“Dad? Are we going or not?” Emily asked when he continued to sit, lost in thought.
“Yeah, we’re going.” He exhaled deeply as he released the parking brake and shifted into reverse.
Twisting in the seat to check behind him as he backed out, he found a man dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt directly behind the Grand Cherokee, staring back at Jackson with a sadistic grin.
Rick.
Jackson’s pulse jumped. “Carson.”
Lifting his hand into Jackson’s field of vision, Rick spread his fingers as he mouthed, “Boom!”
Jackson’s shock-numbed mind fumbled to sort out the turn of events. Rick Carson at the BLM office. Boom.
“Judas Priest,” he mumbled, nausea surging in his gut. “He’s planted a bomb.”
Jackson snatched open the driver’s door and swung out of his car. “Rick!”
But his prey had already hustled to a silver pick-up truck parked in the row behind Jackson. Rick gave a mock salute as he pealed out of the parking space.
Jackson ran toward the truck, grabbing for the passenger-side door handle. “Stop!”
No use. Rick squealed tires as he tore out of the driveway and onto the street.
Emily had crawled across to the driver’s side of the Jeep and peered up at him with tearful eyes. “That was that man!” she cried, waving a finger toward the road, her words tumbling over each other in a rush. “The one who carried you o-out of the house! The one wh-who—”
“I know! Get out of the car, Em. Hurry!”
“But—”
“Now!” He whipped his arm around Emily’s waist and scooped her out. “You have to help me, Em, so listen carefully. This is what I need you to do…”
Lauren stalked back into Hood’s office without knocking. Hood was in deep discussion with Birdman when she stormed in and scowled at the two men.
“Until we know for sure what’s going on, you need to use extreme caution—” Hood was saying.
“What? He gets a warning to be careful, and I get booted off the team!” she asked, flabbergasted.
“Lauren, calm down. Your situation is temporary. We’ll put you back on the jump list as soon as—”
“Lauren! Birdman!”
Lauren turned toward the door when Emily’s panicked-sounding cry filtered in from the hall.
She stepped out in the corridor and nearly collided with Jackson’s daughter. “Emily? Honey, what’s wrong? Where’s your dad?”
“He left! He’s f-following…that guy! We saw him in…the p-parking lot!” Emily cried, panting for a breath.
A coil of dread twisted in Lauren’s gut. “What guy, Emily? Who did your dad follow?”
Emily started crying, her shoulders heaving. “Rick. H-he said there’s…there’s a bomb.”
“A bomb?” Icy horror streaked down Lauren’s spine.
Whitefeather and Hood joined her in the corridor.
“Lauren, what’s going on?” Hood asked.
Birdman moved around Lauren to squat beside Emily. “Little one, what’s happened?”
Lauren took Emily’s hands and squeezed. “Take a breath, honey, and tell me what your dad said. Exactly what he said.”
The little girl sucked in a shuddering sob and exhaled deeply. “Daddy followed R-Rick in our car. He d-didn’t want him to get away. He thinks there’s a bomb here. He said tell you…” She drew another shaky breath. “Tell you it might be chemical. He said to tell you to e-evac…evacu—”
“Evacuate?” Birdman prompted.
Emily nodded. “He said call the FBI and the AFT. No! The ATF. That’s it, the ATF.”
“Shit! I’m on it.” Hood darted into his office.
Emily turned to Whitefeather. “Birdman, he said to tell you he was trusting you to take care of me. To get me out of here before…”
Lauren and Birdman exchanged a meaningful look as Hood’s voice came over the intercom, warning the buildings occupants to follow fire drill procedures and leave the premises and the campus area immediately.
Whitefeather scooped Emily into his arms. “Let’s go.”
Jackson’s hands sweated as he gripped the steering wheel, dodging cars and running traffic lights in order to stay behind Rick. He managed to keep the silver truck within his line of sight as Rick wound through the streets near the smokejumper base and eventually got on Interstate 84 headed southeast. Almost immediately, though, Rick exited the interstate and took a state highway headed away from town.
