“What exploded?” Jake asked.
“Flash bangs after we blew the tires. These boys are practically bleeding out their ears.” The agent on the radio chuckled. “We had them on the ground and hog-tied in under a minute.”
“Nice work,” George said. “Keep us posted.”
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Rodriguez sighed. “Looks like they didn’t need us after all.”
“You kidding? I was not liking the possibility of being anywhere near a dirty bomb,” George said. “Those things mess with your DNA. And I plan on sending little Fongs out into the world someday.”
“God help us all,” Jake said.
They all laughed harder than the joke deserved. Since arriving in California six days ago, Jake had existed in a tight knot of adrenaline and nerves. It was a relief to feel some of that release.
“One more down, anyway,” Rodriguez said. “Wonder how they’re doing in San Diego.”
As if on cue, George’s phone rang. “Fong here,” he answered.
His face grew still as he listened. Jake and Rodriguez waited impatiently for him to finish. After a minute he said, “Right, I understand. Thanks for calling.”
“Well?” Rodriguez asked.
George examined the dashboard. “They stopped the bomb in San Diego. Leonard had high-tech jammers block detonation.”
“So what’s with the face?” Rodriguez asked. “This is good news, right?”
George met Jake’s eyes for a second before shifting back to the dash. A chill crept around Jake’s heart.
“What is it,” he asked, fighting to keep his voice level.
“Dante had a grenade, they think it was his backup plan to ignite the C4. It didn’t work, but a bunch of agents were moving in to arrest him. Leonard and two others were a few feet away when it blew. They didn’t make it. Another nine are injured, some critically. And Agent Jones…”
“She’s dead?” Rodriguez asked.
“No, she’s in a medically induced coma. Jake, they said it doesn’t look good.”
Jake’s jaw set in a hard line. He whipped the car around and floored the accelerator.
“Maybe I should drive,” George said.
“Jake, we haven’t actually gotten permission to leave-” Rodriguez protested.
“Fuck permission,” Jake snarled. “I’m getting on the next plane. Find out what hospital she’s in.”
July 4
Forty
Jackson Burke jerked awake. An empty bottle of whiskey lay beside him, the television was still tuned to Fox News. With a groan he rubbed his head. He didn’t remember polishing off the rest of the bottle, in fact he didn’t remember much after his conversation with Dante. The disposable cell phone sat on the end table next to his blood pressure medication. He’d have to dispose of it today, maybe bury it in the woods.
His eyes narrowed as a newscaster announced that the Phoenix bombing was being declared an “accident,” and that contrary to rumors no chemical toxins were dispersed by the dust cloud. In fact, the governor was urging people to return to their homes. The camera cut to the governor at a press conference. Jackson snorted as his old pal Gary bleated on about the state coming together in the aftermath of this terrible tragedy, about how they’d all work together to rebuild, blah, blah, blah.
But could they be lying? Surely they would have tested the area for radioactivity. The emissions should have been significant. Jackson pondered it. Either the government was willfully encouraging people to remain in an area polluted by gamma rays, or something had gone wrong with the bomb’s construction. He clenched his hands. Apparently Dante had let him down again.
Jackson frowned and kneaded his temples. It took a minute to pinpoint what was nagging at him. Why weren’t they discussing San Diego and Dallas? Those explosions should be dominating the news. He flipped through the channels, all were still spreading and discrediting rumors about Phoenix. Every major affiliate was interviewing locals who had lost family in the blast. A cement wall near the off-ramp was covered with photos of missing relatives, serving as an impromptu bulletin board.
Irritated by the sight of an obese woman whimpering into a microphone, Jackson shut off the TV and stomped to the desk in the corner. Grabbing his laptop, he stormed back to the couch. The online news sites all had the Phoenix incident as their top story, although most claimed it was an accidental crash involving a truck transporting crude oil. He finally located a link to San Diego. Around dawn the AP reported a small explosion near the U.S./Mexico border. Initially news crews leaped on it, but a border patrol spokesperson announced it was just fireworks, and the story quickly slid into the background. Search as he might, he couldn’t find anything about Dallas.
