In honor of the fallen.
She was too far away to see the individual portraits and the engraved brass plaques, but she’d stood in front of the case often enough to know the faces and names by heart. The department’s first line of duty death, Officer Thomas Kirkham, in 1869. The tragic loss of ten officers all on the same day in 1870, when a balcony in the Virginia State Capitol collapsed, killing the officers and fifty-two spectators. The oldest photo of an officer, Robert Austin, resplendent in official regimentals in 1898. All the way to the most recent death, in 2003, of Officer Douglas Wendel.
Almost unwillingly, her gaze drifted to the lower right-hand corner on the case, where she knew the picture would be. Where the only K-9 lost in the line of duty was pictured.
Deuce . . .
She knew coming here would be hard because she couldn’t come and not mark the passing of her own dog. She didn’t even realize she was moving until she found herself in front of the case, her gaze fixed on that beloved face, intelligent dark eyes, and glossy fur.
Her fist closed around the pendant containing his ashes, the edges of the glass digging into her flesh as memory dragged her unwillingly back to that day....
Sprinting flat-out down the darkened street, the sobs of the teenaged girl still ringing in her ears. Deuce running in front of her, his nose down as he focused on the scent trail. A single frantic swipe to wipe her eyes clear as rain pounded down on them, flattening Deuce’s fur against his body and her uniform to her skin. Her gasping breaths fanning out in diaphanous clouds in the chill spring air.
This was their chance to get him.
A serial rapist was attacking young women out on the streets—the homeless, sex workers, and those simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and without the street smarts to recognize trouble until it was too late. Each girl had been left alive, but battered and often cut by the knife he held at their throats to force their silence until he was done, leaving behind only the hollowed out shells of the young women they’d once been. They would heal, but the scars he inflicted would linger forever.
His carelessness with the fragile spirits enraged Meg, who was close enough to her teen years to remember the bravado that often overlaid the uncertainty of not only who you were but who you had the potential to be. This man’s attacks terrified and left these girls forever locked in cycles of self-loathing and shame.
Until tonight. Tonight he’d made the mistake of going after someone who not only had street smarts, but an indomitable spirit that wouldn’t be cowed by one man’s assumption of power over the weak. When Chelsea Sanders was attacked, she did everything right. She fought back, using the Kubotan on her key chain as she struck at his eyes and throat, landed a kick between his legs, and screamed for help.
He abandoned ship.
But before he got away, Chelsea committed one last act to seal his fate: She pulled the black knit balaclava from his head, revealing his face. And then the clever girl continued to scream at the top of her lungs, so he didn’t think of wasting time using the knife on her, but instead melted away into the rain, leaving her sobbing with relief.
Chelsea couldn’t realize the balaclava soaking up rain on the sidewalk was their most important evidence at that moment. Meg and Deuce, on duty in their patrol car only a few blocks away, were able to come quickly when responding officers realized they had a way to track the rapist.
Deuce took the scent, found the trail immediately, and they were off. He never faltered in his path, but followed surely through the dark, rain-drenched streets. They tracked the perp for blocks, never catching sight of him, but Meg knew they were close behind nevertheless. She kept dispatch notified of their position; more dogs and additional backup were coming and they needed to know where she was at all times.
The alley was dim, with only ambient light to illuminate its length between two tenements, leaving the recesses draped in inky darkness. Puddles gathered in the hollows of the cracked and broken pavement, reflecting what little light crept in from either end. High above, skeletal fire escapes scaled the buildings, ending about eight feet above the pavement. Dumpsters lined either side, providing ample nooks to hide, or a boost to a lower level balcony.
Deuce would have entered the alley at a run, but some sixth sense, a warning of impending danger, made Meg pull him back from the entrance. She crouched down beside him, running her hand over the wet fur, feeling the warmth of his body, and the heaving of his ribs as he panted. Her own heart pounded from the chase.
Her back pressed to the wall, Meg peered around the corner into the alley. All seemed quiet and still, but she couldn’t tell if that was because the perp had passed through, or because he was hiding inside. The fire escapes were silent and empty.
She glanced up the street, taking in the length of the block. They could circle the block to see if Deuce could pick up the scent from the other end of the alley, but in that time, the suspect could escape from either end. She could wait for the incoming backup to arrive and someone else to close ranks from the other side, but if he had already gone through, he’d have more of a lead on them and the scent cone would disintegrate, washed away in the pounding rain. Going in, they risked meeting him with no backup; if they waited, they’d likely lose him, and then who would suffer as his next victim?
A no-win situation.
They needed to go in. She unholstered her gun in preparation. They’d walk the alley and if the perp went right through, then they’d pick up the chase back out in the open. She considered pulling out her small, sturdy flashlight, but thought better of being such an obvious target. They knew he was carrying a knife, but didn’t know if he also had a gun. He might be the type of sick pervert who found a knife in close combat was more terrifying because a woman could cut herself on it simply by struggling. Meg couldn’t make any assumptions.
She and Deuce started down the alley, Deuce in the lead. Behind a Dumpster to their left, the sound of skittering feet told her they’d interrupted a pack of rats scavenging for food. But Deuce was single-minded, his nose down, following the scent.
