and he wants us both on it.”

  “I’m listening,” she said, rolling into a sitting position on the edge of the bed as her partner laid out the details. Suddenly wide-awake, Jacks only interrupted with two questions. What? and Where? Fully awake now, thanks to an adrenaline rush, Jacks ended the conversation by informing her partner that she had to shower and would be there within the hour.

  He suggested she make that thirty or forty minutes instead. Sooner, if possible.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said before hanging up the phone. “So much for pleasant dreams and sleeping in,” she muttered as she made her way to the master bathroom.

  Less than ten minutes later, Catherine left her apartment, promising an irritated Charisma that they would talk when she got back. Although she was less than thrilled, the teenager agreed.

  By the time Jacks got in her car, thoughts of sleep were a distant memory.

  two

  Quantico, Virginia

  Saturday

  Samantha Patterson stepped carefully down the narrow alley.

  The morning dew was still fresh on the ground, the still rising sun having not yet evaporated it completely away. Her sneakers left a clear, distinctive trail in her wake.

  Her gun was drawn, pointed down and away as she had been trained. The Safety was off. She moved carefully, but quickly, almost at a trot, the balls of her feet absorbing each impact. Cautiously, Samantha eased forward down the litter strewn, cracked concrete foundation, one step at a time. Her back was only inches from the dingy brick wall that had probably been built a decade or two before she had been born. The smell of freshly ignited gunpowder stung her nostrils as she chanced a peek around the corner at the rear of the alley.

  A quick glance revealed much to her trained eye. She saw no one in the opening, but that did not necessarily preclude that no one was hiding there, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. What stood out most to her was the bag of groceries that appeared to have been dropped hastily in the middle of the courtyard near the rusting metal swing set that had seen better days. The paper bag was not soaked through completely by the morning dew so it couldn’t have been lying on the ground long. The broken bottle of some liquid, or perhaps broken eggs, had stained the bag but had not spilt out onto the ground. By her best estimate, she was looking at only minutes since it was dropped.

  Her instincts told her that this had become a hostage situation instead of the chase and evade scenario she had expected. Hostage situations were messy business. They rarely ended well.

  If there was a hostage involved, that overruled her shoot first, ask questions after plan of attack.

  “Okay, plan B,” she muttered as she eased around the corner, her gun arcing across the open area before her at eye level, the barrel lining up potential targets. There were no sounds, save the normal background noise of traffic from a nearby road and the occasional sound of an airplane overhead in the distance. It was as if even the birds, the bugs, and other assorted critters were afraid of this place and had chosen to give it a wide berth. Perhaps they had good reason.

  This was once a playground. No one should be scared in a place like this, she thought. And not for the first time, she worried about the state of the world she lived in and thanked God she and the Ex had never ‘gotten around to’ having kids. She couldn’t imagine trying to raise a child and keep it safe in this day and age. It seemed like there were predators everywhere and more and more dangers added every day.

  Samantha’s eyes darted from window to window on the buildings around her. This was an old-style apartment building, a left over from the earliest days of the city. Back in its heyday, it had been a modern architectural marvel. Nowadays these old buildings were little more than an eyesore. Most of them sported dirty, crumbling brick walls, open windows with no air conditioning, and rusted fire escapes. Almost all of it was marred by graffiti, some of which was quite good. Almost professional looking, she noted.

  Her quarry could be anywhere, in any of the rundown apartments all around her. As far as she knew she could have been completely surrounded. Unfortunately, if there was a hostage, she didn’t have time to wait and see who might be at home.

  Taking even, measured steps, Samantha moved slowly across the cracked concrete, lamenting once again that children were not safe, even on a playground. Although, from the look of disrepair to the swing set and slide it was obvious no one had played here in a long time.

  Another step.

  In a window to her right, second story, her quarry moved, snapping up from his hiding spot faster than anyone she had ever seen. His face was covered by a dark stocking cap, but the gun in his hands told her he wasn’t part of the neighborhood watch.

