The Kill Radius

by Nichole Christoff

  I bolted for the staircase that graced the end of the boat. Eddie dashed past me, headed in the opposite direction and beating a hasty retreat, just like Bran, to the bow. Damon’s girl was hard on his heels while Durante continued to bawl out Damon.

  Below, on the second deck, soldiers and their civilian guests had spilled out of the private parlors, bringing the party with them. The fight on the observation deck was like a floor show. It captured everyone’s attention—except mine.

  I scanned the area for Eddie’s bag. It was nowhere in sight, but just over the rail at the stern of the vessel, the blades of the great, red paddle wheel flashed wetly. They churned, leaving a long trail of foam as rich as clotted cream in our wake.

  And as they turned, I saw Eddie’s satchel.

  It was a dark blot riding high, wedged between two of the wheel’s flanges.

  Barrett’s hand closed over my arm. I thought he saw the messenger bag, too. I thought the sight of it caught in the paddle wheel triggered some kind of warning in him as well. He drew me away from the stairs. Away from Durante and Damon.

  “Barrett—”

  He left me in the moonlight, moved to break the grip his commander had on the soldier. But Barrett never reached them. Because at that instant an explosion ripped through the Lady Luck and blew us off our feet.

  Chapter 5

  The world rocked as if it had been knocked from its axis.

  And I wasn’t sure it hadn’t.

  The blast slammed me to the decking, sent Barrett crashing into me. I shook my head to clear it, righted my glasses on the bridge of my nose, and realized the Lady Luck was listing severely to her rear. Panic flashed through me.

  Suddenly sober, Barrett clambered to his feet.

  He grasped my arm, hauled me to mine.

  “Are you all right?” his lips seemed to say.

  A ringing in my ears wouldn’t quite let me hear him.

  I nodded anyway.

  The deck reverberated as people—so many people—ran past us to see what had happened. Not that they got very far. The explosion had ripped a jagged hole in the observation deck’s railing and twisted the wrought iron like ropes of licorice. The mahogany handrail had splintered like a toothpick.

  In the middle of the wreckage, Durante knelt on his hands and knees, shaking like a frightened dog. An arm’s length away, Damon lay on his face. Debris had torn into his back, leaving his mess dress jacket shredded and bloody.

  Barrett and I flew to Damon, dropped to his side. His eyes were open and empty. And his pulse was gone.

  My stomach slid sideways, but I didn’t have time to be sick. Soldiers, spouses, and sweethearts, gussied up for Dining Out, were noisily picking their way down what remained of the grand staircase, desperate to reach friends and family on the second level. Durante staggered after them. Worried for him, Barrett and I followed—and stumbled into chaos.

  As if a sea monster had taken a bite out of the Lady Luck, an entire section of the stern had been ripped up and spit out. The powerful paddle wheel remained, but barely. Its wide red slats were like broken, bloody teeth. They shimmied as the great wheel tried to turn and couldn’t. We were dead in the water, and the boat continued her slow slide into the drink.

  At this rate, she’d take us and the injured with her. Because the injured were everywhere. And so were the dead.

  I lost sight of Durante among stunned soldiers. It was these men and women and their dates who’d borne the brunt of the blast. But our military personnel are highly trained. Habit kicked in to override shock. Many swung into action, helping those who couldn’t help themselves.

  Barrett was no exception.

  He lent his shoulder to a second lieutenant hobbling through the crowd on a twisted leg. As Barrett led him toward the bow of the boat and relative safety, I spied the chestnut-haired captain I’d met in the receiving line. She staggered in circles, clutching her bleeding head.

  I wrapped my stole around her temples to stanch the flow, murmured calming words to her as the ringing in my ears faded. I handed her off to one of the riverboat’s crewmen who’d come to our aid. I turned to help someone else—anyone else—and skidded on a blackened nail protruding from the deck.

  I kicked the nail aside with my fancy shoe, immediately scuffed a burnt screw embedded in the wood. I frowned, looked around. Scorched nuts and bolts studded the planking everywhere.

  But they hadn’t been blown loose from the Lady Luck’s hull.

