by CW Browning
Michael hung up and slid the phone back in his pocket before raising his hand and flagging down a cab. One pulled over and he got in quickly.
“St. John's the Divine,” he told the driver, slamming the door. “Hurry.”
“Sure thing, buddy.”
Michael stared out the window as the cab pulled into traffic and began weaving its way down 5th Avenue. When he realized what the likely targets were, he called Agent Bryant and the two FBI agents turned around to pick him up. On the way over the bridge from Brooklyn, they all decided the best bet was to split up and tackle three of the largest events at cathedrals first. Tommy already had a BOLO out on the car, and NYPD was keeping an eye out for it. With a little luck, they just might be able to track the bomb down before it went boom.
To that end, Tommy and Mark headed to St. Paul's Cathedral and Trinity Church, respectively, in the southern end of Lower Manhattan, where a procession launching Holy Week was scheduled to go from one church to the other. They dropped Michael on Broadway and he got a cab up to St. Patrick's Cathedral in Midtown. St. Patrick's was hosting an all-day event with music and food. However, when Michael arrived, there was no sign of the Subaru anywhere. That only left St. John the Divine.
Michael glanced at his watch and shook his head. It was just past two, and if there was no sign of the bomb there, he was at a loss. There were simply too many possibilities in New York City. Even if they had a month to organize, it was just too much.
His phone started to ring a few minutes later and Michael pulled it out, glancing at the number.
“I hope things are going better for you,” he answered.
“Define better,” Blake replied morosely. “I've spent most of the day driving and I'm getting sick of it. I have a cramp in my back.”
“Cry a little louder, gunny. I can't hear you over my violin.”
Blake snorted.
“How's it going up there?” he asked, and Michael grimaced.
“Nothing yet,” he replied. “I'm on my way to St. John's Cathedral now.”
“Well, I'm in Maryland,” Blake informed him.
“Maryland?!”
“Yep. I don't know where this guy's going, but I'm looking at cows. Cows, O'Reilly.”
Michael grinned despite himself.
“Ok, you might be worse off than me,” he admitted. “At least I have possibilities. What the hell is out with the cows?”
“Exactly,” Blake said glumly. “I have no idea. I should have let Stephanie take Tito.”
“Why didn't you?”
“I don't trust her not to kill him, and I honestly wouldn't blame her.”
“Fair enough.” Michael looked ahead and glanced at his watch again. They were half-way there. “Any word from her yet?”
“No. She was trying to get hold of your girlfriend last I talked to her. She wanted to pass on the Palm Sunday nugget. Do you have any idea who’s in DC?” Blake asked. “All Stephanie would say was that it was in good hands.”
“I have an idea,” Michael said, “and if it's who I think it is, then it’s in very good hands. I spent twenty-four hours with him last year, and it was exhausting. He's like a machine.”
“Why do I get the impression that he's one of her kind?” Blake wondered. “Oh wait. It must be because no one will say anything except that he's dangerous.”
Michael chuckled.
“Sorry,” he said apologetically. “It's just how it is with Viper.”
“Well, at least I know I can stop worrying about home,” Blake sighed. “If you say he's the real deal, I guess he is.”
“Stop worrying about everywhere else and just keep your eye on your man,” Michael advised. “And maybe pray for a little luck,” he added.
“Yeah, you too.”
Michael hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket, looking around. They were about two blocks away from the cathedral.
“You can stop here,” he told the driver. “I'll walk the rest of the way.”
“Sure thing.”
The cab pulled up at the curb and Michael passed some money to the driver over the seat.
“Keep it,” he said, opening the door. “Have a good one.”
He slammed the door and began striding down the sidewalk toward the church in the distance. His eyes were scanning the streets and traffic, looking for a glimpse of the Subaru. He was a block away from St. John's when his phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“Just got a call from NYPD,” Tommy informed him. “The car was spotted on Amsterdam, in front of the People's Garden next to St. John's!”
Michael broke into a run. He could see the wide lanes of Amsterdam ahead.
“They're not approaching it, are they?” he demanded, ducking past a group of tourists gaping at him.
“No, just observing,” Tommy assured him. “Bomb squad's on the way, ETA eight minutes.”
Michael hung up and covered the remaining ground quickly. He reached the corner and stopped, catching his breath. He looked left, then right, and spotted the sports car. It was pulled onto the shoulder with its hazards on, idling next to the curb. People milled around the entrance to the park and music filtered out from behind the fence. There was a large crowd swarming around, but Michael was relieved to see that the bulk of the event attendees appeared to be inside the park itself.
He started toward the car, frowning when he caught sight of a head in the driver seat. The driver was just idling there, making no move to get out of the car and take the package out to place it. In fact, as Michael drew closer, he saw that the guy seemed to be doing something on his phone.
Michael scanned the crowds on the sidewalk and at the entrance to the park, then looked over at the other side of the street. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the sports car, pulled over on the side of the road so it's driver could text on his phone. Michael paused, studying the car, puzzled. Why on earth would the driver just sit in a no-parking zone? He had to know he was inviting a cop to walk up and tell him to move.
