Sunday, April 16, 6:24 AM
Kalorama Heights, Washington, DC
Dawn was just stretching her graceful fingers over the horizon in wisps of pink and gold as Meg rounded the corner onto S Street NW, Hawk heeling at her side and Brian and Lacey following close behind. Misery loves company, and as much as Meg despised getting up in the dark to jog with her dog before the sun came up, Brian hated it even more. So at least once a week, they made a date to run together for mutual encouragement. A favorite run was Rock Creek Park, just north of their current location, but it had been Meg’s turn to pick this morning and she decided on a city route to fit in some urban agility training. The run kept them all in shape, but the agility training kept the dogs strong and toned and at the peak of fitness for the most difficult of searches and rescues.
Meg loved classic architecture, so she’d selected a run past some of the finest old houses in Washington, in an area that hosted a large number of foreign embassies, but had also housed five American presidents either before or after their time in the White House. Heading west, they drew nearer to Woodrow Wilson House, across the street on their left. The three-story, Georgian-style redbrick home was named for the twenty-eighth president of the United States, who lived there following his departure from the White House until he died in residence in 1924.
They turned left down 24th Street NW next and then angled onto the short connecting section of Massachusetts Avenue NW, running past the Croatian Embassy. In front, Saint Jerome sat frozen in patinaed bronze hunched over the Bible he would translate from Greek and Hebrew to Latin for the early church in 382 AD, his head clasped in a single huge hand. Meg’s gaze stayed frozen on the statue for several beats as she contemplated the statue’s outlook—she could never decide if he was thoughtful or agonized. Sometimes it simply depended on how the light hit the rivulets of verdigris running down the face and body of the figure, lending it the appearance of an abundance of tears.
Then they were around the corner and onto Decatur Place NW, the rising sun glinting through the trees. Meg ran steadily enough to maintain the pace for the length of the run, but hard enough that this close to the end, her lungs were working intensely and her muscles had the pleasant burn that spoke of a good workout. Thank God—if she was going to get up in the dark and torture herself for an hour, it should be worth something.
As they crested the small rise, they all sensed they were just about there. She bore down and pushed herself harder, Hawk easily keeping up with her, his muscles rippling under his glossy fur, his tail high with pleasure, and his eyes bright. As much as Meg hated jogging—while appreciating the edge it gave her in emergency situations—Hawk loved both the company and the exercise. He was in sheer heaven when Brian and Lacey joined them.
They turned north just past a Narnia-worthy lamppost with a big frosted glass light fixture and found themselves on 22nd Street NW. Meg dropped to a brisk walk and threw a look over her shoulder at Brian. “Still with me?”
“You bet.” Brian’s breath came in hard puffs and his cheeks were pink, but he had a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Showed that mother how it goes.”
“Always do.” Meg slowed a bit more and shrugged out of the pack she carried. Just as the dogs had their agility training, she and Brian always conditioned carrying their full search and rescue packs so hauling them out on assignment was second nature. She pulled out a water bottle specially fitted with a small attached trough. She flipped the trough down and unscrewed the cap, water flowing into the reservoir. “Hawk, water.” She held it out to him and he lapped thirstily. She glanced over at Brian, who was also giving water to Lacey. “Think we’ll ever find these runs getting any easier?”
“In our dreams. They’ll always be hellish. My father would say it builds character.”
“We must have character spurting out our ears then,” Meg said dryly. After Hawk drank his fill, she removed a second bottle of water for herself, downing half of it in a continuous series of swallows before lowering the bottle and backhanding her mouth. “Ready?”
Brian was just closing his own mostly empty bottle of water. “Sure am. Same bet as usual?”
“Slower team buys coffee? You’re on.” She ran a hand over Hawk’s silky fur, meeting his luminous brown eyes. He was loaded for bear this morning. “Get your wallet ready.”
Brian squinted at her in mock outrage. “I recall you bought last time.”