Jackson reflexively clenched his fists. So it had all been for nothing. True to form the government was burying it, making sure the event went down as an accident. And there was a chance that both Dante and Christian were alive and in custody.
Jackson felt a familiar light-headedness and his vision blurred. Faltering to his feet, he lurched across the room, grabbing the pill bottle on his second attempt. He wrestled the top off, palmed a pill and tossed it in his mouth. He gagged as it caught in his throat. Jackson stumbled to the wet bar, stuck his head under the faucet and gulped some water. Standing and wiping his mouth, he immediately felt better. Thank God for modern medicine, he thought.
An instant later, an enormous pressure as if someone had reached into his chest and was crushing his heart.
Jackson tried to sit, but a spasm rocked him and he went down hard. Jesus, he’d never experienced pain like this before. Sweat poured from him, and his lungs compressed. He gasped for breath. The cell phone was still on the end table. He had to get to it and call 911…
A blond woman appeared above him. He blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating. She was dressed all in black, her feet on either side of his head. Jackson grabbed at her ankles, but she kicked his hands away. He opened his mouth to beg for help, but only a strangled gurgle came out.
She shook something. It made a happy sound, like maracas. “You looked stressed, so I replaced your pills with Nardil. Hope you don’t mind.” She knelt by his head, stroked his hair, and bent to whisper in his ear. “But you really should have mentioned the high blood pressure meds. All sorts of drugs don’t react well with those. Especially if you’ve been drinking.” She nodded toward the bottle on the sofa.
“Ple-ease…” he managed to grunt, imploring her with his eyes.
“Sorry, Mr. Burke,” she said, strolling toward the door. “I’m fresh out of favors at the moment. Happy Independence Day.”
Forty-One
Jake sat by Kelly’s hospital bed, head in his hands. He’d had to fight to enter the ICU. In the end, George’s badge got them through before Jake punched a nurse.
George stood by the window, gazing out at the setting sun. They’d taken the first flight out of Dallas, arriving in San Diego around noon. George periodically excused himself to field some calls, then returned with updates on the bomb investigation. Jake didn’t even bother processing those, he just sat staring blankly at the motionless form on the bed. Kelly looked so small lying there. Part of him didn’t believe it was really her, she looked too frail, her skin so pale it was almost translucent.
A hole had been torn in the truck by the force of the blast, but the C4 didn’t ignite. Leonard died instantly, along with two other agents. Two more were touch and go. Apparently Kelly had shouted out a warning that gave the rest time to take cover at the front and rear of the truck, which shielded them from the worst of the explosion. All that was left of Dante Parrish was a shoe and a necklace. He’d spent his last moments reciting the same poem Timothy McVeigh read during his execution.
Kelly had been found nearly thirty feet away, one leg trapped under a hunk of metal from the side of the truck. She was suffering from massive internal bleeding. After the first round of surgeries they induced a coma and crossed their fingers. Every hour someone came to chec
k her right leg, which produced a noticeably lower bump in the sheet than the left. There were murmurs about removing it, but when they tried to wheel her to surgery Jake almost had to be restrained. George talked the doctors into waiting. What was left unspoken was that in the end, the leg might be irrelevant. There was a good chance Kelly wasn’t going to survive.
Every so often Jake broke the silence. Random childhood memories, past cases, how he pictured their future together. They said she might be able to hear him, but holding her hand, he knew it wasn’t true. He kept stroking the ring he’d put on her finger, the canted edges of the ruby hard and cold against his thumb. He could feel it through her slender fingers-her hands were always so cold, even when it was warm outside-there was no one in there. Kelly’s chest rose and fell, but she’d already checked out.
George reentered the room. “Burke’s dead.”
“What?” Jake looked up.
“They went to arrest him at his place in Virginia -after the guy in Dallas talked they finally got a warrant. Looks like a heart attack.”
“That’s convenient,” Jake said. The bastard was lucky, because Jake had already planned on making sure he felt every bit of the pain Kelly was experiencing. A heart attack was merciful in comparison.
