by Roland Smith
Vanessa shortened the distance between her and the suspect when she saw him reach into his pocket.
Moving quickly, she closed on him. With his back to her, Vanessa twisted at the waist and drove her fist into his kidney. The sudden shocking pain caused him to straighten up and throw his head and shoulders back. Before he could cry out or react to the pain, she drove her thumb hard into the large nerve bundle below his left ear. The blow staggered the man and rendered him temporarily paralyzed.
Uly suddenly appeared and, acting as if he were the suspect’s drunken friend, hooked his arm around the man’s neck and said loudly, “Dude, you’ve got to slow down, the party’s gonna last all night.” Vanessa had already veered away, swallowed up by the mass of people. And to the passersby, the two men appeared to be a couple of wasted partiers. In fact Uly was squeezing off the man’s air supply until he lapsed completely into unconsciousness. “Whoa. We gotta find you a seat, bro,” he said, continuing the charade. He staggered toward a park bench with the unconscious man in tow, and sat him down. The bench was occupied by a couple of concertgoers. When they saw the gigantic Uly dragging a fully grown man toward them, they hurried away. Without further fanfare Uly surreptitiously cuffed the man’s wrist to the bench. Uly quickly emptied the suspect’s pockets of his phone, wallet, and car keys and drifted off into the crowd. The whole incident had taken seconds and no one in the crowd paid any attention.
One down.
Ashes of the Martyrs
It was weird riding in a police car with all the windows shot out. We were racing toward San Antonio and I kept watching the time on Miss Ruby’s phone tick down. The light bar on top of the cruiser was blasted to bits and we got some weird looks from other drivers.
“We have to figure out where they’re going to set off the car bomb,” Angela whispered to me. “Was there anything you overheard?”
With the windows shot out and the air rushing through the car, it was a little easier to talk without the sheriff hearing us.
“Well, it wasn’t like, ‘Hey, hostage kid! Guess where we’re going to set off the bomb and hopefully kill thousands of people,’” I said quietly.
“This isn’t right,” the sheriff interjected. “Three people who I thought just lived in my county like regular folks just died. And the president of the United States told me they were terrorists. Now you and Dirk tell me I gotta get you to San Antonio fast, so your parents don’t miss you,” he snorted. “I ain’t stupid and I wasn’t born yesterday. I did two tours in Iraq. If there’re terrorists about, that means an attack of some kind. Maybe it’s a chemical weapon, or a bomb of some kind. Maybe a truck full of fertilizer. That’d be easy enough to find around here,” the sheriff said. “So you two can just drop the act. Seems like this Boone fella is being reckless with people’s safety.”
Angela and I looked at each other. The sheriff had proven himself capable and smart. Now we just had to make sure he didn’t change his mind about getting us back to San Antonio.
“I know it appears that way,” Angela said, “but he’s got a pretty amazing team of agents working for him. He wants to catch these people. If they suspect we know about the bomb, they’ll fade away again and we’ll never find them. And Boone is very close to destroying the whole group of them. And if we get this phone to X-Ray, he might be able to figure out a way to stop them cold.”
“That’s all well and good,” the sheriff said. “But what if he’s wrong? What if he doesn’t catch them? What then?”
“All I can tell you is that in the last few days a lot of bad stuff has almost happened and Boone has stopped it….”
“If he’s so great and knows everything, like you say, how come he didn’t stop the bomb in Washington and the one at the USS Cole Memorial?” The sheriff was getting more animated the closer we got to San Antonio. It was hard to blame him.
“The bomb in Washington happened before the president put Boone in charge of this operation. The Cole Memorial event was allowed to occur, after making sure no people would be hurt, so the cell wouldn’t get suspicious that he was onto them,” Angela explained.
The sheriff muttered something unintelligible. I understood why he was upset. Most men in his position probably didn’t have to deal with international terrorism right in their backyard.
Angela changed the subject. “Q, did you hear them say anything that might indicate where they planned to attack?” She was insistent.
