by Eric Bernt
Giles had required less than two minutes to affix orange-colored Semtex to the car’s front left wheel well as Michael Barnes dug out the first of his storage cases. Four pounds of the waterproof putty would have been sufficient. Ten pounds would have eviscerated the body. But the National League East fans had decided to go with twenty pounds of the Czech-made explosive, because Barnes would have had at least that much in his survivalist stash. And everybody knew that explosives were dangerous, especially when they were moved.
Giles watched Barnes get inside his car and start the engine. As he put the car in gear, Giles flicked off the safety of the remote detonator in his hands. He then said quietly to his partner, “Fire in the hole,” and pressed the button beneath the blinking red light.
BOOM!!!
The jolt would measure as a magnitude-3.1 earthquake in a seismic-activity-measuring station seven miles away. In Barnes’s yard, Giles was thrown hard to the ground with the wind knocked out of him. Murphy, already on the ground, momentarily lost consciousness.
At ground zero, Michael Barnes was vaporized. The largest piece of him that would be recovered measured less than two inches long. He was scattered across his entire fourteen-thousand-square-foot lot, as well as several of his neighbors’ yards. Some of him would remain lodged in another homeowner’s gutter for months.
CHAPTER 94
American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 28, 1:53 a.m.
The heat signature of the explosion flashed so brightly on the American Heritage Foundation’s high-definition monitor that Daryl Trotter thought the screen might have to be replaced. Caitlin McCloskey sat next to him with her eyes glued to the screen. “So much for subtlety.”
Jason Greers stood behind them, looking over their shoulders. “All that matters is that Barnes will no longer be a problem.” He texted the news to Stenson, who was not on American Heritage grounds.
“He won’t be happy if Forensics finds anything.”
Jason scoffed. “If they do, we can make that disappear, too.”
Caitlin shook her head. She hated when testosterone got the better of her counterparts, especially Jason. She focused her attention on the monitor, where she could now see something fluttering in the air. “What is that?”
“What?” Jason looked closer, but couldn’t tell what she was looking at.
She pointed to the screen. “There. In the air. It looks like confetti.” The thermal-imaged sky above Michael Barnes’s residence became filled with what looked like thousands of pieces of large confetti.
Daryl smiled. “I’ll give you both a clue. It was inside the cases Barnes had loaded into his car.”
Caitlin kept studying the screen. It looked like paper. “Pages from a Bible?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Jason snickered. “Michael Barnes never opened a Bible in his life.”
Caitlin disliked being embarrassed. “Then what?”
Daryl answered quickly, intent on defusing the tension between them. “Cash.”
Jason was stunned by the sheer volume of money fluttering around in the air over Swedesboro. “That’s got to be a couple hundred grand.”
“At least.” Daryl nodded. “I think I can tell you why our guys used so much explosive . . .”
Caitlin wasn’t about to ask another dumb question, so she let Jason do it for her. “Why?”
“A small amount would look exactly like what it was. A hit. A large amount will give investigators the impression that a stockpile accidentally ignited. Anybody who kept that much cash on hand was preparing for something. Extremists often include a variety of weapons and ordnance in their stashes. Further investigation into Barnes will reveal the disappearance of two of his employees earlier last night. While those cases will go unsolved, the presumption will be that Barnes snapped, was somehow involved with their disappearance, and then accidentally blew himself up while setting out to make himself disappear.”
Jason was truly impressed. “Goddamn, they’re good.”
Caitlin had a different thought. “I just pray we never do anything to piss them off.”
CHAPTER 95
Philadelphia Office, Department of Homeland Security, May 28, 2:17 a.m.
Homeland Security Agent Kendricks led Skylar down a corridor lined with cells inside the Philadelphia office. “When do I get my phone call?” she demanded.
“You’re joking, right?” The agent smirked.
“Do I sound like I’m joking?”
They paused outside a cell at the end of the hall, where the agent removed her handcuffs. The cell door opened electronically. “Doctor, you were in illegal possession of classified technology. If the technology is deemed to have been a threat to national security, you will be classified as an enemy combatant. That means you will lose your rights as a United States citizen. We can hold you indefinitely. So if I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath for any phone call.”
CHAPTER 96
Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, May 28, 2:26 a.m.
The hospital known as CHOP was the closest hospital to Eddie’s childhood home. Director Shoals’s office had already notified them of Eddie’s impending arrival. He was described as “an extremely high-value patient,” so Eddie was greeted by a large team of doctors and nurses as the ambulance pulled up in front of the emergency-room doors. An even larger security team from Homeland surrounded the medical staff as they performed their duties. The agents would be accompanying this patient wherever he was taken.