“We were robbed. You distracted Hawk on purpose.”
“I did not. That wouldn’t be very sporting of me.”
Meg rolled her eyes. “It really wasn’t. Was it worth it, just for coffee?”
“Coffee is the most important meal of the day.”
“So you say, pretty much every morning. Okay, you take the left, I’ll take the right.”
Shouldering their packs again, they called their dogs and jogged over to the bottom of the regal stone steps. Spanning the steep, thirty-foot incline between this lower section of 22nd Street NW and the upper section lay one hundred feet of herringbone brick and stone steps with three terraces. Built as part of Washington’s City Beautiful movement of the early twentieth century, which also involved the creation of the National Mall as it is known today, the Spanish Steps provided a pedestrian route between the two sections of street. It also provided an excellent agility training area for the dogs as each set of stairs was bounded by a curb, interrupted occasionally by massive concrete urns.
“Ready? Three . . . two . . . one! Lacey, curb!” Brian cut left just as Meg went right with the same command for Hawk, both of them heading up the stairs.
Lacey and Hawk bounded up onto the curb on their own sides, racing up the incline as fast as their owners, who were taking the steps two at a time. On the first terrace stood the first set of giant urns. Meg glanced sideways just as Hawk reached the top of the incline, pausing only slightly as he gathered himself and pushed off in a huge spring to land lightly on top of the urn, feet perfectly balanced on the rim. It was as if his feet only barely touched, making perfect contact before he leapt off, stretching out in the air like a black arrow, and then blasting forward up onto the curb that lined the next inclined set of stairs. It never failed to amaze her how steady he was on his feet, and how sure his footing. He never stumbled. Honestly, sometimes it made her feel clumsy scrambling after him.
She and Brian darted into the center to avoid a series of flower beds that ran up the two edges of the staircase in this second set of stairs. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they sprinted up the treads, easily outpaced by both dogs, who within seconds were at the second terrace level.
“Hawk, around!”
Hawk and Lacey cut across the terrace on their own sides and jumped up onto the stepped wall that followed a curving set of stairs to the upper level. These stairs surrounded a lion head fountain, water spewing from the lion’s mouth in a steady stream to overflow a large scalloped shell and spill over into the reservoir below. Brian and Meg pulled up short in front of the fountain, watching the dogs and trying not to sound too winded. Meg dipped one hand into icy water still carrying the night’s chill and ran damp fingers over the heated back of her neck.
Propping her hands on her hips, she watched the two dogs race along the wall, taking each upward step in flight until they hit the top level and leapt up onto the balustrade that separated the top terrace from the fountain below. Headed directly for each other on the railing, they jumped down onto the terrace, circled round each other and then took the other’s upward path back down again. Circling down around the fountain, it was a race to see which dog would come to rest, sitting beside their handler, first.
It was close, but Hawk beat Lacey by about a half second. Unaware of the bet, each dog sat, their sides heaving, tongues lolling, and each sporting a huge canine grin. Power, balance, speed, exertion—with the exception of rescuing victims, this was their drug of choice.
Because it was Brian, Meg let exultation shine through her grin. “Looks like it’s your turn, coffee
boy.”
Brian shrugged good-naturedly and squatted down at Lacey’s side to give her an enthusiastic rub. “Good girl, good run. We’ll trounce the whippersnapper next time.” He straightened and turned to face the downward slope once again, pointing at the curb. “Now, downhill. Slowly.”
Meg moved to the opposite side of the staircase. “Hawk, down the hill. Slow.”
They walked down the stairs beside the dogs, who balanced on the narrow curbs, handling the sharp incline like pros, carefully placing one paw in front of the other without a hint of misstep on the smooth concrete. Reaching the bottom, they hopped down for praise and pats.
“How about that place on Connecticut?” Brian suggested. “The artisanal shop?” He put the word “artisanal” in air quotes.
“That would be nice. Give us a chance to cool down on the way there.”