“Just nonsensical stuff. I heard them say something about ‘ashes of the martyrs.’ I guess that’s some kind of terrorist talk. When they blow themselves up they’ll be a bunch of ashes? And I heard …” I stopped, thinking over everything I’d heard. “They said something about making sense of a graph,” I said. “Could it be some kind of graph of expected casualties … or … I don’t know!”
Angela was quiet. She was concentrating so hard I thought her face might crack.
“Say that again,” Angela said.
“What?”
“The graph … you said they couldn’t make sense of a graph?” she asked.
“Yeah, but they were way across the room and whispering and all I could hear were bits and pieces of what they were saying. I think it’s just a bunch of terrorist mumbo jumbo …” I said.
“No, it’s not! I know where they’re going! Give me your phone!” she said.
I handed her the iPhone and she hit the redial to call X-Ray.
“X-Ray, it’s Angela. Q overheard something … you need to get the intellimobile to the Alamo Memorial. Block all the phone signals! Shut them down. It’s not the Alamo itself or the concert! It’s the memorial! Hurry! Tell Boone! X-Ray, listen! I know that’s where they’re going … we’ll be there in ten minutes.” Angela disconnected the call.
“Sheriff, you need to get us to the cenotaph as soon as you can,” she said.
“Sure, why not?” Sheriff Hackett replied. “Probably only meet up with a whole division of Taliban troops there. No problem.”
I hoped the sheriff was just being sarcastic. Nevertheless he coaxed the battered car to go faster. It picked up speed and we were soon barreling down the street in the direction of the concert. His siren still worked and traffic pulled over as we flew by.
“Can you fill me in?” I asked her.
“It was in our homework. You said they mentioned ‘ashes of the martyrs.’ After the Battle of the Alamo, the bodies of the slain defenders were burned in a huge funeral pyre near the mission. Their ashes—the ashes of the martyrs, as the locals referred to them—were interred at the San Fernando Cathedral. The style of monument built on the site of the pyre is sometimes called a cenotaph. That’s what you heard. It’s got to be the place where they intend to hit.”
“You researched all that stuff?” I said.
“Somebody has to do our homework,” she said with a grin.
“Nice.” In the midst of a crisis, Angela was still the homework police.
The cruiser screamed up Houston Street, heading east as we approached the intersection of Alamo Plaza Boulevard. The crowd was thinner now that the concert had begun and the traffic had lightened on the streets near the plaza. But as we drew nearer, Angela and I both saw it at the same time.
A white SUV was coming directly at us from the west. If it reached the intersection it would turn and head directly toward the Alamo Memorial.
With nothing to stop it.
Two to Go
“Boone, it’s Vanessa, do you copy?” Vanessa touched the Bluetooth.
“Copy, go ahead,” Boone said.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Toward the front of the crowd, near the stage. Why?”
“I’ve spotted another suspect. But I’ve lost Uly. The crowd is really thick here. This guy is a little more on guard. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get close enough to—hold on.”
There was silence for a moment.
“Vanessa?” Boone said. X-Ray cut in.
“Boone! This is X-Ray. I just got a ca
ll from Angela. She’s inbound with Q and that sheriff you met earlier. She says the target is the Alamo Memorial. The cenotaph.”
“I thought you told them to stay!” Boone yelled.
“I did! But they’re coming anyway. I’m moving the intellimobile next to the cenotaph and I’m going to cut all phone signals in that immediate area. You better get back here!”
“Boone, it’s Vanessa. Our suspect just pulled something out of his pocket. Looks like some kind of modified phone. He’s east of your location, about two hundred fifty yards from the monument. I don’t see Uly. I need a body catcher! If I take him out, the crowd could panic. Boone, what do I do?”
“Felix, can you see anything?” Boone asked, moving toward Vanessa’s position. “Do you have a shot?”
“Negative. I can’t be sure which man she’s eyeballing,” Felix said.
“Vanessa, take him. Take him now, as soon as you can! Don’t let him use that gadget!”