The doctors and nurses had never seen so much security around any patient. His symptoms were obvious and few, but the doctors checked and rechecked everything before making any formal diagnosis. There were minor abrasions to the patient’s face and wrists. Straining against his handcuffs had clearly caused the latter damage. The doctors were surprised to learn the facial injuries were self-inflicted. This led them to believe the patient might have a history of mental illness, which would be helpful to know in order to properly prescribe a course of treatment for whatever trauma had caused him to go into shock.
While no other symptoms were present, the doctors ran a lengthy battery of tests to rule out every conceivable possibility. They performed a variety of blood work, as well. Seven vials’ worth. A CAT scan. MRI. X-rays. Then more blood tests, just to double-check the first set of results, which all came back negative.
All the while, Eddie remained unconscious. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. His breathing was steady. His vitals were normal, and wavered little. The only question was how long it would take for him to come out of shock. When one of the agents asked the question, CHOP’s chief of emergency surgery answered authoritatively, “It’s a wild card. We just never know. Sometimes, the patient can return to relative normality within a matter of minutes. But some patients can remain in shock, or some variant of it, well, indefinitely.”
CHAPTER 97
I-295 North, Bellmawr, New Jersey, May 28, 2:39 a.m.
The National League East fans sped north along a dark stretch of I-295 at over a hundred miles per hour. Giles drove. Murphy was lying across the back seat, applying as much pressure as he could muster to his wounds, but it wasn’t working. Pools of blood covered the seat. He was dying. His voice was weak. “How much farther?”
“A couple minutes. Stop being such a pussy.” Giles glanced in the rearview mirror, pleased to see the glimmer of a smile pass over Murphy’s face.
“You should . . . check in.”
His partner nodded, and dialed their employer.
The man they had never met, and would never meet, answered after the first ring. “Yes?”
“The job is complete.”
“Final payment will be processed.” Click. Their employer disconnected the line. The $250,000 would be received in their account less than five minutes later.
Giles dialed another number for the second time that night. It was their emergency doctor. Tonight was the first time in three years they had needed his services.
Until this point, he had been handsomely paid for doing almost nothing. Now, they intended to get their money’s worth. “We’re five minutes out.” The doctor said he was ready.
CHAPTER 98
Harmony House, Woodbury, New Jersey, May 28, 2:42 a.m.
Lutz and Hirsch were dreading their return to Harmony House. They had failed, pure and simple. Their boss, Michael Barnes, was an unforgiving man. He did not tolerate failure at any level, but especially when so much was at stake. All Lutz and Hirsch could do was face whatever consequences were awaiting them.
Which was why they were so surprised by what greeted them. There was nobody manning the front gate. No security personnel patrolling the grounds. Lutz and Hirsch considered the possibility that Harmony House was under siege. That the facility had been taken over. The two men grabbed as much firepower as they could carry from the portable arsenal in their trunk, and set out to defend their home base. But all they accomplished was to terrify several nurses and a member of the cafeteria staff playing a quiet game of poker at the end of their shift. As far as these people knew, it was just another night at this special place for special people.
Strangest of all was the absence of Michael Barnes. Their boss wasn’t in his office, or anywhere on the grounds. His car was not in the parking lot. And he was not answering his phone. They had never once known their boss not to answer his phone. Something was wrong.
Lutz and Hirsch quickly discussed their options. One was honorable: stay and defend the fort until they found out what the hell had happened. The other was self-preserving: flee and don’t look back. The latter went against all their years of training, but Barnes was most likely either long gone or dead, which meant he wasn’t coming back. If Barnes was gone, somebody must have given him a very good reason to make himself disappear. If somebody had taken him out, they were next.
Lutz and Hirsch would later wonder what took them so long to reach the obvious conclusion. They didn’t slow down until they were somewhere in Iowa, where they dumped their car in exchange for a new one, and kept right on going.
CHAPTER 99
Industrial Park, Haddonfield, New Jersey, May 28, 2:44 a.m.
Dr. Reggie Portman had started his medical career as a combat medic, a 68 Whiskey, during the Gulf War, and knew right away that he had found his calling. He thrived on the combination of overwhelming pressure, incredible danger, and never-ending chaos. It was quite simply the best drug he’d ever found. Reggie re-upped for a second tour and intended to sign up for a third when his wife got pregnant with twins. She threatened to divorce him if he wasn’t around to help with all the diapers, so he spent the next two decades performing and teaching others emergency medicine at Pennsylvania Hospital, the oldest hospital in the country.
It was here that he became acquainted with the National League East fans, when Murphy’s appendix burst three years ago. They appreciated his experience and skill, and recognized a kindred spirit. It was clear that he missed the rush of working in a combat zone, and they needed someone they could trust in the event of a medical emergency. Like now. He had been on private retainer ever since. Not for the money, but for the rush—or, at least, the promise of it. Until this point, all the good doctor had done was set up an ad-hoc emergency room in an old warehouse in an aging industrial park on the outskirts of Haddonfield, where the three met once a month to replenish the National League East fans’ personal blood supplies. Donated blood had a shelf life of forty-two days, and Reggie knew that if his services were ever needed, blood would be the key determinant of success or failure.