  No, these bits and bobs had been packed into the bomb. They’d flown far and wide in the explosion. Because they’d been meant to inflict maximum damage on soft targets.

  But the injuries from such shrapnel would be the least of our worries if we didn’t get off this sinking ship. Across the water, on the shore, the twinkling lights of civilization were so far away. And then a different type of light appeared in the darkness. The green and white of a boat’s running lights grew on the horizon. Search beams snapped on to sweep over the water and our decks. Pleasure craft, tugboats, shrimpers, and the coast guard closed in on the Lady Luck.

  Medics climbed aboard our vessel. And so did some other kind of first responders. These men and women carried black boxes with wands that looked like handheld metal detectors. And they wore helmets, face shields, and heavy boots with white coveralls that could’ve been made of Tyvek or plastic. Except they weren’t. These were hazmat suits, constructed of super-tough material and designed to resist pathogens like anthrax or Ebola, chemical agents like nerve gas, and even radioactive contamination.

  The sight of those suits put a whole new spin on the bomb that had almost blown us sky high.

  And they made my blood run cold.

  The hazmat specialists swept onto the boat, fanned out, and got busy waving those wands around. Which made me in an all-fired hurry to find Barrett. I hadn’t seen him since he’d assisted the soldier with the damaged leg. So I cut along the veranda, arrowed toward the Lady Luck’s prow. But I didn’t get very far.

  A man in a hazmat suit intercepted me.

  “Miss, I need to check you.”

  The guy could’ve been Darth Vader under all that insulation.

  Without waiting for my okay, he waved a short, black baton over my body. Instantly, the black box slung over his shoulder started screeching. And that didn’t do a thing to ease my worries.

  Two of his compatriots rushed at me, wrapped me in a Mylar blanket.

  They raced with me down the damaged stairs to the first deck.

  “Wait, I’m looking for—”

  They didn’t stop to listen.

  They herded me down an aluminum gangplank, strong-armed me into an inflatable dinghy with U.S. Coast Guard markings all over it. Other civilians and a number of soldiers, wrapped in their own Mylar blankets, crouched in the bottom of the boat. As soon as I was aboard, the outboard motors roared to life.

  I grabbed the gloved wrist of a responder as he nudged me to sit.

  “Just a minute!” I yelled over the snarl of the engines. “Where are we going and why?”

  He didn’t reply.

  Sinking to the dinghy’s floor, I dug into the beaded evening bag slung over my shoulder and pulled out my cellphone. This close to the coastline, the signal was strong and clear. As our craft skipped over the waves, I fought the rollicking motion, fired off a text message to Barrett:

  HAZMAT ON BOARD.

  ABOUT 20 OF US IN COAST GUARD CUSTODY.

  HEADED TO SHORE.

  FINAL DESTINATION UNKNOWN.

  GET EVALUATED.

  The dinghy’s engines shifted into low gear. The craft eased alongside a wide pier. Blinding lights beat down on the boards and on us, too.

  Our handlers hustled us onto the dock, separated us like cattle intended for market. Women were bundled into one white, unmarked van parked on the wharf. Men were packed into another.

  In our van, I bounced across a gray-upholstered bench seat, peered through the darkened window. An array of warehouses peered
back at me. They bore no signage and their peeling paint was less than distinctive. I had no idea where we were, and I had no idea where we were headed. But I was pretty certain we needed to get there for our health and safety.

  A woman dropped into the seat beside me.

  It was Mrs. Durante.

  “Where’s my husband?” she wailed. “Has anyone seen my husband?”

  I had.

  But I didn’t dare tell her he’d been arguing with a dead man at the time.

  Young and strong and more than able, Damon Maddox still hadn’t stood a chance. Not against Eddie Jepson’s bomb. Bran Laurent and Damon’s date had been lucky to walk away. Many others hadn’t. And I hoped Eddie would pay the price for it.

  “Where are they taking us?” Mrs. Durante whimpered. “Someone please tell me.”

  But no one did. No one demanded information, either. Fear kept our fellow passengers quiet. The scent of it was sharp, metallic. I glanced around the van, but everywhere I looked, wild eyes slid away from mine.