Jackson’s brain scrambled for a plan. He needed to call the police, tell them his location, pray they could set up a roadblock. Pulling out his cell phone, he punched in 9-1-1. He got through to an operator, but was put on hold.
On hold! Jackson cursed, jabbed the phone off and tossed it on the passenger’s seat.
Rick passed a RV camper on the narrow highway. In order to keep the silver truck in sight, Jackson moved into the oncoming traffic lane to pass the camper also.
And found a semi-truck barreling down on him. He jerked the wheel back to the right, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision. He blew out a harsh breath, squeezed the wheel and tried again. Seizing his opportunity, Jackson stomped the accelerator and ducked into a small gap between oncoming vehicles. He rocketed along the highway at a breakneck speed to close the distance between him and Rick.
He glanced at the cell, considered calling for help again.
Hopefully by now Emily had relayed the direness of the situation to someone at the BLM offices and that someone had alerted the authorities. Maybe that was why the emergency operator was so busy. He couldn’t wait for the police to help him catch Rick. He had to stop the terrorist his own way.
As he followed Rick’s silver truck over the high Boise River bridge, he thought of the bridge keeper story he’d told Lauren. The impossible life and death dilemma that seemed to have no solution.
Sometimes bad stuff just happens, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
No. He wouldn’t accept that. He was tired of sitting on the sidelines while his world crumbled, while people he loved faced danger because of his research. He would do something. He would end this nightmare. Whatever it took.
He thought of Lauren, of Janine, of the self-sacrifice each of the women he’d loved had made for their career, to save others’ lives.
And he knew what he had to do.
Lauren clutched Emily’s hand as they wove through the snarl of people filing down to the hangar where every available jumpship and helicopter was being deployed in the evacuation.
In the mad dash to the planes, panicked voices shouted over one another. Hasty flight plans and take off procedures were called to pilots as an entire fleet mobilized. Air traffic to the nearby commercial airport was being diverted.
But amid the confusion, Lauren’s mind was on Jackson. Where was he? How did he think he was going to stop Rick by himself? She glanced toward the highway where already a stream of cars poured out of the parking lot as the drivers attempted to flee the area, creating a logjam.
Jackson had the jump on those cars, but would it be enough?
Beside her, Whitefeather answered a call on one of the two-way radios, reporting back to Hood on the situation in the hangar.
If only Jackson had a radio. She desperately wished she could talk to him, know what he was planning…
“Emily, does your dad have a phone with him?” Lauren asked.
Emily nodded. “Why?”
“Do you know his cell number?”
Jackson’s daughter rattled off a number, and Lauren wrote it on her hand. She took the cell phone clipped to Birdman’s belt.
“Whitefeather! Over here!” someone shouted.
“That’s our boarding call,” Birdman said and stooped to lift Emily in his arms and jog toward the Twin Otter that would carry them out of the danger zone.
While Jackson likely was driving straight into horrible danger.
Lauren’s mind spun like the rotor on the helicopter parked next to the Tw
in Otter, waiting their evac assignment. Her steps faltered. She stopped to stare at the chopper.
And an idea took root.
“Come on, Mike!” Birdman shouted.
Her brain ticked in fast forward even as she changed course and darted toward the helicopter. “New assignment. Take me up!” she yelled over the ruckus to the pilot.
“I don’t have clearance yet,” he returned.
“Tell the tower it’s an emergency!”
He scoffed. “The whole evac is an emergency, lady.”
“But I think I know how to find the bomber. We might be able to prevent a disaster! Now take me up!” She climbed in the co-pilot’s seat and snapped on her seatbelt.
The pilot glared at her but radioed for emergency clearance to lift off. While he prepared for take off, Lauren punched Jackson’s cell number into Birdman’s phone. Murmuring a prayer, she waited as the phone rang once. Twice. Again.