His posture told her they were getting close as his movements slowed slightly, his tail held stiffly as he concentrated. Meg peered into the darkness ahead. Several Dumpsters lined the right-hand wall, a foot or two of space between each of them. Assuming he was in the alley, it would be the perfect place to hide.
They’d have to check each one out individually. It would cost time, but if he was holed up with a gun, waiting for something to cross his line of sight, she and Deuce were sitting ducks.
With a hand motion, she told Deuce to heel and he stayed glued to her side. At each gap, she watched her dog for a signal that the perp was close. She checked each nook even without an alert just in case, peering around the corner, leading with her firearm clutched in both hands. As gap after gap revealed nothing more than empty spaces or tumbled garbage, she continued slowly and carefully.
She knew they were close when Deuce suddenly swerved toward the darkness between two Dumpsters. The space didn’t look out of the ordinary. It was filled with piled garbage bags and a teetering stack of boxes balanced precariously near the opening. The smell of rotten food and God only knows what else made her eyes water and was nearly overpowering.
The man exploded out of the trash, dark and hooded, throwing his weight at the boxes so they toppled over onto cop and dog. The gun glinted darkly in the dim light and Meg had just enough time to aim and get a shot off before his gun fired.
Then he was flying down the alley, heading for freedom.
Meg, miraculously, wasn’t hit and scrambled to her feet. “Deuce, attack!”
The first sign that something was wrong was when Deuce stumbled fifteen feet down the alley. But he got his feet under him and put on a burst of speed before slamming into the man’s back, his teeth closing over the man’s forearm, the force of his body weight taking them both to the ground. The man screamed in pain into the pavement and fought the dog, who held on for dear life, b
ut then Meg was there.
Deuce held on as she cuffed the man’s hands behind his back.
It was only then, with the perp safely secured, that she commanded her dog to release him. But instead of letting go and sitting at attention as expected, he crouched on the ground, breathing hard.
“Deuce? Deuce!” Meg turned back to the perp. “Move one inch and I’ll just shoot without a second thought.” She moved to her dog, keeping the perp in sight at all times. Her hand came away wet with blood at the very first touch of his fur.
She’d escaped the perp’s bullet, but Deuce had not.
She frantically radioed for assistance for Deuce, even as sirens screamed closer as her backup finally arrived. And there, huddled in the rain, chilled and drenched to the skin, her beloved dog drew his last breath in her arms. In an instant, all that warm vitality, fierce loyalty, and love vanished. She wept into his chilled fur as his body cooled, not wanting to let go, not yet, because letting go meant saying good-bye.
The other officers stood by awkwardly, not knowing what to do. It was finally her sergeant who pulled her away and quietly ordered the men to carry the dog to a waiting patrol car.
And just like that, Deuce was gone from her life forever.
Deuce’s photo blurred as tears welled in her eyes, but she bore down, blinking and swallowing hard. She fixed her gaze on the wall above the cabinet and just concentrated on steadying her breathing. In ten seconds she had herself back under control and allowed herself one last look at his joyful face. She pressed her fingers to the glass. “I miss you, buddy,” she whispered. “Every single day.”
No one ever questioned what happened in that alley. The department gave her its full support. But she couldn’t stop questioning her own decisions that night.
She’d left Deuce’s bulletproof vest in the front seat of her patrol car. Most K-9s didn’t wear their vests unless the situation called for it. The vests were heavy, hot, cumbersome, and tiring to wear for long periods. Vests were used at the officer’s discretion. Time was at a premium that night, the pouring rain washing away the suspect’s scent much too quickly, and rather than waste time and possibly lose the perp, they hit the scent trail immediately. She might have made the call differently if a gun was part of his modus operandi from the start, but he’d only been reported with a knife and the vests didn’t protect the face and throat.
She more strongly questioned her own belief that she could handle the situation by herself, that she had to handle it on her own. How differently would the bust have gone down if she’d waited for backup? She’d never know, so she could only blame herself for the loss of her dog. Self-confidence in tatters, she resigned from the department, not believing herself fit for duty, and not willing to risk the life of the new dog they were already offering her.
Her fingertips slid from the glass and she turned away.
At the foyer doors, she stood still for a moment, her hand on the door pull, dragging in one more deep breath and letting it out. Then, squaring her shoulders, she went through, her back straight and her head high.
When Meg got to the open doorway of the office, she paused for a few seconds to look in. Behind the nameplate engraved with SERGEANT WILL ARCHER sat a man in his midfifties, even more bald than the last time she’d seen him, but still wiry as ever. He was hunched over his keyboard, slowly and precisely typing out what was probably his latest report.
Meg knocked on the door frame and Archer looked up. His face lit up at the sight of her standing in his doorway.
“You made my day when you e-mailed asking if you could stop by.” He got up from his chair, crossed the tiny office in three strides, and had her wrapped in a bear hug within seconds.
After the sorrow of seeing Deuce’s portrait, this was the balm her soul needed and she hung on for a second before letting go with a laugh. “Hey, Sarge.”