  Mrs. Durante began to weep as our driver stepped on the gas. I clasped her hand, tried to offer her some comfort. She clung to my palm like it was the only real thing in the middle of this nightmare, and in some ways, maybe it was.

  We sped away from the waterfront, careening around one corner and then another. The van slowed until the rattle of chain-link fencing and a shout from outside the vehicle sent us on our way again. Within moments, the van screeched to a halt. Its doors sprung open. More white-suited humans waved us out of the vehicle and into a courtyard.

  “Step this way, please.”

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  “Come quickly, now.”

  I hopped from the van, drew my Mylar blanket closer to my body, and tried to catalogue every nuance of my surroundings as I hurried alongside the rest of the women. Spirals of concertina wire topped more chain-link fencing. Red-and-black HIGH VOLTAGE signs announced the fence was electrified, too. All this metalwork formed a neat enclosure. And the other Lady Luck passengers and I were caged inside it.

  Before any of us could protest, our escorts rushed us down a concrete ramp. Solid steel doors gaped at the bottom of the slope. They had to be two feet thick and they were as yellow as a danger sign.

  These were blast doors, able to withstand an Atomic Age assault, and they’d likely been built during the Cold War when the Cuban Missile Crisis loomed large. Then and now, doors such as these sealed off top-secret bunkers, and this one was probably somewhere on Fort Donovan. After all, as the supersonic crow flies, Fort Donovan had been within spitting distance of the Bay of Pigs—and, technically, it still was.

  Apparently, this hush-hush location had been outfitted to withstand a nuclear attack sometime in the 1960s. Undoubtedly, it had been designed to deal with the aftermath as well. And that scared the hell out of me. Because it confirmed what I’d only suspected while onboard the Lady Luck. It confirmed that the bomb sinking the riverboat hadn’t been your ordinary, garden-variety explosive.

  It had been a dirty bomb.

  Built with a core of radioactive compounds stolen from a hospital or industrial operation, a dirty bomb could theoretically be constructed to fit inside the trunk of a car, a suitcase—or even a messenger bag like the one Eddie Jepson had carried. As a result, dirty bombs have been the worry of the FBI for decades, and in recent years, a concern of the Department of Homeland Security, too. So far, no individual or organization had ever used one against the American people. But with tonight’s blast, that had changed. And it shed new light on the scorched nails and screws, nuts and bolts I’d witnessed on the Lady Luck’s deck.

  All that shrapnel had been intended for fallout. In other words, they were meant to wound passengers conventionally, but also to spread radiation far and wide. That hardware had buried those deadly isotopes deep in the riverboat’s hull—and in the flesh and bone of her passengers.

  People exposed to such abnormal levels of radiation would get sick within a matter of hours. Their organs would break down. Misery and death would follow. And while Barrett and I had avoided the flying debris, I couldn’t forget I’d still set a Geiger counter screaming. After all, that’s what those black boxes the hazmat team had carried were.

  Geiger counters.

  Consequently, when my fellow travelers and I were ordered into a locker room, I didn’t object. A team of doctors and nurses met us there. With the help of cartoons on posters pinned to the walls, they sketched out a brief overview of the facts.

  As if we’d just joined a poor man’s YMCA, we then stripped, shuffled beneath steaming showers, scrubbed ourselves down, and scrubbed ourselves again. Wrapped in pale blue terry-cloth towels the size of beach blankets, we met a second set of medical types in another locker room. They wanded us as their field operatives had, and this time, we were declared clean of contamination.

  Once we were dressed in paper underwear, jumpsuits the color of mud, and cheap canvas sneakers, we were released into a holding area chock full of blue leather sofas and homey recliners. Together with convenient coffee tables topped with Kleenex boxes, they were arranged in happy little conversation groups. Kind-faced counselors carrying clipboards held heart-to-hearts on this furniture with other survivors who’d apparently been shuttled here ahead of us.

  Some of the counselors were army chaplains. Many of them were out of uniform at this time of night. Yet, I knew them from their demeanor—and their high, tight haircuts.

