He had steadied himself before he announced it over the radio link, ‘It’s over.’ No one dared moved. No one blinked!
Oh, my God!
Could it be!
Yes?
No?
He repeated the good news, ‘It’s over.’
Bianca opened her eyes, stared at him and just... just... kissed him like there was no tomorrow.
It was Kearns who recovered first. A rush of euphoria kick-started her heart, her lungs, her brain and her legs. She had witnessed something that was for the ages. She yelled, ‘Fucking hell, he did it!’
She ran towards them at speed. Yamamoto followed close behind. Then, Martin and Knight. Before long a whole heap of people had joined in.
When Bianca stopped kissing her Tommy, she turned to see a crowd of individuals who loved them rushing forward like a mega tsunami.
They looked at each other with smiles that would be plastered on their faces for days. Then, they ran to meet them. It would appear from the celebration that New York Knicks won the NBA Championship that day, which they last won in 1973.
SWAT SNIPERS POSTED on top of buildings joined in the celebration with a fist pump or a thumb’s up. They allowed themselves to share that joyous moment but only for a split second. Discipline kicked in. Soon their eyes were back on the scopes of their rifles’ optic sights.
Lane and Taylor climbed down from the Command Truck.
They stood transfixed where they were watching the bedlam that ensued. Arms crossed, grinning, shaking their heads in utter relief and disbelief. Lane turned off his comm link, turned to the man who wrote the Manual, and said, ‘Can you f’ing believe that?’
Feeling benevolent, Dylan Lane let them savour the moment before breaking up the party. Finally, he said, ‘Okay, okay. I know it was epic, but we’ve got things to do. So, move it, guys. That’s an order.’
Steel faced Lane, who rolled his eyes, ‘Come here,’ the boss said, as he grabbed the younger man by the collar to give him a man-hug. ‘You always manage to scare the living daylights out of me. I don’t think I will survive your term.’
Steel grinned. ‘Yes, you will. You have no choice.’
Lane laughed despite his still knotted stomach, ‘You’re a good man,’ he said before turning his attention to Bianca.
She fell into his arms, tears coming in torrents now. Paramedics arrived at this point with a stretcher and their kit but gave them a bit of time and space.
STEEL WALKED OVER TO Ron Taylor, ‘Thanks for being here.’
The man who wrote the manual, replied, ‘Where else would I be?’ before giving Steel a hug that was both comforting and reassuring, because even tough men need to be hugged.
When they separated, Steel wondered aloud what brought them all here today, and why. ‘I don’t even know what started all this.’ His shoulders were slumped, exhaustion suddenly catching up with him.
Taylor remembered they didn’t have a link to Steel when they were profiling George Lee; he and Bianca being isolated on the grounds of City Hall.
They sat down, side by side, on the step of the Truck. For the first time that day, Steel learned of the truth in whispered tones.
As the news slowly sank in, he turned to Ron Taylor and said, ‘His Dad killed himself... on the day?’
The former cop turned hostage negotiator nodded. They were eye to eye; and if indeed the eyes are the windows to the soul, then all Taylor found in Steel’s eyes for George Lee was compassion. He put an arm around him and said, ‘It was just very bad timing.’
BIANCA WAS BEING ATTENDED to by paramedics. She was in a bad way, dehydrated and physically drained. Her muscles were cramping. She had been through one hell of a wringer.
Steel silently watched as the paramedics readied Bianca for transport to the hospital by laying her down on a stretcher. ‘Thanks again for being here. I’m goin’ to the hospital with Munchkin, I mean Bianca.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Taylor grinning like a fool, ‘you’ve even earned the right to call her ‘Muffin, Muffin’ if that makes you happy.’
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE mopping up operation, one of the snipers noticed a middle-aged priest walking towards Bianca and Steel.
He looked pious in his religious garb holding a rosary in one hand and a black book in another. Luckily, he didn’t look like the man on his PDA.
He didn’t worry about the priest until he saw another one, slightly older, coming from the other direction heading the same way.