Boone had been standing beside a tree with a trash bin beside it, the stage to his back. In the next instant he appeared behind Vanessa’s target, just as her knife landed in the center of the man’s back. Boone removed the knife and, much like Uly did, relieved the man of his phone and drag-walked him to a nearby bench. The man was wearing a dark windbreaker. Luckily, the bloodstain growing on his back was not readily visible. Boone sat him down and checked his pulse to make certain he was gone.
Uly appeared out of the crowd and stood next to Boone.
“I was inside the radius where X-Ray shut down the phones. My headset lost contact,” he said.
“No worries. It had to be done this way,” Boone said. Vanessa joined them at the bench.
“Now what?” she said.
“You heard X-Ray,” Boone said. “Fill in Uly on the way to the cenotaph. Keep a sharp eye. Felix, Uly and Vanessa will try to identify any targets so stay ready. We may need you. Let’s move. We’ve got a bomb to find,” he said.
They arrived at the memorial plaza a few moments later. Most of the crowd had moved toward Bonham Street, nearer the Alamo, but there were still far too many people near the target.
“We’ve got to think of a way to clear some of these people out of here without starting a panic,” Boone said into the Bluetooth. “The last thing we want is a stampede where everyone gets crushed.”
Off in the distance, parked along Alamo Memorial Boulevard near the cenotaph, they could see the intellimobile with the antenna array extended. Boone knew X-Ray was jamming all phone signals, but he still worried about the drivers detonating the bomb manually.
“What are we going to do?” Vanessa asked. “We can’t have Felix fire a couple of warning shots. That will panic everyone.”
“I got an idea,” Uly said. He tore off his shirt. Like Felix, Uly had been in a lot of scrapes during his time in the CIA, DEA, and Delta Force. His thickly muscled back and chest were covered with scars that made him look like he’d taken on three grizzly bears in a wrestling match and come out on the short end.
Uly mussed his hair and started trotting around in circles, bumping into bystanders while shouting at the top of his lungs, “Who wants to fight? Anybody want to try me? I got a hundred dollars says nobody in this crowd can last more than ten seconds with me! I’ll fight you with one hand!” He looked like a wild man, and he slurred his words like a drunk. He started shadowboxing while the crowd around the plaza looked on in confusion and then, as he’d planned, in fear.
“Come on! Who wants a piece of me? I can take you all on! I’ll fight anybody!”
The effect was immediate and people moved quickly away from the madman. In less than a minute nearly a third of them had migrated toward the safety of the crowd nearer the stage.
“Vanessa, you watch the street. If the cenotaph is the target, they’re coming down Alamo Memorial Boulevard. Felix, you be ready. If they’re approaching along Houston we’re going to need you,” Boone said. He said into the Bluetooth, “X-Ray, do you have eyes on Angela and Q or the SUV yet?”
“Negative, but I was just about to tell you, Boone: Somebody just took down all the traffic cams again. I’m trying to hack in and get them back up but it’s happening. They’ve got to be close!”
The three headed back toward the intersection of Houston Street and Alamo Memorial Boulevard. Boone had a feeling the terrorists would choose the easiest path to the target and this was it. Even with the street closed to through traffic they could crash through the barricades and have an unimpeded path to the cenotaph.
“Boone!” Vanessa shouted.
Boone spun at her shout and saw her pointing toward a white SUV accelerating up Houston Street. It was careening back and forth through the traffic and people in the street scattered and ran as it rolled along.
Boone heard Uly shouting, “Down, down, everybody down!” He lost track of Vanessa, because all of his attention was now focused on a sheriff’s car that was accelerating toward the Tahoe from the opposite direction.
It was on a collision course.
The Good Guys
“Sheriff!” Angela shouted, “you’ve got to stop that SUV!”
“Hang on!” the sheriff yelled. He punched the gas and sped toward the intersection. The Tahoe veered around a car and turned onto Alamo Plaza Boulevard. Angela and I each braced for the impact with one hand while we held onto Croc with the other. Before the Tahoe could accelerate past us, the sheriff’s cruiser hit it broadside. All of us, the sheriff included, were screaming at the top of our lungs. Even Croc was howling as the cruiser crossed the plaza, the siren screaming and the sheriff laying on the horn. The two cars were joined together in a mass of twisted metal. They careened down the street, tires and brakes screeching in protest. Pedestrians leaped out of the way and it was a miracle we didn’t hit anyone.
