Lone Wolf

by Sara Driscoll

  After one last loving glance at his creation, he jogged out from under the overpass and back into the trees. He’d selected a small clearing in the trees to fly from, close enough to the drone to be able to see it pass overhead, and close enough to the truck if a quick getaway was required. He’d never been so close to a target, and while he was adjacent to a freeway entrance, he knew very well the Fort Meade NSA building was heavily guarded by teams of NSA police officers backstopped by experienced security investigators. That was why drawing blood here would be such a feather in his cap. It was also why the deck was stacked against him. Every one of those officers would have a firearm, and the outer perimeter checkpoints were likely stocked with additional firepower in the form of sharpshooting rifles or automatic weapons.

  He couldn’t see his target through the trees, but he could see OPS2A in his mind—the tallest building in the complex and home to much of the NSA brass, a towering black monstrosity of glass and steel. The cold, faceless icon of a cold, faceless agency.

  His plan was to fly in a U-shaped flight path and come up on the NSA complex from the back and to the west while he stayed safely out of harm’s way to the north. He’d land on the northwest corner near a row of giant fans circulating air through massive ducts into the building—where the building would be least stable—and detonate as soon as it made contact. All told, it was about three quarters of a mile and, at an estimated thirty miles per hour, would take about ninety seconds. He’d be back in the truck and leaving at a leisurely pace within two minutes while all the attention was centered on the smoking wreckage he left behind.

  No time like the present. He set the detonator remote on a nearby tree stump and reached for the transmitter. With a few quick adjustments, he brought the drone online. Next he brought the motors to life; even from this distance he could hear the whir of them spinning up. He increased the throttle and the elevator and it was airborne. He piloted it out from under the overpass and up one hundred and fifty feet, then forward, the pitch of the rotors’ whirring rising as they settled into their full twenty-thousand-revolutions-per-minute capacity.

  It was glorious. This feeling of freedom, of flying like a bird and seeing the world beneath the clarity of the sunlit sky. Of holding life and death in your hands. On the monitor, the drone glided over asphalt and treetops. Over the gleam of sunlight bouncing off windshields in the parking lot.

  That was when he heard the first defensive response. Even from where he stood, the boom of multiple gunshots reverberated in the air. The drone stayed steady, so it wasn’t hit, but it had been seen and they were trying to bring it down before it could reach its target.

  He increased the throttle slightly. He didn’t dare overtax the battery and leave himself short of power, but he knew he had a small margin of leeway. He was so close, he couldn’t fail now. Not when the drone was sailing over the original low, sprawling NSA building far below and OPS2A was in his sights.

  Heart pounding in his chest, but his hands dead steady, he guided the drone over the building, keeping as low as possible to use the building as cover from gunfire, and gently set it down on a clear section of roof.

  In the distance, sirens were screaming from the complex itself. No time to waste. Picking up the other remote, he held his thumb over the control switch.

  He hesitated for only a second before he depressed the button.

  Chapter 22

  Endgame: In chess, the stage of the game where few pieces are left on the board and strategy is influenced by the type of pieces a player has remaining.

  Wednesday, April 19, 10:46 AM

  National Cryptologic Museum

  Annapolis Junction, Maryland

  The button clicked as he depressed it, and he closed his eyes, waiting to hear the satisfying blast. He was so close he had hopes of feeling the shock waves pass by, sliding eerily over his skin and shimmering through the trees.

  His breath came hard and fast, not from exertion, but from excitement. From anticipation. He’d never been this close before, been so much a part of the attack.

  Any second . . .

  But nothing happened. Only the sirens’ screams streaked through the air.

  His eyes flew open and looked down at the remote in his hand. The red light to match the one under the drone was illuminated, just as expected. Just as it was three times before.

  He lifted his thumb and pressed down again . . . harder. Click.

  Nothing.

  Panic clawed at his throat, trapping his breath in his lungs. He stabbed at the button repeatedly, frantically, his breath coming even faster now as his heart beat a staccato rhythm in his chest.

  Click, click, click, click.

  Still nothing.

