“The explosion at the Washington Arms Hotel.”
“A technology company was targeted, correct?”
“That’s right. National Circuit Corporation.”
“The CEO died in his room just prior to the bomb detonating, if I recall correctly.”
Stallings smiled. It was something he rarely did in Tracie’s presence, and the effect resembled a cross between a half-hearted sneer and the expression of a man suffering extreme heartburn. “That’s right,” he said.
She bit her lip to keep from laughing at the sight. “Tragic, but it sounds like a matter for the DC police. It was probably a disgruntled employee or ex-employee. What’s our interest in some crank blowing up the board of directors of a tech company?”
“Yes, it is a matter for the police. I’m sure they’re knee-deep in their investigation even as we speak. And a disgruntled employee is one possibility. Industrial espionage is another.”
Tracie leaned back in her chair, thinking. “That sounds like a stretch. I can understand companies trying to get a leg up on their competitors, but mass murder? Just to achieve a competitive advantage? Seems unlikely to me.”
Stallings’s face darkened, his comical expression evaporating in an instant. “Yes, well, that’s neither here nor there.”
Tracie doubted Aaron Stallings had ever uttered a single word in his entire life without working toward some ulterior motive. What that motive might be in this case, though, she had no idea. “So, what does all of this have to do with me?”
“I was just getting to that. The police have already confirmed that the head table was targeted in the Washington Arms function room. Three small blocks of C4, attached to the underside of the table and wired to a small radio receiver, detonated remotely via transmitter.”
“Wow. Somebody was angry.”
“That’s right. If anyone had bothered to check the underside of the table, the whole disaster could have been avoided, but it was a private corporate function and no bomb threats had been received prior. It wouldn’t have occurred to anyone to sweep the room for explosives.”
“All the National Circuit bigwigs would have been seated at the head table, obviously, so the entire company must have been decimated,” Tracie said thoughtfully. Suddenly the idea of corporate espionage began to make a little more sense. “Add in the death of the CEO in his room, and all of the key employees must have been taken out in one fell swoop.”
“Not quite all.”
Tracie shook her head and waited. It was obvious Stallings wanted her to prod him for information and she refused to give him the satisfaction. Anything she could do to tweak the boss was fair game as far as she was concerned, after all he had done to her.
After a moment, he seemed to realize she wasn’t going to take the bait and he continued. “One of the men who had been seated at the head table managed to escape the blast through sheer luck. When the CEO, a guy by the name of Allan Nesbitt, hadn’t shown up by the beginning of the event, the head of Research and Development went to Nesbitt’s hotel suite to find out why. He had just discovered the dead body when the explosion occurred.”
Tracie knitted her eyebrows together in concentration. “Assuming Nesbitt’s death and the explosion in the function room are related, wouldn’t the killers have expected someone to come looking for Nesbitt?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The CEO was only a couple of minutes late when the explosion occurred. Perhaps someone’s timing got messed up. In any event, that’s irrelevant to your assignment.”
“Which is?”
“The R&D guy’s name is Edison Kiley. He’s an old geezer who’s been with NCC since the company was founded back in the 1940s. I need you to go out to his home and bring him here.”
“Why in the world would I do that? It sounds like he could probably benefit from protection until the authorities sort through this mess, but shouldn’t the police be the ones to provide it? What’s the CIA’s interest in a geriatric scientist?”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten how this is supposed to work. I don’t explain myself to you. I tell you what I want done and then you go and do it. Was I not clear about that when I went against my better judgment and rehired you?”
Tracie breathed deeply before replying. “You were very clear. But a little background would help. I can’t imagine an old man agreeing to go anywhere with me unless I can make a pretty convincing argument.”
Stallings stared at her for a moment. “Fair enough,” he finally said. “That’s a valid point. But you might have less trouble than you think convincing him to come to Langley.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he used to work for us.”
5
The morning had started out overcast, with threatening clouds looming over the DC area, and as the day progressed conditions only went downhill. By the time Tracie left her apartment to make the short drive to Edison Kiley’s home in rural Williamsburg, the heavens had opened and rain was falling in sheets.
The conditions seemed appropriate to her mood. Perfect, she thought as her wipers struggled to clear the windshield. This is how far my career has fallen. A year ago I was working undercover in Moscow and East Germany and now I’m playing cab driver for an eighty-year-old corporate researcher.
She sighed deeply and tried to change her attitude. Maybe this assignment was a letdown, but at least she still had a job. And if she ever hoped to earn an opportunity to get back into the field for real instead of just being some well-paid errand girl—as unlikely as she knew that possibility to be—she would have to suck it up and be the best damned errand girl that asshole Stallings had ever seen.
She eased off her speed and began looking for the turn that should lead to Kiley’s home. He lived in Virginia, less than thirty minutes from DC, but if this part of the drive was any indication, he may as well have been a thousand miles out in the country. This area seemed to be as isolated as any Tracie had seen in the congested northeastern United States.