“And whoever prepared the iridium for the dirty bomb screwed up-it was packaged in such a way that it wouldn’t disperse. So they’ve given the all clear for Phoenix.” George rubbed his eyes as he spoke. He appeared to have aged years in the past two days.
“Randall,” Jake said, thinking that maybe he hadn’t given the guy enough credit. Despite everything, he’d made sure the bombs wouldn’t wreak as much havoc as they could have.
“I’m headed to the cafeteria, you want anything?” George asked.
“Not hungry.” Jake rubbed Kelly’s hand again to warm it. The blip on the monitor kicked up. His eyes darted to it, but almost immediately it settled into the familiar rhythm.
“C’mon, just a banana or something.” George paused at the threshold. “Doctors said there probably wouldn’t be any change tonight. You might as well eat something, or try to get some sleep.”
“Leave it alone, George,” Jake said, more forcefully than he’d intended.
George raised both hands in defeat. “Fine.”
He passed Rodriguez on the way out. Jake heard them exchange a low murmur, then Rodriguez entered, looking concerned.
He wished people would leave them alone. Jake wanted to bar the door and keep everyone out, stop them from poking and prodding her every five minutes. He imagined scooping her up in his arms, tucking her in the car and driving away. They could go to the beach-Kelly had grown up on the East Coast, she’d never seen the sun set over the ocean. He could give her that.
Jake couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow this was his fault. If he’d refused to get the company involved in Syd’s private bullshit, then maybe Kelly wouldn’t be lying here. She would never have heard of Dante Parrish, wouldn’t have been in San Diego, miles away from him, when that maniac set off a grenade. Part of him knew it was ridiculous, but the guilt was tough to shake. Plus he had to admit, the past few days he’d spent more time thinking about Syd. If Kelly didn’t make it, he’d never be able to forgive himself.
Rodriguez was still standing by the door looking uncomfortable.
“You can go home, you know,” Jake said without looking up.
“Yeah, I know,” Rodriguez said, eyes locked on Kelly’s inert form. “She was a great agent.”
Jake wanted to throttle him for using the past tense. But he took a deep breath, nodded and said, “Yeah.”
Forty-Two
Kelly rose and fell on the waves. Every so often a noise intruded, the background bleats and calls of enormous undersea creatures, but as the swell kicked up even that receded. It was so peaceful here, so warm. The long rays of a setting sun dusted her skin with traces of pink and lavender. Invisible arms wrapped around her, cradling her close.
The low murmur again. In spite of herself Kelly strained to hear. The voices sounded familiar, and she suddenly realized where she was. Growing up she’d replayed this day over and over in her mind, claiming it as the last remaining shred of what her family had been. But she hadn’t thought about it in years. It was odd that it came to her now.
It was the day before her brother vanished. She was standing on a stool at the kitchen counter, helping her father make pancakes. Alex came in from taking out the trash, and their mother made him wash his hands before setting the table. Fingers still wet, he poked a finger in the batter she was stirring, flicking it at her. She yelled at him to stop, but he just grinned. Her father barked at both of them to be quiet, it was impossible to concentrate on flipping with all that racket. He was making her favorite, one large pancake with two smaller ones serving as mouse ears: “Mickey Pancakes,” they called them. Alex usually claimed he was too old for them, but that day he ate without complaining. The smell of sizzling bacon mingled with fresh-cut grass. Her mother sat at the table, sipping her coffee and reading the paper. A typical weekend morning, like hundreds of others they’d shared. There was nothing particularly significant about it. If Alex hadn’t disappeared the next day, it would have slipped into the patchwork of her other childhood memories, fuzzy and indistinct and frayed.
The image spun away from her on the next wave. She halfheartedly reached for it, feeling the warmth trail through her fingers. Kelly caressed it once, then released it with a faint sense of regret. It was too pleasant to resist. She let go of everything and floated away.