The two assassins were about to find out just how well their money had been spent.
Giles screeched to a halt next to the warehouse, where Dr. Portman greeted him and helped carry in the wounded killer. Murphy was placed on an operating table, where the doctor assessed his injuries. His patient looked up, watching him closely. “Why the hell are you smiling?”
“Because I live for this shit.” The doctor had him stabilized in less than seventeen minutes. Without a fresh supply of the patient’s own blood, it might have been a different story. But, as with most tests, preparation was the best indicator of outcome. As soon as the patient was resting comfortably, Dr. Portman explained the outlook for his recovery. His shattered pelvis would need four to six months to heal. Same for his right femur, but the rehab would take considerably longer, depending on the level of performance he hoped to return to.
The baseball fans knew there was no such thing as returning to this game after taking time off. There was no off season. They were done, whether they wanted to be or not. This was the first and last time they would ever need the good doctor’s services.
CHAPTER 100
Philadelphia International Airport, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, May 28, 2:48 a.m.
Philadelphia Director of Homeland Security Albert Shoals and his caravan sped onto the tarmac, where a CH-47 Chinook military transport helicopter awaited them. National Director of Homeland Security Arthur Merrell paced in front of it. He had insisted on personally taking possession of the technology. Shoals resented the implicit lack of trust, but Merrell was not going to allow anyone else to handle it. He might not know what it was, but he was damn well sure going to be part of its delivery.
Shoals handed Merrell the two keys in his possession. Director Merrell and the two men cuffed to the cases boarded the helicopter, which immediately took off for Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst, commonly known as JB MDL. The massive complex was a base for the army, air force, and navy, as well as the largest federal prison in the country. The base was as close to an impenetrable fortress as existed in the modern world.
The helicopter landed somewhere in the middle of the sprawling complex, touching down next to a nondescript warehouse with no visible signage. Two men in plain uniforms exited the building and approached Merrell. There was no way to tell which branch of the military they were part of. Or if they were part of one at all. Only one of them spoke. “Director, we will take possession of the packages.”
Merrell took out the two keys and unlocked the cases from the agents’ wrists. The agents handed over the locked cases, along with the keys. Merrell was surprised when the two men in nondescript uniforms immediately turned to go back inside. The director of Homeland Security asked, “Don’t you have anything for me to sign?”
They paused. “What would you like to sign?” one of the men asked.
The director of Homeland Security didn’t appreciate the man’s tone. “Something that acknowledges transfer of this technology to your possession.”
The two men in the plain uniforms glanced at each other, as if they found the statement amusing. “Sir, the ground you are now standing on does not appear on any map of this facility. There was no transfer because there is no technology.” They carried the two cases into the nondescript building as Merrell and his party returned to the waiting Chinook.
Bob Stenson watched the helicopter take off into the night sky. He waited calmly inside his Chrysler until the helicopter’s running lights disappeared from view, then pulled up to the well-lit, windowless building whose use his predecessor had arranged with the elder Bush while he was still director of the CIA. Stenson couldn’t even remember now what favor the founders had done for the then-aspiring politician, but it most certainly involved future residency in the White House.
Bush’s thank-you was to have all official records of the building expunged. The massive facility had gone through so many operational changes over the last decade that no one individual was aware of all that went on at JB MDL, except in their assigned area. This nondescript building was just one of so many others. Nobody knew what went on inside it, and nobody really cared.
Stenson had instructed Indiana senator Corbin Davis to select this site to store the echo box because it was the most secure building on the Eastern Seaboard. It was also the best place for the senator to test the technology, which was set to begin first thing in the morning. Stenson knew that the building
being part of JB MDL would give the senator a false sense of comfort because it felt so official.
It worked every time.
CHAPTER 101
Philadelphia Office, Department of Homeland Security, May 28, 6:26 a.m.
Skylar paced her cell like a caged animal. She guessed it was somewhere around six thirty a.m. She hadn’t slept more than forty-five minutes. No one had spoken with her yet. The female guard who delivered her breakfast never said a word. The guard simply slid the tray through the opening in the cell door and exited.
The food was awful, but the coffee was good. A four, in Eddie’s vernacular. After finishing her breakfast, she paced back and forth, counting her steps before she even realized it. Which made her feel better and worse at the same time. Skylar didn’t know where Eddie was. Or what kind of shape he was in. But she knew he would be scared. Terrified, in fact. Which only further fueled her determination. Skylar’s one and only goal was to see Eddie again. It was her fault he was in this mess. And she would do whatever it took to get him out of it.
She continued to pace. Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight . . .
CHAPTER 102
Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, May 28, 7:01 a.m.