Her wipers sloshed the rain around and through squinting eyes she spotted a green road sign up ahead and slowed the car. She hadn’t bothered to write down the name of the road Kiley lived on because it was so unusual there was no way she could forget it: Woodchuck Hill. She had been surprised when she heard it, but now, based on the rural isolation in which she found herself, it seemed oddly appropriate.
Three quarters of a mile along Woodchuck Hill—which didn’t seem to be a hill at all, but felt flat as a board, albeit a heavily forested board—she still hadn’t seen any sign of a house. No driveways, no mailboxes, no nicely manicured front yards, nothing. Edison Kiley might be an old guy, but he certainly seemed to value his privacy.
Another half-mile passed and Tracie began to doubt the information she had been given. It wasn’t just that she couldn’t find Kiley’s house, there didn’t seem to be anyone living out here. She resolved to drive another mile and if there were still no signs of life, she would have to get in touch with Stallings and have him double-check the address.
She rounded a sweeping curve to the right and there it was: a metal mailbox painted to resemble the American flag with the name “Kiley” stenciled on the side. The mailbox had been placed next to a long, paved driveway that terminated at the side of a small ranch home set far back from the road. At least, I think it’s a ranch house, Tracie thought. It’s hard to see anything through this apocalyptic storm.
She cruised slowly up the scientist’s driveway and then splashed to a stop behind a late-model, well-used Plymouth. She sat for a moment, gazing intently at Kiley’s home. Something seemed off about this. It didn’t seem like the kind of place the head of research and development for a company like National Circuit should live in. Tracie had pictured something more…ostentatious. More like Stallings’s home.
She shrugged and prepared to climb out of her car. What did she know about corporate structuring, anyway? Maybe the guy made a lot less money than she had imagined.
She opened the door and stepped into the del
uge, and that was when the house exploded.
A tightly spaced series of muffled cracks split the night, one right after the other, bang-bang-bang-bang, and the little ranch house collapsed in upon itself with the sound of an extended car accident. Glass smashed and support beams disintegrated and the low-pitched roar of destruction lasted maybe five seconds but felt much longer.
Slivers of broken glass and wood peppered the area like tiny missiles. She dived full-length through the still-open car door, smashing her head against the top of the doorframe and then grunting in pain as she landed squarely on top of the Toyota’s floor-mounted gearshift. A heavy clattering of debris fell on and around the vehicle, overwhelming the sound of the rainfall drumming on the roof.
For a moment.
And then it was over. The silence was overwhelming after the obscene sounds of destruction that had preceded it.
Tracie shoved herself backward out of the car, landing on her feet in the rain. She felt a small lump growing into a bigger one on her head. Ran her hand over the bruise and then ignored it. Turned toward Edison Kiley’s home, now nothing more than a pile of construction debris whose outline resembled that of a house in only the vaguest fashion.
Even with the darkness nearly complete, Tracie could see the damage was significant. Walls canted inward at unlikely angles, bricks from Kiley’s fireplace lay scattered in his side yard, two-by-six studs supporting the exterior walls had been broken in half, the lower portions protruding from the rubble, their ragged edges thrust uncertainly toward the sky.
She was too late. Only by seconds, but that was irrelevant. Whoever had decimated the rest of National Circuit’s upper management structure had returned quickly to finish the job when they realized someone had survived.
Tracie began to circle the house in a counterclockwise direction. It was hard to imagine anyone surviving the blast, especially an octogenarian who lived alone, but she couldn’t simply abandon Edison Kiley until she knew for certain he was dead.
The rain continued to fall, picking up in intensity, the sound loud against the stillness of the desolate area. She listened for sirens and heard none. The closest neighbor was probably miles away, and based on the lack of traffic she had observed on Woodchuck Hill, it might be hours before any motorists drove by who might see the destruction and alert the authorities.
She reached the side of the house and picked her way through the debris, examining the wreckage as she moved. At the southeastern corner she turned left and continued along the rear of the home. Kiley’s backyard included a flagstone patio, and at the far end of the patio was a small utility shed that appeared relatively intact.
She tried to recall the series of explosions, not quite simultaneous but very closely spaced. She was almost positive there had been four separate blasts. Judging from what she could see of the wreckage, she guessed the bombers had attached one device to each exterior wall, probably at the corners and just above the concrete foundation. They had used C4 in the Washington Arms attack; it seemed likely they had utilized the same material here.
She reached Kiley’s back door—the only way she could tell where the entrance had once been was by the concrete steps leading to a small landing, which now gave onto nothing but a pile of rubble—and shook her head. There didn’t seem to be any way inside the house, and she could see and smell the beginnings of a fire.
A gas line had ruptured, or fuel oil was leaking from a storage tank.
Something.
The possibility of a second explosion or series of explosions loomed. In the unlikely event Kiley was still alive, he wouldn’t be for much longer.
Tracie turned and took a step, the sound of the rain splattering off the wreckage.
Heard a muffled sound, almost like a weak cry for help. That’s ridiculous. You’re hearing things.
She stopped anyway and stood perfectly still.
Waited.
She was just about to continue on when she heard it again, this time a little more clearly. It was definitely someone calling for help.