Author’s Note
Books have their origins in all sorts of strange places. This one started with a late-night conversation over drinks, when a friend who works for the FBI mentioned that hate groups have doubled their membership in the past decade, but the level of surveillance on them has dropped significantly. All of the information and statistics contained in the text are accurate to the best of my knowledge. I did, however, invent the job that Randall holds; as far as I could determine, no one is currently overseeing low-level radioactive materials, and the U.S. government is not working to consolidate them in secure locations, despite the fact that many sources are lost or stolen each year. It’s enough to inspire a serious case of insomnia.
As always, there are countless people to thank for their gracious assistance with my research. Any mistakes are solely my own. Dr. Sidney Drell helped me sort through the seeds of ideas to find one with the potential to sprout. Camille Minichino worked tirelessly through many drafts to ensure that a writer who truly can’t tell the difference between an isobar and an isotope got the “radiation stuff” right. Robin Burcell helped with police procedures and terminology. Lee Lofland not only answered multiple niggling questions, he also directed me to Richard McMahan and Michael Roche, my “bomb squad” who helped me figure out what would and wouldn’t work (and as promised, Mike, I left San Diego relatively unscathed). The real-life George Fong is even cooler than his fictional counterpart, and always patiently answers countless questions about FBI procedure and gangs, in addition to arranging my once-in-a-lifetime tour of Quantico.
Mark Potok of the Southern Poverty Law Center was kind enough to answer questions about the current status of hate groups in our country and some of the threats we face. Dr. D. P. Lyle always comes through with an innovative and undetectable way to kill someone (which inspires not just admiration, but a healthy dose of fear).
My beta readers, whose keen eye for typos and inconsistencies made each draft better than the last: David Gagnon, Kate Gagnon, Vickie Browning, Deborah Indzhov, Richard Goodman, Raj Patel. Everyone at the Sanchez Grotto for providing such a warm, supportive writing community and being excellent procrastination buddies: Raj (again), Shana Mahaffey, Alison Bing, Paul Linde, Diane Weipert, Sean Beaudoin, Ammi Emergency, Jeff Kirschner, and Whimsical Doggo Doug Wilkins, who makes it all possible. And of course the inestimable Kemble Scott, who always remembers my events in his newsletter (even when I have forgotten
them) and has been a great friend, confidant and sounding board.
My fellow bloggers on The Kill Zone: Kathryn Lilley, Joe Moore, Clare Langley-Hawthorne, John Ramsey Miller and John T. Gilstrap, for always inspiring stimulating dialogue and tolerating my occasionally rambling, late posts. And my fellow Norcal Sisters in Crime and MWA groups have been invaluable resources.
Everyone at MIRA Books has been incredibly supportive, especially my editor, Lara Hyde, a tireless advocate who is a pleasure to work with (I realize that the same cannot always be said for me, and for that I’m sorry). At MIRA I also owe a huge debt to Valerie Gray, Margaret Marbury and Emily Ohanjanians. I’m grateful to the best sales team in North America: Don Lucey, Tracey Langmuir, Heather Foy and everyone else who works so hard to promote my books.
An agent is said to be a writer’s best friend, and with the Philip G. Spitzer Agency that’s more than just an expression. Lukas Ortiz has been a great friend and an amazing agent, and I’m guessing he’s one of the few willing to answer his phone at 2:00 a.m. in Frankfurt when a pressing question arises. Luc Hunt has been an amazing source of advice and alternate titles, and a reliable set of eyes on each revision. Joel Gotler was kind enough to provide an education on the entire book-to-film process, and convinced me to make Madison a bit older than I’d originally intended.
I’ve been fortunate to have a slew of booksellers and librarians champion my books. I can’t thank you enough for the support. This can be a difficult industry to navigate, and all of you made it so much easier.
The Egans (Joe, Uta, Caroline and Rick) always make Seattle one of the best stops on my tour. I highly recommend them for any and all book launch party needs, the spread they lay out is to die for. My Wesleyan partners in crime: Dave Fribush, Colin Dangel, Ty Jagerson and Dave Kane provided the perfect names for the “commando-boys” (in exchange, I’m expecting free drinks for life).
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