  His head whipped up. He had to get out of here. They knew they were under attack and now they didn’t have the dying and injured to distract them. Now they had nothing in mind but catching whoever was behind it.

  With a muffled curse, he jammed the remote into his pocket, bent to pick up the transmitter from the ground, and sprinted down the service road. Through gaps in the trees he could see the Cryptologic Museum and the parking lot. He could swear there were more cars now. Where had they come from in only the last twenty minutes?

  He broke from the trees, searching wildly, looking for eyes staring accusingly at him, but the parking lot was empty of any living soul. He sprinted to the truck, pushing his hand into his pocket and past the remote to find the keys. He pulled them out, but his shaking hand was slippery and uncoordinated and they tumbled with a jangle to the asphalt below. He scooped them off the ground and jammed the key into the lock, wrenching open the door and throwing himself into the cab. The transmitter slid across the seat to fall with a dull thump to the footwell below. For the first time ever, he ignored the costly technology.

  He was done with drones anyway. In all likelihood, he was done, period.

  He rammed the key into the ignition and the engine started with a roar. In a panic, he came off the clutch too quickly and the truck bunny-hopped slightly as it lurched forward and then stalled. He swore viciously and turned the engine over again, forcing himself to keep his feet on both the clutch and brake as he took two deep breaths, reminding himself he’d lose more time stalling out the old piece of crap than if he drove with a little more care. He eased more slowly off the clutch and onto the gas and the truck rolled forward with only the smallest of jerks.

  He followed the roadway around the curve, taking the corners too fast, but not daring to go any slower, even at risk of tipping the pickup. He barreled past the spy plane display and then out onto Canine Road without daring to stop at the stop sign. Alarms were still screaming from every building in the complex, but now police sirens were wailing, both from the complex and incoming from outside the facility.

  It was only about seventy feet to the on-ramp for MD-32 northwest and from there two and a half hours to home. If he could make it to the highway, he could escape. He pressed down harder on the accelerator, the old truck vibrating beneath him. The trip here had been tooth rattling, but at this speed, it was going to be bone jarring. He’d risk that any day for the chance to escape.

  The sound of sirens was coming closer and the flash of blue and red was suddenly visible ahead roaring off the freeway. He geared up and hammered the accelerator, praying for that tiny extra bit of speed, enough to get him past the cops and onto the freeway and out to freedom.

  He shot onto the on-ramp just as the black and white cruiser was coming up the paired off-ramp. Keeping his eyes forward and his face relaxed, only his stranglehold on the steering wheel might have given him away. The cop sailed past him without slowing and then he was on the freeway, headed for freedom.

  One quick backward glance told him how close his escape had been—the police cruiser was stopped crosswise over the road, blocking anyone inside the complex from leaving. So very, very close. Seconds had made the difference today. A few more and he’d have been trapped behind the barricade.

&nb
sp; But even given his near escape, dread curled like a hard ball in his stomach. His bomb hadn’t exploded, which meant that his fingerprints were all over it. He might not be in the system, but if they ever caught him, there’d be no way around his role in building the bombs.

  He needed to go home, to really think about how to deal with this new reality. If he was lucky, he’d have time for one more strike. But he had to figure out where, and how, and when.

  It was time to go out in a blaze of glory and then disappear forever.

  Chapter 23

  Positive Reinforcement Training: A method of training emphasizing food treats, praise, or play to reward an animal for performing a behavior the handler wants.

  Wednesday, April 19, 11:52 AM

  Starbucks, 7th Street NW and E Street NW

  Washington, DC

  Meg peered through the window of the coffee shop until she spotted a tall, willowy redhead behind the counter inside. She rapped lightly on the window. All three baristas turned to the window, but the redhead smiled and waved back, holding up a single index finger. Give me a minute. Meg gave her a thumbs-up and led Hawk onto the small fenced patio that enclosed a half dozen tables and chairs. Hawk stopped briefly at the wide metal dog dish, giving it a quick sniff before taking a drink.