The impact spun us around. I looked out of what had been the rear window of the patrol car and saw the face of one of the drivers. There was a look of utter shock in his eyes.
The collision twirled the Tahoe around so that its front end was facing us, and we continued skidding down the street. We traveled side by side with the SUV for a short distance. Then the sheriff twisted the wheel hard to the left, and the SUV driver hit the Tahoe’s brakes. It slowed, but turned so that it was perpendicular to us. We finally stopped a few yards from the monument.
The air bags had deployed and the two men in the Tahoe were momentarily stunned. But seconds later their doors swung open and they staggered out. Both of them carried machine pistols. One of them had a black box with a little metal antenna on it. The sheriff kicked his door open, yelling at us to get down. He jumped out of the car with his revolver drawn. His gun fired twice. I’m pretty sure I heard other shots but couldn’t swear to it. It all happened so fast it was difficult to sort out. Then it was quiet for a moment before I heard people shouting, screaming, and running.
Angela and I clambered out of the cruiser. I felt like a brick wall had fallen on top of me. The sheriff stood in front of his battered patrol car. His gun was pointed at the two bodies lying on the ground. My ears were ringing. I remembered Boone and X-Ray saying that the car bombs also had timers on them. I worried this one might have been activated before the sheriff shot the man holding the detonator.
“Run!” I shouted. “Everybody ru—” I was interrupted by the sound of the hatchback door on the SUV opening. Looking around, I found X-Ray’s legs hanging out of the back of it. A few seconds later he climbed out holding a bunch of different-colored wires in one hand and a multi-tool in the other. X-Ray had disarmed the bomb.
A crowd was gathering and people were gaping at the two shattered cars.
X-Ray held up the bundle of wires as if he was showing off a fish he had just caught. “You should know,” he said to the crowd, “that this model is being recalled. It’s prone to sudden and uncontrollable acceleration.” Without another word, he scrambled away and disappeared into the intellimobile.
Angela, Croc, and I walked around to stand behind the sh
eriff. He still held his gun pointed in the direction of the two men lying on the ground. I wasn’t surprised at all to find Boone kneeling next to the two men, checking their pulses.
“You can holster your weapon, Sheriff Hackett,” he said. “It’s over.”
Explanations
Sheriff Hackett returned his revolver to its holster and knelt beside the two bodies. Uly and Vanessa were using their Homeland Security IDs to move the crowd back and away from the scene.
Boone spoke into his Bluetooth. “X-Ray, get J.R. on the phone. Tell him we need a cleanup crew here on the double.”
“You going to tell me what happened?” the sheriff asked him.
“You saw what happened, Sheriff,” Boone said. “You, Tom Hackett, faithful public servant, took out two terrorists. One shot each, center mass. I saw all the trophies in your office. You’re quite a marksman. Not only that but you’ve just saved countless lives. You’re a hero. That’s what happened.”
“Mr. Boone, I’m a good shot. I don’t dispute it. But I see two dead men here. I shot twice and I know I hit them each in the chest. But both of them also have head shots from what looks to be a high-powered rifle. And this fellow here—you’ll notice he has a knife sticking out of the side of his neck. I am a good shot, but I can’t throw a knife worth squat. So again, I ask you, what happened here?”
Boone looked up across the street to the hotel roof. There was no sign of Felix but he knew there wouldn’t be. He reached down and removed the knife from the dead man’s neck and wiped the blood off on the suspect’s shirt.
“Sheriff, I don’t see a knife wound. And I’m pretty sure the official autopsy is going to show that both men died from gunshot wounds to the chest from your service revolver. Not a sniper’s rifle,” Boone said.
“Mr. Boone, I know you have the president on speed dial but I don’t know that I can go along with this. I—”
“I’m also quite certain that during your next reelection campaign, you’re going to get a visit from a very prominent politician who is going to assist with your fundraising. A politician currently residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C. In fact, I’m pretty sure your next election is in the bag,” Boone said.