‘Something’s off,’ he muttered. ‘But which one.’
He took a deep breath, zeroed his Remington, and studied the men’s faces. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake. A head shot has no reset button.
The priests were within yards of the Steels when the sniper squeezed the trigger.
It was surreal. They would all swear later that they felt the velocity of the round before they saw the priest fell backward.
Everyone dropped to their belly, making themselves small.
‘What the hell was that?’ asked Lane, clutching his fast-aging heart.
13: The Priest
STEEL LOST HIS LEGENDARY COOL. This ongoing saga was getting the better of him. ‘Get her out of here,’ he yelled at the paramedics. Before Bianca could protest, two men had gathered the ends of the stretcher and raced her through the gaps. April and May escorted them without being asked. They knew who needed them more.
The ambulance was already idling; the minute Bianca, the paramedics, and the dogs were on board, the driver pulled away. There was no way they were getting caught in the crossfire unnecessarily. There were enough heroes here today.
THROUGH THEIR EARWIGS, they heard the sniper report back from one of Conrad Troy’s men. The young and cocky officer said, ‘That’s him, dead and gone.’
The SWAT team leaders ordered their men to stand down, pending investigation. This was going to be one hell of a problem in more ways than one.
So many scenarios could play out. If the priest was not George Lee, the young man could face a murder charge. Even if the man slumped on the ground was George Lee, but there was no evidence he had an evil intention towards Bianca and Easy, then so help them, God.
Still, what were the odds he dressed as a priest just so he could get Steel’s confession?
At any rate, one thing was sure, the internal investigation unit would be very busy, indeed.
TO SECURE THE SITE, yellow crime scene tape was put up, and the perimeter set wider than normal. The sniper’s perch on the rooftop was also secured.
Queen Gomez, the ballistics expert, arrived at City Hall to supervise the handling of the Remington Rifle personally. ‘I’ll look after it,’ she assured the sniper. His name was Edward Jones, nicknamed ‘Shortie’ for being the runt of Team Four.
IMOGEN SUZUKI LED A team of six. She didn’t have to be here. For years now she had been Big Boss. The field was no longer her domain, the office was. Today, however, was different, so she was going to get her hands dirty again.
Properly suited in forensic overall and plastic shoe covers, the first thing on her mind was victim identification. She switched on her smartphone. The man on the ground didn’t look like the young, confident man in the photo, but neither did he appear to be like the old, unkempt man described by Toby and Alex.
This man was middle-aged. Imogen lightly touched the dead man’s face, a substance transferred to her glove. Tanning powder, she thought, to hide the wanness of the skin beneath. She felt then that this could be George Lee.
The hair had been shortened, a number two, but on closer inspection, it was a haphazard effort. Uneven and messy. There were nicks on his face, the result of a weak attempt at shaving off a scruffy beard with a razor.
She took his fingerprints with a digital scanner; it should prove George Lee’s identity without any doubt.
A shadow appeared. She turned to check who it was.
Lee Kearns had come over with her kit, ‘Ma’am,’ she said, ‘do you mind if I check him f
irst for explosives?’
‘Of course, not,’ she replied. ‘And please call me Imogen.’ The forensic boss stood up to move back.
‘One woman down range, Imogen,’ said Kearns with a wink. ‘I promise he’s not going away.’
Imogen Suzuki shook her head smiling. These bomb squad boys and girls are something else altogether.
KEARNS' EYES FELL ON the Bible. She reached out to get it. It was a lot lighter than she remembered the Book to be. She had the same King James Version sitting on her mantle gathering dust. A gift from her devout grandmother whose faith she shared. She just wasn’t as zealous about her Christianity.
She had opened it before she thought what if it’s rigged. Thankfully, it wasn’t, but the Good Book was hollowed out. The middle part of it was cut out and replaced with a small device. She slapped the corpse’s head for his sacrilege. Being a bomber was one thing but desecrating God’s Word was another. ‘Asshole,’ she said.