Michael sucked in his breath and his eyes widened. The driver wasn't getting out of the car because he had instructions to wait. That could only mean the bombs weren't moving either. They were going to detonate in the cars!
Michael forced himself to stride instead of run to the blue Subaru. He stepped off the curb and rounded the trunk to walk up to the driver's door. With one hand on his Beretta, he knocked on the window with his knuckles. The driver started, then glanced up. Michael showed him his badge and motioned for him to roll the window down.
“Good afternoon,” he said as the window slid down. “I'm Special Agent O'Reilly. You know you're in a no parking zone?”
“I'm not parked,” the driver retorted with a flash of teeth. “I'm just waiting for someone.”
“You'll be waiting for a while,” Michael told him. “Did you know you have a flat tire?”
Brown eyes widened in the dark face and the driver quickly undid his seatbelt.
“No way, man,” he exclaimed. “These are new tires!”
“Take a look for yourself,” Michael said, motioning to the back of the car. “It's the right rear. I saw it when I was walking by.”
He stepped back as the young man opened the door and got out, turning to walk to the back of the car. In one motion, Michael closed the driver's door and grabbed his arm, swinging him away from the car and propelling him around the hood and onto the sidewalk.
“Hey, what the hell, man!” the driver yelled, trying to pull free. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Moving you away from your car,” Michael replied calmly, his grip like iron as he pushed him toward the park. “I don't trust it.”
“You can't do this!” The driver tried unsuccessfully to break free again. “I've got rights!”
“But I am doing it.” Michael propelled him into the entrance of the park and stopped, not releasing his charge. “You can discuss your rights with the FBI when they get here.”
“FBI!?” the
guy squeaked. “Your badge said you're Secret Service.”
“It's a joint operation,” Michael said shortly, looking up as a black armored SWAT van pulled up behind the sports car, “and that's the bomb squad,” he added. “They're going to take a look at the bomb you have in your trunk.”
“Bomb!? What bomb?!” The driver was almost wild-eyed now, but no longer struggling. “I don't know nothing about no bomb!”
“What's in the cooler?” Michael demanded.
“I don't know, man! I never look. I pick up stuff and I pass it on,” the driver exclaimed sincerely. “I swear, that's all I know.”
“You just pick stuff up and transport it? And this seems like a good idea to you?” Michael asked, watching as the van opened and a couple of men in vests climbed out. They spotted him and gave him a thumbs up. Michael nodded and they went over to the trunk.
“I get paid to drive,” the kid said, “not ask questions.”
“Well, next time you might want to,” Michael muttered. “Why were you just sitting in the car?”
“I was told to sit and wait for pickup.”
“What time was that supposed to happen?”
“2:45,” he answered morosely. “I was early.”
Michael watched as Tommy's black SUV pulled up behind the van and the two FBI agents jumped out. They looked around and spotted him, starting towards them quickly.
“Well?” Tommy called.
“2:45!” Michael called back. “Sounds like they're on a timer!”
Tommy nodded and turned around to jog over to the bomb crew at the car.
“What do you mean, on a timer?!” the driver yelped. “You mean, it was going to blow up at 2:45?!”
“Keep your voice down, kid,” Michael said, glancing around self-consciously. “We don't want a stampede.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, chastened, and lowered his voice. “They were going to blow up my car?!”
Michael glanced at him, somewhat amused.
“I think I'd be more concerned that you were supposed to be in it,” he said dryly.
The kid’s eyes widened again.
“Holy shit!”
“Quite.” Michael nodded to Mark as he joined him. “Here's the driver. He had no idea what was in the back of his car.”
Mark nodded and pulled out his badge, showing it to the driver.
“I'm Agent McDonnell,” he introduced himself. “We need to have a talk.”
Michael released his hold on the kid, letting Mark take over, and turned to pull out his phone. He strode a few feet away and waited while it rang on the other end.
“What's happening?” Blake answered.
“The bombs are on timers,” Michael told him. “The drivers were told to stay in the car until pickup. This one was given a specific time. 2:45.”
“How do we know for sure?” Blake asked after a second of silence.
“The bomb team is working on the bomb now. If they find anything different, I'll let you know, but I don't think they will. It makes sense. Put the bombs on a timer, make sure the drivers stay with the bombs, and it's a nice, tidy clean-up.”
“I'll call Stephanie,” Blake said. “I'm still in East Bumblefart with cows.”
“Where's Tito?”
“About a mile ahead. The road curved, so I can't see him, but his tracker's going strong. I'm coming up on the curve now, though, so he should be...Oh my God!” Blake suddenly exclaimed.
Michael scowled at the shock in Blake's voice.
“What?” he demanded sharply. “What is it?”
“He's off the road and slammed into a tree!”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Viper lowered her binoculars, her lips curving coldly. She dropped onto her stomach and lowered her eye to the scope, adjusting the sight. She was on a slight rise about 500 meters from a bend in the road, waiting. The black Camaro was on its way.