  They settled at the empty table farthest from the door, Hawk flopping down on the sun-warmed pavement, giving a gusty sigh of contentment and resting his head on crossed front paws. Meg turned her own face into the sun, grateful for the warmth of spring and a few moments of peace.

  The door opened with a squeak of hinges. “There’s my boy!”

  Meg opened her eyes to see Katie, their favorite barista, setting down the coffee and sandwich Meg had ordered by mobile app when they were a few blocks away. At her appearance, Hawk bolted to attention, sitting tall and offering a single paw in greeting.

  Katie bent down to shake it before running a hand over his head. “How’s my boy today? Handsome as ever, I see.”

  “I swear he knows a block away when we’re coming here. And on days when you’re not working, he’s positively disappointed.”

  “Well, he’s in luck today.” Katie straightened and thrust a hand into her green apron pocket, coming out with an oversized dog biscuit.

  If it was possible, Hawk sat up straighter, his whole body vibrating with excitement.

  Katie shot a quick look at Meg, who nodded her permission, then leaned over and held out the biscuit for Hawk, who didn’t move but vibrated even harder.

  Meg took pity and released her invisible hold on him. “Okay, Hawk, take it.”

  He rose up on his hindquarters, neatly plucking the biscuit away without touching Katie’s fingers. It was gone inside of thirty seconds.

  “Does he even taste it?” Katie wondered.

  “He must, because he knows when he comes in and you’re on shift, there’s a treat in it for him.”

  “Always. Gotta head back in. Enjoy your lunch. See you next time.”

  “Thanks for bringing my order out.”

  Katie stopped with her hand on the door handle. “I always love a chance to visit with my favorite boy.” She threw them a sunny smile and then disappeared into the café.

  Meg picked up her coffee and took a long, slow sip. She didn’t have much time, but had told Brian she needed out of the office for a half hour, so she was determined to give herself a few moments of relaxation. Those moments were too few and far between lately and Hawk needed it as much as she did.

  By reflex, her gaze darted back to the door when it opened again and a dark-haired man stepped out carrying a take-out coffee. She would have looked away again, but something about him seemed familiar and held her gaze.

  He wore soft, faded blue jeans, a red plaid shirt rolled up over his forearms, and hiking boots, but nothing leapt out at her to help her identify him. His casual clothing said he wasn’t an on-duty agent. Maybe he was someone she’d seen in the shop on her regular stop-ins without really taking notice?

  The man’s gaze rested on Hawk, but then he looked up to meet her eyes and the sight of that gold-flecked brown clicked recognition into place. The lack of gear, helmet, and soot had disguised him, but she’d never forget those eyes.

  She pushed back her chair and stood. “Todd Webb, right?” She held out her hand. “Meg Jennings, from the FBI K-9 unit.”

  He grinned and shook her hand. “No need for an introduction. I remember you very well. And your picture in the paper only reinforced that memory.”

  Meg tried not to cringe at the mention of that photo. “Don’t remind me.” She dropped her gaze, turning slightly to look out into the street.

  He grabbed her arm lightly, causing her to raise her face back up toward his. “Wait a second.” He looked down to study her expression, something that at her height didn’t happen often. “You’re embarrassed.” Confusion flitted across his face. “Why?”

  “It wasn’t a good day; you know that as much as I do. I wasn’t exactly in a good place at that moment, and I certainly didn’t want to advertise it.”

  “You’d had a hellish day, were exhausted right to the bone, and were grieving the loss of innocent people who were gone before you ever had a chance to help them. That picture was nothing less than pure honesty captured in a single frame. As a first responder, you don’t have to explain that to me.”

  She gazed up at him, surprised and, if possible, further embarrassed by his words of understanding. But nothing in his gaze said he was being dishonest in his opinion or that he was surreptitiously making fun of her.

  She indicated the empty chair opposite hers. “Have a few minutes to join me?”

  “I’d love to. I’m off today and was just running errands when I came in for coffee. Is this your usual stop?”

  She nodded. “It’s just down the street from the Hoover, so it’s convenient. And it has a dog-friendly patio.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.”