Imogen, who was observing, was surprised. Slapping someone alive was one thing, but a dead guy? She smiled anyway. He must have deserved it.
Her handheld device beeped. She looked down. It confirmed what she already knew. The man on the ground with part of his brain missing was George Lee.
BACK AT SWAT HQ, SHORTIE was getting the third degree.
‘You could have got the wrong man?’ said Troy, who was going ballistic.
‘No, I didn’t. One man was middle-aged and the other was old. Besides the old priest was my Father Confessor,’ he said sheepishly.
‘You go to Confession?’ they asked, gobsmacked.
‘Yeah, so what? It doesn’t mean because I work with a bunch of sinners, I ought to be one, too.’
‘Hey, watch your mouth punk,’ said the meanest of them all. ‘I’ll put you on my knees and give you a belting you’ll never forget.’
Shortie gave tit-for-tat, ‘Sorry, Hulk, I’m not that way inclined.’
Even in the middle of serious business, these guys’ sense of black humour came to the fore.
Getting back into serious mode, Troy asked, ‘What if he wasn’t George Lee; he didn’t even look like him.’ He challenged.
‘It’s the iris,’ Shortie replied solemnly. ‘I zeroed into his eyes, they were the same eyes.’ The optic scope of his Remington Rifle was so sophisticated. The image was so sharp that he had no doubt he was looking at a man with murderous intention. ‘I knew it was him. I have no doubt.’
Suddenly, the door to the briefing room flung open, ‘It’s George Lee. He was wired up to blow up Easy and Bianca and everyone within five feet of them. Good call, buddy. But you still went against protocol.’
Shortie grimaced.
IT WAS LATE AT NIGHT. In the morgue, where George Lee’s body was laid out, Mrs. Lee was on vigil. She sat watching his lifeless body with a pained expression, ‘I’m sorry for your pain, son,’ she whispered.
Ron Taylor appeared out of nowhere. He didn’t say a word. He just sat next to Mrs. Lee to join her in her grief. No words were necessary.
Tears dropped onto her lap and stained her dress. A red rose pattern turned deeper crimson, but the blue background also transformed into a sharper shade of the sky. ‘He’s at peace now,’ she said with a sob.
14: The Eloquence of Silence
STEEL, UPON LANE’S INSISTENCE, was exempted from operational debriefing. ‘Lee, take him to the hospital. Someone needs him more than us.’ Just so she was clear on her instruction, Lane added, ‘You’re dropping him off, that’s all,’ with a finger pointed in her direction.
‘Sure, whatever you say,’ she said with a smile. She went in search of Steel, who was hunched over the home-made bomb she had dismantled.
‘Come on, Easy, let’s go.’
Steel didn’t move. Something about the vest bomb fascinated him. Kearns crouched next to him, ‘What’s on your mind?’ She asked.
‘This is different from the one I defused. Judging from the sound of the explosions, the ones George had discharged earlier were also different.’
Lee Kearns shrugged. ‘He’s a chemist, not a bomb maker. He hadn’t assembled enough IEDs to have developed a signature. I think each of them was experimental.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said, agreeing.
Sensing his apprehension, she asked, ‘Do you think there’s another bomber out there?
He shook his head, ‘It’s just my paranoia talking.’
She watched him carefully for a second before saying, ‘It’s good to be a little paranoid, but my expert opinion is, not that it counts for shit, he worked alone.’
In the back of her mind, Kearns had decided to raise the issue at the debriefing and ask Lane to get the Major Squad Unit to put George Lee’s former life under the microscope. Just in case.
They rose as one and walked in silence to the SUV. Their eyes couldn’t believe the destruction. The debris was reminiscent of a war zone. It was eerie, for although there were hundreds of people working, no one talked or bantered. Single-mindedly, they laboured away at their task, doing everything to return the City Hall back to the people of New York.
Darkness, it seemed, had fallen earlier even though it was summer. Spotlights blazed, giving the area of devastation a glow of despair.