Meg and Brian fell into step together, their dogs naturally by their sides.
“So . . . I did something unsanctioned the other day.”
Brian sent her a sideways glance, but years of camaraderie and trust meant he didn’t need to ask.
“I e-mailed my old sergeant at the Richmond PD and asked to see him. I want to ask him a favor.”
“This has to be case related.”
“Knew I couldn’t put anything past you.” She paused for a moment, suddenly unsure about what she was doing. “Look, I don’t have to tell you any more if you’re worried about getting into trouble.”
Brian let out a short bark of laughter. “Like that’s ever stopped me. You know I’ll go to the mat for you, just like you would for me. Out with it.”
She tossed him a relieved smile. “Knew you’d want in. Sorry, don’t know what came over me for a second there. So the whole thing started yesterday when I had a quiet word with Greg.” She quickly summed up the evidence she’d learned about the explosive and its taggant. “I think this is related to a theft in West Virginia a few months back. An army reserve depot was broken into and some explosive material was stolen. It made the news briefly at the time, but then the story disappeared.”
“So they never caught the guy.”
“That’s my take on it. I think it was our bomber planning in advance. He grabbed the C-4 and then sat on it awhile just to make sure his trail was cold. But I’m wondering if they missed something—a lead that didn’t seem to go anywhere back then, but combined with our data and incoming tips, could lead us to him now.”
“That makes sense. What can your sergeant do to help?”
“Any criminal activity inside the army is investigated by CID. He’s ex-CID and he’s still got buddies back in the department.”
“So rather than waiting for the suits to make agreements about sharing case files, you’re doing an end run around the red tape.” He held out a fist and she bumped it in solidarity. “I like it.”
“I think it’ll work. He e-mailed that he’s out of town but will be back on Tuesday morning, so I’ll see him then. I’d rather wait and meet with him than do this by e-mail. I don’t care so much about my getting into trouble, but I want my source left out of it. He’s a great officer and about five years from retirement. I won’t jeopardize that for him.”
“You’ll let me know what you find?”
“Of course. And I’ll fill McCord in too. He’ll have different investigatory channels and might be able to dig out something we can’t.”
When Brian remained silent, she glanced at him. “And suddenly you’re quiet. What?”
“I just . . .” He paused, and Meg could see him fighting to put his feelings into words. “I just can’t get over the fact that something about that guy puts my teeth on edge.”
“You still think a reporter could be the bomber?”
“I don’t know. It just seems too . . . convenient that the guy is talking directly to him and only him. If McCord was the bomber, he’d be in the perfect place to fake it. Write his own letter, send it to himself inside his own totally anonymous system, then be all ‘Wow, look what I got!’ when it arrives.” He drilled an index finger at her. “You know it’s a possibility. Don’t let his pretty boy looks blind you.”
Meg batted his hand away. “Trust me, I’m not. It’s not his looks. It’s him. I’m ex-cop. I’ve learned over the years to trust my gut, and my gut is telling me he’s the real deal.” She held up a hand when he started to speak. “I’ll take it under advisement and be cautious. But I still think he could be useful and I can’t stand sitting behind a desk, rifling through papers as the only way to track this guy down. I need to be out there doing something.”
“I get that. Trust me, I get up every morning now dreading what the day will bring and how many others, getting up to do nothing more than have breakfast, take their kids to school, and go to work, won’t ever be coming home again. I want this guy stopped as much as you do.”
They continued down the sidewalk, the mellow radiance of early morning swathing the world in soft golden light. But the beauty of the day was smothered under the anxiety of waiting for a madman to make his next move. Meg felt like a coiled spring, wound too tight, simply waiting for the other shoe to drop. And it could happen any second.
How many would die this time?
Chapter 17
Decapitation Strike: A precise attack aimed at eliminating the entire leadership of an organization.