  Two of them zeroed in on the quivering Mrs. Durante. They led her away through a set of swinging doors. And that convinced me that her husband, Colonel Durante, must be in pretty bad shape.

  Desperate to see my own military man, I squinted, scanned the room. My square-rimmed glasses were long gone. They’d been confiscated with the rest of my radioactive personal property. I had a feeling I’d never get my hands on that particular pair of spectacles—let alone my elegant little evening bag, my cellphone, or my ID—ever again. But at the moment I didn’t care about any of that.

  I held my breath as I surveyed the men wearing brown coveralls almost identical to mine. Some hovered beside collapsible tables loaded with snacks. More dawdled near a bank of telephones where teary passengers poured their hearts out to loved ones on the other end of the line.

  The men’s faces all looked familiar. No doubt I’d seen them aboard the Lady Luck. But none of them were Barrett’s, and that’s what mattered most to me.

  Chapter 6

  While I watched, antsy and agitated, a heavy door on the far side of the room swung open. More guys in brown jumpsuits entered. At long last, Barrett trooped through. Spotting me, he made a beeline in my direction. He caught my face in his hands.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “You?”

  “Much better now that I’ve laid eyes on you.”

  I knew the feeling.

  “How’s Durante?” I asked. “Have you seen him?”

  “Some flying railing hit him in the head, but he should recover in time. Damon, though…” Barrett shook his head. “Jamie, forty-one people are dead, and the number’s expected to rise. The post commander’s here. With Durante out of commission, I’ve been tapped to work with the civilian authorities.”

  Of course he had. Barrett was an experienced investigator. And as a lieutenant colonel, he ranked right under Durante.

  “They want to talk to you,” Barrett said.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You were on the observation deck. You witnessed what happened to Damon.”

  Well, that wasn’t all I’d witnessed.

  “Adam, the guy toting the messenger bag—the bomber—I know his name.”

  I drew breath to tell Barrett all about my history with Eddie Jepson, but a woman in a flamingo-pink smock interrupted me. I imagined her presence here was supposed to be soothing. Mature and matronly, she sure was perfect for the part.

  “Oh, just look at you two.” She clasped her hands together as if she’d just sculpted us ou
t of clay. “You need to get something into your system. Let’s pour you both a cup of coffee.”

  “No thanks,” I replied.

  I wasn’t in the mood for coffee. I needed to tell Barrett about Eddie. I needed to see Eddie locked up before he hurt anyone else.

  But Suzie Smock didn’t take the hint.

  “Hot chocolate, then.”

  Chocolate is my Achilles’ heel. Still, I opened my mouth to refuse. And that’s when Suzie Smock called me by name.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Sinclair. A little snack will fix all your problems.”

  That wasn’t true, but clearly, this lady had more on her mind than cocoa. She shepherded Barrett and me toward one of the snack tables—and then past them. At a discreet door, she punched a six-digit code into a keypad mounted on the wall.

  With a buzz and a click, the door swung open.

  A long, cold concrete corridor stretched before us. Gray-green fluorescent lights hummed overhead, drowning out the babble of the common room when the door clanged shut behind us. The air smelled fresh, but fake, as if it had been cleaned by massive filters over and over.

  A scuffed-up golf cart sat in the hallway. Suzie Smock hopped into the driver’s seat. Barrett and I climbed on behind her.

  With a whoosh, we were off, speeding down the passage to God knew where. The cement floor had been laid at a distinctive slant and black digits stenciled on its slick surface seemed to mark out some unit of measure. Feet maybe? Or yards? My money was on miles.

  Eventually, we neared what appeared to be the end of the line when a mesh cage came into view. It was the frame of a freight elevator. Suzie Smock drove onto the elevator, punched a fat red button in a control box, and we descended again.

  When the lift came to a halt, Suzie stepped on the golf cart’s accelerator one more time. We shot onto a green-and-gold marble floor as posh as one in the lobby of any investment bank along Chicago’s Miracle Mile. The fluted columns and oak-leaf clusters carved into the walls were so detailed, I couldn’t quite believe we were in a Cold War bomb shelter any longer, but I was sure we were.