  Instinct and training took over and Samantha swung in his direction and fired three shots toward the open window. They easily hit their mark and the perpetrator fell backward into the darkened building.

  He did not spring back up.

  Another movement came from the left, just beyond the fly infested trash dumpster filled to capacity at the far end of the courtyard. Squeezing off two more shots, Samantha felled that attacker as well.

  She knew there would be at least one more. Maybe two.

  She dove for cover as the sound of gunfire rang out. The bullets impacted safely into the concrete, showering sprays of gray dust heavenward.

  Samantha counted four shots.

  Her eyes scanned the area. If the shooter wanted, he could easily take her out. She was too exposed. There wasn’t enough cover anywhere near her position to protect her if the sniper opened fire again.

  She saw the gunman on the roof and squeezed off two more shots at her target. The first shot missed, impacting the side of the building. Her second shot rang true and the sniper collapsed backward.

  “Now, where is...?”

  Before she could finish the thought, the last attack sprung. The gunman suddenly appeared behind her.

  Right behind her.

  Samantha spun on her heel and fired off one quick shot.

  A direct hit.

  Right between her enemy’s cardboard eyes.

  The hydraulic jack retracted and the would-be killer fell backward, the same way his co-conspirators had before.

  Samantha blew out a breath, pushing a stray strand of shoulder length raven black hair out of her face. She was debating on whether or not to get that hair trimmed. She had worn it short for the last five years and had decided to let it grow out a few months back. Now, though, it was always getting in her eyes or blowing wildly on the breeze. It reminded her why she had cut it in the first place.

  “How was that, Sam?” a voice sounded from her belt.

  Tucking the offensive strand behind her ear, Samantha unclipped the walkie from her belt and pushed to talk.

  “Not bad, Uncle Joe,” she told the range boss, who was not really her uncle though she had called him that for years. “The squibs on the ground were very convincing. It felt like they were actually shooting back at me. Just one question?”

  “Sh
oot.”

  “What happened to the hostage?”

  “What makes you think there was a hostage?”

  “The bag of groceries, for starters.” She pointed toward the prop in question as she knew Joe Greenworth, the range boss, would be watching her on the monitors.

  “How do you know the perp wasn’t carrying them?”

  “Because that would have probably been given in the description on the B.O.L.O., wouldn’t you think?”

  “Right. Because no one ever makes a mistake and forgets the little details like that,” Joe said playfully.

  “It still feels like a cheat,” she said, shrugging.

  “Maybe they belong to someone living in the building and they dropped them and ran for cover when the shooting started?”

  “Okay, now that one I would buy. Let’s lock it down and reset for another run. I want to…”

  She stopped in mid sentence as she heard applause behind her.

  A frown crossed her face.

  “I’ll be up in a minute, Joe,” Samantha said as she turned off the walkie and returned it to her belt.

  It was something of a surprise to see Special Agent Robert Corwin of the United States Secret Service walking toward her. Maybe surprise was too subtle a word. Astonishment would have been a more accurate description.

  Agent Corwin was not her direct superior, but they had worked together once upon a time, back when Samantha had been assigned to an investigative detail. Corwin had risen through the ranks rather quickly and was now running his own investigation division. Not bad for a guy who couldn’t find a clue unless he tripped over it. And even then, someone would probably have to point it out to him. Corwin was a bureaucrat, plain and simple. He had no business being in the field. Promoting him was probably the best thing the Secret Service had ever done because it got him off the street and behind a desk so the real investigators could do their jobs.

  Even though they were roughly the same age and had entered the Academy around the same time, their career trajectories had gone in vastly different directions. While he was busy with strategy meetings and updates with the Department of Justice, Samantha was busy running errands for guys like Corwin. Not that she was bitter about the lackluster fire her career had blazed. Well, okay, maybe she was just a little bitter, but she really had no one to blame for her current status but herself. No one shot her career in the foot for her. Nope. Samantha had fucked that up all on her own and she knew it.