Monday, April 17, 1:45 PM
Tyler Mountain
South Charleston, West Virginia
Puffing and nearly out of breath, the man pushed up the last twenty feet to the crest of the ridge leading to Tyler Mountain. He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees, his lungs working like bellows. As he struggled to catch his breath, he scanned along the cleared track running eight hundred and fifty feet downhill toward the Kanawha River.
He’d chosen well; it was perfect.
The power transmission towers running up the hill, carrying high voltage lines from the power distribution node on the river’s edge, up over the mountain and to the communities beyond, made it the ideal location. The land around the towers was cleared regularly, giving him a perfect view of the distribution center and Dow chemical plant on the north bank of the river, and then all the way across the river to South Charleston beyond. South Charleston—a suburb of Charleston, the capital city of West Virginia. South Charleston—his next target.
He shrugged out of his backpack and sat on the ground, propping it between his knees. Bracing his feet on the downhill slope, he rooted through the bag, finally pulling out the control unit. He turned it on, made a final few adjustments, and then looked east, toward Rollins Lane, where he’d left the drone a mere twenty minutes before.
He couldn’t stop the grin from lighting his face. Frankly, he didn’t need to—there was no one on this hill to even note his presence. This one he could simply sit back and enjoy without fear of discovery.
“Look out, below, ’cause here I come.”
Monday, April 17, 1:56 PM
Krispy Kreme Doughnuts Parking Lot
South Charleston, West Virginia
Officer Trent Howard peeled back the tab on his sixteen-ounce coffee cup, snapping it into place before raising the cup to his lips for a long, slow sip. He closed his eyes, waiting for the hit of caffeine that was still minutes away; just knowing it was coming was a relief.
He was only seven hours into his twelve-hour shift, but felt like he’d already done two shifts back to back. A smile curved his lips at the thought of his wife and new baby, curled together in their bed as he left the house at six-thirty that morning. Their first newborn brought a lot of new experiences, most of them good, but the hardest for him was lack of sleep. It might be his wife getting up every two hours to feed the baby, but he woke up with her. Their son was now four weeks old, but a month into this new routine, Howard was wearing down. Family assured him they’d all get into a regular schedule soon, but it couldn’t come fast enough as far as he was concerned.
In his line of work, sleepy and inatte
ntive wasn’t an option. As much as he hated to perpetuate the cop-at-the-doughnut-shop persona, coffee was currently his best friend. And the sugar and fat from the doughnut didn’t hurt either.
Returning to his squad car, he heard the usual squawk and chatter coming from his radio—dispatch calling, answered by officers on patrol. He glanced at his watch, deciding he could take another two minutes to lean against his door, soaking up a little sun while the caffeine slowly trickled into his bloodstream. Setting his coffee cup on the roof of his car, he reached into the brown paper bag he carried and pulled out a double-chocolate-filled doughnut. He bit in, sweetness and chocolate exploding over his tongue. He sighed in pleasure. Ten minutes from now he’d be wired and ready to take on the rest of his shift.
At first he wasn’t sure what he was hearing—a faint, whirring buzz that seemed to come from the northeast. Jamming another bite of doughnut into his mouth, he turned, scanning the low roofs of the plazas that surrounded the coffee shop. In the distance, the vibrant green shoulders of Tyler Mountain rose into the blue sky beyond the flowing water of the unseen Kanawha River.
But there was something about that buzz that tickled cells deep in his brain. Like somewhere in his sleep-fogged mind, he’d heard it before. Not a lawn mower. Not a leaf blower.
What is that?
Trent stepped past his police car and stood next to the curb of Maccorkle Avenue SW as cars whizzed by. He nudged his sunglasses further up his nose and stared off into the distance toward the east as he pushed the last of the doughnut into his mouth, chewing mechanically.
He almost missed it, the tiny dot in the sky that swam into view, coming in off the river.
Connections slammed into place, making him jerk back from the road, already spinning toward his patrol car. The buzzing of a small motor. A small, unmanned flying apparatus in the air. Two bombings already in neighboring states.
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