“Where are you?” she said as loudly as she dared. There was at least a small possibility whoever detonated the explosives had stuck around to watch the show. It would make more sense for the attackers to get away as quickly as possible, to put as much distance between themselves and their deadly handiwork as they could. But one thing Tracie had learned was that there were no guarantees; human beings were the most unpredictable animals on the planet.
“Back door,” came the reply. The response to her question was almost instantaneous. The voice wavered, obviously belonging to someone well past the prime of life, but it was clear and relatively strong, considering the circumstances.
He’s alive!
Tracie hurried back to the stairway to nowhere and leapt to the landing. “I’m here,” she said, and began tossing yanking ruined boards and assorted demolished junk out of the wreckage and tossing it aside.
And there he was.
Right in front of her.
She could literally reach out and touch him, and she was shocked to see that he seemed to be standing upright.
“Come on,” she said urgently, taking his hand. “A fire’s starting and it’s only a matter of time before there’s another explosion.”
“I can’t move. My foot is trapped.”
“How did you make it this far?”
“I was sitting at the doorway watching the rainfall when the explosion occurred.”
Tracie realized Kiley wasn’t standing at all; he had been trapped in a seated position in what looked like a high wooden barstool. His position directly under the doorframe must have sheltered him from the worst of the falling debris. Still, the fact he hadn’t been beheaded or sliced to ribbons was a minor miracle.
She dropped to her knees and began clawing at the junk. She ripped studs and chunks of drywall out of the way, tearing her hands up in the process and barely noticing. After a moment she could see the problem. A section of two-by-four, at least six feet in length and sliced neatly in half, had fallen onto Kiley’s left foot and then been jammed into place be heavy piles of wreckage on both sides.
She pulled desperately at the pile and winced as a fingernail caught on something and tore off. Her hands felt slick with rainwater and blood from a dozen nicks and gashes, and it was hard to get a grip on anything.
Kiley reached down awkwardly and tried to help. “Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t thank me until I get you out of here.”
“No, I’m thanking you now, just in case you don’t get me out of here. And about this explosion you think might happen: if it’s a real threat, just leave me and go. I don’t want to be responsible for someone else being killed.”
“That’s not happening,” she said, beginning to pant from exertion. “I’m not leaving without you.” She noticed a gap, maybe three inches wide, under a massive pile of rubble, and wedged her left hand as far under it as possible. An exposed nail or something sharp stabbed into her fingertip and she gasped.
“Guess that’s far enough,” she muttered and began pulling upward against the pile, straining hard.
It was too heavy.
“Dammit.” She was still holding Kiley’s hand, and she released her grip gently and said, “I’m not going anywhere, don’t worry.”
She bent down until her face was almost level with the concrete landing and squinted, studying the wreckage. It looked as though there might almost be enough room for her right hand to slither under the pile as well.
“Might as well take a chance,” she muttered. “Columbus did.”
“Yeah,” Kiley answered immediately. “And look what happened to him. He’s dead.”
Tracie was concentrating hard and it took a moment for the old man’s comment to sink in. When it did, she snorted, despite the gravity of the situation. This old guy was as cool as a cucumber, every bit as levelheaded as any operative she had ever worked with.
She shoved her right hand into the gap, doing her
best not to get jabbed by whatever she had struck a moment ago with her other hand. Then she began crawling forward on her knees until she was on all fours, her two elbows flat on what was left of Kiley’s floor, and her knees on the outside landing.
She kept moving, struggling up to her feet until she was bent over at the waist, hands buried two-thirds of the way up her forearms under a massive amount of mostly unidentifiable wreckage. Now she thought there was a chance she might have the leverage she needed.
There were still no sirens wailing in the distance. All Tracie could hear was the moaning of the wind in the trees and the steady hiss of rainfall. “If you’re a religious man,” she muttered through clenched teeth, “this might be a good time for a prayer, because I’m about out of ideas.”
“I haven’t been a religious man for decades, but the concept is getting more appealing by the second.”
Tracie smiled tightly and said, “Here goes nothing.” She lifted with her arms and strained with her legs, and for a long moment she made no headway at all.
And then the pile shifted. Not much, not enough for Kiley to slip his foot out from under the two-by-four, but a little. She could sense the change in balance more than feel it.
She redoubled her efforts, and now sweat began mixing with the rainwater streaming down her face. She strained, pushing hard with her legs to supplement her upper body and arms, and without warning the pile gave way with a loud crack!
Tracie lost her balance, nearly pitching forward into Kiley and knocking them both back into the rubble. She dropped to one knee and her shoulder smashed into a chunk of siding, and then she regained her balance. She wrapped her fingers around the two-by-four and pulled, and it lifted off Kiley’s foot and he was free.
She tossed the piece of wood away and it landed with a clatter. Then she climbed to her feet one more time and wrapped one arm around the older man’s back. “Don’t put any weight on your injured foot. Lean on me and let’s get you the hell out of here.”
They struggled forward, Kiley surprising her by making better progress than she expected him to. She helped him down the stairs and then turned in the direction from which she’d come. “Help will be here soon,” she said, wondering whether that was true.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 53