‘I HAVE STRICT INSTRUCTIONS to just drop you off,’ said Kearns as soon as they reached the hospital’s entrance.
Steel smiled thinly, ‘Since when did you listen to instruction?’
Since you brought up the possibility of another bomber. Instead, Kearns just said, ‘I’m your second, I gotta be there when you can’t.’
‘Thanks’ was all Steel could think of to say.
It was late, but the head nurse on duty exempted Steel from the no visitor after-hours rule.
He was given a room number; it was a private ward.
Bianca was sleeping.
‘She’s been sedated,’ said a voice behind him. ‘Nothing serious. She was fretting about you and couldn’t rest. We think she’s worried about the children. Here’s a blanket and a pillow, in case you want to sleep here. The couch is a little small I’m afraid.’
‘It’s okay, he said, ‘I’ll sleep on the floor if I have to...’
The night nurse left the bedding stuff on the couch and asked if he needed anything.
‘Just water,’ he replied, ‘there’s some here,’ noting the glass and jar by her bedside.
‘Ring the bell if you need anything else.’
‘Thanks.’
He dragged a chair to her bedside, leaned his head on the bed and promptly fell asleep.
HE WOKE UP WITH A START, jerking, resisting a force trying to strangle him.
Wide awake now, Steel rubbed his face and wondered where in the world he was. He kept still for a moment, opened his mouth slightly and listened for ambient sound. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and then recognition dawned on him:
I’m in a hospital room with Princess Munchkin.
Relief washed over him. He checked the time. Three a.m.
He poured himself a glass of water, then another, and another. His body was in a state of drought, like the desert in summer.
He fished his cell phone from his pocket. There were several messages, one of them was from his in-laws, ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got April and May.’
The kids are all right, he thought.
SHE SENSED HIS PRESENCE. Her eyelids flickered. His silhouette slowly came into focus. ‘Hi,’ she said, her voice croaky.
‘Slow and easy,’ he said. If she sat up too fast, her head would swim.
He helped her to a sitting position before helping her with a glass of water. She sipped slowly.
‘What time did you get here?’ she asked.
‘Late,’ he replied laconically. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Well enough to go home,’ she said. He frowned.
‘Come here,’ she said.
He moved to the bed.
The single hospital bed was too small to accommodate them sid
e by side. So he climbed in behind her. His long legs spread apart, she sat between them and leaned against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. Neither of them said a word. A few hours ago, they could have been dead. They were in touch with their mortality.
There are times when silence is more eloquent.
This was one of them.
15: Discoveries and Misgivings
THREE DAYS LATER, THEY attended the funeral of the fallen police officer.
Dylan Lane spoke on behalf of the NYSP Bomb Squad Unit and everyone in the Force to thank the officer’s family for the sacrifices they had made, passed on the gratitude of the community and spoke eloquently of the fragility of life. ‘We are here one minute and gone the next,’ he said, ‘so it behooves all of us to live each day as if it's our last and make every minute count.’
AT THE GATHERING AFTER the funeral, Lane and Sam Logan caught up over how Team One was coping with the aftermath of the George Lee saga. ‘We’re doing it tough,’ admitted Logan.
‘I can’t sleep at night, but you know, I'm all right.’
Lane shook his face. ‘No, you’re not fine,’ but he also appreciated, it mustn’t be easy coping, considering the culture of machismo at SWAT.
‘We’re going to do group therapy sessions with Dr. McClellan. I just thought if my team could see my vulnerabilities, they wouldn’t hesitate to admit to their own. We’re in this together,’ he said, sounding wise beyond his years.
‘Group therapy sessions,’ Lane repeated thoughtfully. ‘I wished I thought of that first. It’s an amazing idea. Mind if I borrow it?’
Logan smiled, ‘Go for it.’
It was novel thinking, Lane said so. ‘You’re so full of surprises, pal. Group therapy sessions. Less confronting, builds trust. Powerful, really powerful.’
The blond warrior smiled, ‘Exactly what Jules said.’
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