  They took their seats and Webb stretched out his long legs, crossing his ankles as he looked down at her dog. “Hawk looks no worse for wear after that experience.”

  “He was exhausted the next day and a little dehydrated, but we got him back on his feet quickly. We pretty much had to, with the second bombing coming so soon after the first.”

  Webb leaned forward, cupping his hands around his coffee. “They sent you in for that one too?”

  His eyes were flat, but Meg could see the knowledge there. This was a man who knew all too well what fire could do to a human body.

  “We scrambled within twenty minutes of the blast and flew there directly.”

  “They never had a chance. Between the bomb and the natural gas fire . . .” Webb’s words faded away and she saw his eyes go unfocused for a moment, as if he was seeing the site itself.

  “They really didn’t. Thirty-seven lives gone like—” She snapped her fingers. Hawk’s eyes opened to look up at her, but when Meg didn’t indicate any command, he settled again. “It was horrible. We do live finds, or injured. We don’t often do dead, and it’s the first time Hawk’s done a fire like that. That’s more your wheelhouse than mine, so you know what it’s like.”

  “Yeah, it’s bad. Was he confused by the overload of smells?”

  “Maybe a little. What he knew was that there wasn’t anything that smelled like a human he could find. He didn’t understand what had happened to the people that were actually still there. I don’t know if he even knew they were human.” She took a long sip of her coffee to give herself time to calm slightly. “Hell, I didn’t understand it. Still don’t.”

  “No sane person does. What about the kids we pulled out of the rubble at the Whitten Building? Heard anything?”

  “Everyone we pulled out alive is still with us. You remember Jill?”

  “Of course I do. She’s the reason I asked.”

  “She’s doing great. She’s at George Washington Hospital. They had her in the ICU for a few days, but she’s out now and is supposedly c
oming along quite nicely.”

  “I should stop by to see her. The poor kid is probably bored to tears in there.”

  Meg fiddled with the sandwich she had yet to take a bite of, the discussion about the bomb sites having taken away her appetite.

  Webb seemed to sense a misstep. “But enough about all that. I’m sure you’re steeped in this investigation twenty-four /seven.”

  “That’s the truth,” Meg muttered.

  “So let’s talk about something more interesting. Tell me about you and Hawk.”

  Meg’s head snapped up. That was a change in conversation she hadn’t seen coming. “You want to talk about my dog?”

  “And you, but sure, why not? I love dogs. Don’t own one because of my crazy schedule. I live alone and I can’t leave an animal on its own for the twenty-four hours straight I’m on shift, but I had one as a kid and I miss having one underfoot now.” He leaned down to pet Hawk, but froze, his hand two inches above the dog’s glossy black head, Hawk’s eyes locked on him. “Is it okay if I touch him? Is he working?”

  “Not right now, but thanks for asking. Go ahead.”

  Webb stretched down farther, extending his hand toward Hawk’s nose to let him sniff first before running his palm over the sun-warmed fur. Hawk’s tail thumped several times against the sidewalk. “Such a great dog. And smart. I really appreciate a smart working dog. How did you get him? Did you train with him at the Bureau?”

  “Not even close.” Meg looked down at her dog, feeling a swell of affection for the gutsy little scrap of a pup he’d been and for what he’d grown up to be. “He was surrendered to my parents’ rescue.”

  “Wait, your parents own an animal rescue?”

  “Sure do. Just south of Charlottesville, Virginia. Mostly dogs, but they get a few cats now and then. We even had a couple of guinea pigs once, the odd rabbit, and a pig. They won’t turn anyone away. If it’s beyond their expertise, they’ll find the right rescue or sanctuary and transfer them there. They live on the property, and one morning when they went out to the kennels to feed the dogs, they found a box on their porch. Inside the box was a very small and very sick black lab puppy. Way undernourished and suffering from a severe case of parvovirus, he was in pretty bad shape and they weren’t sure that he was going to make it.” She glanced down at the hardy, healthy animal at her feet and smiled. “But they didn’t count on the bone-deep stubbornness of the little guy. Within two months he was a whole new animal.