The helicopter lurched and shuddered as it lifted from the ground. Lauren cut her eyes out the window as the ground rapidly fell away. Her stomach pitched, and her acrophobia screamed through her brain. Squeezing her eyes shut, she angled her head from the window. Breathe.
“Hello?”
“Jackson!” She sighed her relief when Jackson’s voice came through the phone line.
“Where are we going?” the pilot asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Lauren? Is that you?” Jackson asked.
She clutched the seat as the pilot banked a hard turn. “I’m in a chopper. We can help you find Rick! Maybe slow him down with a few close passes.”
She heard something like a hoot of laughter over the line. “Lauren, that’s brilliant!”
“I need directions here,” the pilot prompted.
“Where are you, Jackson? What is Rick driving?”
“I’m on Highway 21 in a blue Jeep Grand Cherokee. We just crossed the Boise River. Rick’s just ahead of me in a silver truck.”
Lauren relayed that information to the pilot then scanned the landscape. Boise sat in a valley at the base of the Rocky Mountains foothills. She knew Highway 21 well. She and Boomer traveled it whenever they had a free summer day to water ski at Lucky Peak Reservoir. The highway wound through a gorge along the Boise River.
“I see the Jeep.” The pilot pointed out his window.
Lauren craned her neck, spotted Jackson’s SUV and then Rick’s truck. Even at the helicopter’s altitude, she could tell the two vehicles traveled at dangerous speeds. She shuddered. “I see you, Jackson. What do you want us to do?”
Whitefeather helped Emily climb into the Twin Otter and boarded right behind her. They had a full load—jumpers, pilots and cargo. The jumpship had been ready to fly to a fire when the evac call went out.
Emily scanned the plane’s interior and sent him a puzzled look. “There are no seats!”
He guided her to a vacant spot by a window and grinned. “Nope,” he called over the roar of the turbines. “All the seats are removed to make more space for smokejumpers and cargo.”
He sat on the floor beside her and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Which means there are no seatbelts either. Hang on, little one. You’re in for a bumpy ride.”
Emily’s eyes widened, and she stretched her neck to see out the window as the jumpship began taxiing down the runway. Within minutes, they were airborne and headed toward the jumper’s intended destination.
“You get to see first-hand what smokejumpers do,” he yelled over the rumble of the jumpship. “These guys are about to jump a fire.”
Emily surveyed the other jumpers, suited up and ready to go, then turned to Whitefeather, a worried glint in her eyes. “You’re not jumping, are you?”
He shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere, little one.”
She took his hand and squeezed it.
“Birdman,” the team’s spotter shouted. “You and the little lady better get harnessed in and hooked up. We’re only a few minutes away from our final approach.”
Whitefeather gave a thumbs up. He found a spare spotter’s harness and hook and showed it to Emily. “This is our version of a safety belt. When they open that door for the jumpers, there’ll be a lot of wind. Those of us without a parachute have to strap in and hook ourselves to this static line…” He showed her where the spotter hooked his harness. “So we don’t get sucked out of the plane.”
Emily’s eyes rounded, and her face paled. “Can that really happen? People get sucked out of the plane?”
He didn’t want to scare her with the truth. Though not common, it had happened. “Mostly a precaution, little one. Put your arms up, and I’ll buckle this on you.”
A minute later, when the spotter moved back from the cockpit, he and Emily were strapped in and ready.
“All right, men! Guard your reserves!” the spotter shouted before shoving the jump door open.
Cool, smoke-tinged air rushed in with a loud roar.
Emily shrank back, near the stacks of cargo and out of the way as the jumpers made their way to the door.
Whitefeather watched his colleagues go through the standard procedures, preparing to jump. He was about to shout an explanation to Emily of the purpose of the streamers that were tossed out to test wind currents, when she tugged on his sleeve.
“Birdman? What is that?” she asked and pointed to something near the back of the jumpship.
Whitefeather squinted in the dim interior of the jumpship to see what she’d found. “What’s what? The big cargo boxes?”
“No that little thing with the red clock. On the floor.”