“Come in. Sit.” He ushered her in and shut the door behind her, then indicated the chairs across from his desk. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Only if you’re trying to poison me. I haven’t been away from here long enough to forget how bad the coffee is.”
He chuckled and raised the mug that sat beside his mouse. “You’re not wrong there. So if you didn’t come for the coffee, what brings you?”
“As much as I’d love to stop by just to say hi to you and the guys, I admit I’m here to ask for a favor.”
Archer hesitated in front of his desk for just a fleeting moment, then he took his chair. “This favor have to do with the bombings? I saw your picture in the paper.”
“Yes, it does.”
“What can we in Richmond do for you? Is there some indication the perp is from here?”
“Not at all. And I should say right up front that this isn’t a Bureau-endorsed visit. This is me doing a little legwork on my own, because I think you might be able to help.”
One eyebrow quirked in interest. “Intriguing. You know I’ll do whatever I can. This guy needs to be stopped before more people die. What are you looking for?”
“A contact in CID.”
Archer stared at her in surprise; clearly this wasn’t the direction he saw the conversation going. Then he settled back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest to study her. “You know I know people. What will that do for the case?”
“This evidence hasn’t been released to the public yet, but the bomber is using tagged, military grade C-4.”
Archer whistled. “You think the bomber stole the C-4 from the military, or got it on the black market after someone else stole it?”
“There was a theft from an army reserve in Wheeling, West Virginia, last November. I’m sure the FBI is thinking about it too, but you know how bureaucracy works. They’ll have to apply for access to CID records, then the army needs to grant that access, then they have to track down the records—”
“And you’re looking for a shortcut.” Archer cut her off. “You want me to call in a favor to get those records now.”
“I do.” She gave him a wary smile. “Too much to ask?”
“I know you were at the first bomb site. Were you at the second?”
“We were, actually.”
He winced slightly. “I can’t imagine what that was like. So, no, it’s not asking too much. Not when you take into account what you’ve already seen and done for this investigation. Let me make a few calls. I’ve got a buddy who can help out and I can probably get you something within a couple of days.”
Relief flooded Meg. “Thank you. I know this is asking a lot, and going above and beyond.”
“Not really. Not when you consider what’s going on. And you know how I hate bureaucratic BS.”
She laughed. “Oh yes, I remember. I admit I was counting on it.”
“So let’s cut through some of that if it will help. We’ll let the other guys go through channels, but I’ll see if I can get you the information you need sooner. Just keep it to need-to-know for now and remember that it came from an anonymous source. I’m not paying him back by getting him into trouble with the brass.”
“Deal.” She relaxed back into the chair, feeling the tension leave her for the first time since she’d left Hawk at the obedience school with Cara and got in the car to drive to Richmond. “I hate how this guy makes me feel.”
“Angry?”
“Helpless. I need to do something, but so far all we do is come in when it’s too late. This will help change that.”
“I make no promises, but hopefully it’ll be what you need.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
Archer scribbled a name and phone number on a Post-it note and handed it to her. “Here’s his info. I’m not sure how he’ll contact you but you’ll hear from him somehow.”
Meg dug into her pocket and pulled out a business card. “All my contact info is there. Whatever works for him works for me.”
“I’ll pass that along.” He grinned at her. “Now that business is over, tell me all about your new boy
and life in the Bureau. Hawk, right?”
“Yes, that’s him.” Satisfied, Meg sat back and allowed herself a few minutes to catch up with an old friend, knowing she’d done everything in her power to move the case along. For now.
Chapter 21
Rapid Dominance: A US military doctrine emphasizing a crushing display of force to intimidate an enemy.
Wednesday, April 19, 10:32 AM
National Cryptologic Museum
Annapolis Junction, Maryland
The man backed the truck into a parking spot farthest away from the museum, then scanned the lot—only four other cars, all at least fifty feet away, parked close to the front door. Perfect.
Pulling the bill of his cap down further over his forehead and the collar of his jacket up higher, he got out, carefully keeping the body of the truck between himself and the museum to prevent anyone seeing him. Unhooking the vinyl truck bed cover, he drew it back to reveal the crate beneath. Lifting the lid, he peered inside. The drone poised like a venomous spider, black as night, eight legs splayed and ready to spring.
He carefully lowered the lid. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him the forest line, a mere ten feet from the back of the truck, and the narrow utility road that wound through the trees. Time to get this show on the road. By midmorning the NSA building would be fully staffed; now was the time to strike.
He tugged on leather work gloves, carefully unloaded the crate, then disappeared into the trees with it. It was large and incredibly awkward, but for a man used to hauling rock, digging post holes, and hefting one-hundred-pound sheep, it wasn’t so hard to carry.
Minutes later, he was at his prechosen location, right under the overpass. He unpacked the crate, removing a small detonator remote and the radio transmitter, complete with a small color monitor to view the camera output. With infinite care, he lifted the drone from the box and set it on the ground. He did a quick check of the payload strapped to the bottom and connected the detonator cord so it was now able to transmit a charge. Time to rock and roll.
Lone Wolf Page 15