Whitefeather shifted his gaze, puzzled by her description. He spotted the object Emily meant, and a prickle raced down his back. Moving closer, he knelt to examine the bundle of wires, duct tape and the red glowing numbers. A timer.
3:09 and counting down.
“Oh, shit,” he murmured.
They hadn’t escaped Rick Carson’s bomb at all. They’d brought it with them.
Lauren plugged one ear with her finger to better hear Jackson over the whooping of the helicopter blades.
“Maybe you can cut Rick off,” he said. “Slow him down. Is there a place up the road where you can intercept him?”
“We’ll see,” she answered.
The pilot sent them forward, and her stomach rolled.
“Lauren?” Jackson said.
“Yeah?”
“I…I’m sorry. I was wrong to ask you to—”
“Not now, Jackson. Please—”
“Lauren, I love you. Just as you are. I was wrong to interfere in—”
“Hang on!” the pilot called.
The helicopter swooped low over the road. Lauren gasped as the pilot narrowly maneuvered through the volcanic rock walls that framed the road and the river. He brought the helicopter low right in front of Rick’s truck.
The silver truck swerved, slowed for a moment then barreled forward. Rick poked his arm out the window.
Lauren saw a flash of metal. Heard a crack. A bullet pocked the side of the helicopter.
Bile rose in her throat. “He’s trying to shoot us down!”
“Fuck!” the pilot shouted.
“Lauren, get outta there!” Jackson screamed through the phone.
“Richardson!” Whitefeather shouted to the spotter, stumbling back from the cargo boxes. “We’ve gotta bomb on board!”
“Say what?” Richardson yelled back.
“Birdman!” Emily cried and grabbed for him.
He hauled her close, as if he could shelter her from the explosive power of the bomb. Quickly realizing the uselessness of his gesture, he hustled Emily aside and ordered her to stay back out of the way.
The other jumpers crowded forward for a look. One of the men called over the rush of wind, “Close the door so we can hear ourselves think!”
A volley of shouts and chaos followed.
“Get rid of it! Toss it out the door!”
“Do we risk moving it?”
&
nbsp; “How can we risk not moving it? It’s about to blow!”
“We can’t drop it! We don’t know who or what is on the ground! What if it hits a school?”
Whitefeather took a deep steadying breath and fought his way to the front of the men. Leaning close to examine the rigging, he gave a shrill whistle. “Hey, guys, can it! We don’t have time to debate this. We only have two and a half minutes before it blows.”
A heavy silence followed his announcement. He heard Emily whimper.
“I don’t intend to die today. I promised to keep Emily McKay safe, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
Again the men’s voices raised.
“We’ll just jump. Once we’re off the plane…”
“Yeah, and what about the kid and Birdman? The pilot?”
“Like I said! Toss the bomb out!”
“Hey!” Whitefeather lifted his hands and shouted. “Shut up and listen!”
When he could be heard, he said, “That canister taped to the timer makes me think this thing could be chemical. McKay warned us Carson was capable of a limited chemical attack. If we toss it out the door, we’re endangering who knows what below. We risk a chemical raining down on some community—”
“The tank’s just taped on,” Richardson volunteered. “Can we cut it off?”
“It’s worth a try,” one of the jumpers replied.
With a nod, Whitefeather turned toward the bomb. He knelt to lift it out of the spot between cargo boxes where it was wedged. The timer now read 2:02.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The chopper pilot swerved up away from the road and Rick’s gun, hightailing it out of firing range.
Lauren pivoted to watch Rick race down the highway. “Now what?”
“Have you radioed the cops? Told them where we are?” Jackson asked.
Lauren glanced at the pilot and relayed the questions.
“I’m on it,” he answered, lifting the chopper radio to his lips.
Lauren turned to watch the road again. The silver truck sped up, straddling the centerline as he careened around the road’s curves.
Jackson kept pace.
Lauren’s heart hammered. From her vantage point, she saw a car approaching from around a bend in the oncoming lane.
Under Fire Page 28