Stephanie didn't have any idea why Tito was driving through Maryland, but Viper was perfectly aware of the reason why the man was crossing across farmlands in North Central Maryland. She knew because she did the same thing a couple hours ago.
Tito was going to meet Asad Jamal.
Viper was surprised when she tracked the terrorist down into the country in Maryland. While they were undoubtedly beautiful, the rolling farmlands weren't very convenient for a hit and run attack on the main cities of the East coast. Alina was expecting to find him concealed in a city, not a rural suburb. Now, here was another surprise. Asad was notoriously reticent. Why would a street-racer from South Jersey with no prior ties to Al-Jibad or Asad be heading to the rental property in Carroll County where he was hunkered down? And, just as baffling, how did Tito know where to go? Dominic was the one with all the connections, not Tito. Did he even know who was going to be there when he got to his destination? Or was Tito under the mistaken impression that he was just making a drop out in the country?
Lifting her head, Viper considered the road beneath her. It took an extreme amount of self-control yesterday not to kill Tito Morales when she had him helpless and incapacitated with pain in the garage at Atco. He not only admitted to planting the bombs that killed both Dutch and John, but bragged about it. Viper frowned. That was the closest she ever came to losing her clinical objectivity during an interrogation. It was unacceptable. Personal emotion had no place in her job. She should never have allowed him to get to her. She did, however, and as a result, it was only due to his size and his healthy heart that he didn't die. When she left, he was unconscious but stable. Barely.
It was just plain bad luck that Blake and Stephanie followed him to Urgent Care and learned about his unusual injuries. Seriously, what were the odds of that? At least Stephanie seemed to buy her dominatrix theory. Alina's lips twitched despite herself. Better for her old friend to believe Tito had unusual sexual tendencies than know that Viper had systematically subjected him to excruciating levels of pain to get information out of him. Stephanie could be funny about things like that. She had a very well-developed sense of ethical behavior.
Viper glanced at the tablet laying on the grass next to her. Tito was just beyond the bend in the road now. She lowered her eye back to the scope and slid her finger over the trigger.
A few seconds later, the Camaro rounded the bend, traveling at high speed along the deserted country road. Viper calmly adjusted the sight slightly, then squeezed the trigger once. The front right tire blew apart and the car pulled violently to the right. It said something for the skill of the driver that the Camaro didn't spin completely out of control, but instead veered off the road, its high speed carrying it over the grass until progress was halted abruptly by the trunk of a large tree. The force of the impact crumpled the front of the Camaro, forcing the hood open and pushing the entire front of the car back until it looked like something out of a drunk driving ad. Viper lifted her head as the sound of the crash reached her and she looked at the wreckage dispassionately. Tito's pride and joy was totaled.
Viper sat up and lifted her rifle, disassembling it with rapid, sure movements as she kept one eye on the road in the distance. She knew Blake wasn't far behind, and she worked quickly to get her rifle put away in her soft carrying case before swinging it across her body. Picking up the tablet, she slid it into the inside pocket of her jacket as she turned to leave.
Less than a minute after Tito's Camaro hit the tree, Viper was gone, the rise was empty, and there was no indication that anyone was ever there.
Blake slammed on his brakes and jumped out of the car, taking in the scene before him. The Camaro had swerved off the road and traveled across a stretch of grass verge before slamming into the tree. He started toward the car, looking for some reason for the accident. There were no animals, nothing in the road, and no reason that he could see for Tito to suddenly veer off and hit a tree. In fact, there weren't even skid marks to indicate that he slammed on his brakes. Blake scowled and stepped onto the grass.
The explosion was deafening, shaking the ground and throw
ing Blake backwards off his feet. He just had time to take a breath before he landed on his back in the road. Heat from the ball of fire rolled over him and everything seemed muffled and almost in slow motion. Finding himself staring at thick black smoke pouring over him, Blake struggled to sit up. A strange humming filled his ears and he couldn't hear much else. He automatically took a deep breath, instantly regretting it as acrid smoke filled his lungs. Blake started coughing and his eyes burned from the fumes as he struggled to his feet, backing away from the immediate plume of smoke pouring from the wreckage.
Once he stopped coughing, Blake stared through streaming eyes at the ball of fire engulfing the Camaro, stunned. What the hell happened? Did the bomb detonate from the accident? Or was it scheduled to detonate?
Blake glanced at his watch, struggling to focus on the face through the burning tears flowing from his smoke-irritated eyes. 2:54 seemed an unlikely time to detonate a bomb. Shaking his head, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. Regardless of what happened, he needed emergency services now. The fire was burning too hot for him to even attempt to get Tito out.
Charlie looked up as a shadow fell across his quiet corner table.
“A little late for lunch, isn't it?” Harry asked before seating himself across from his old friend.
“I never come during the lunch rush,” Charlie replied with a faint smile. “Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.” Harry raised a hand to gain a waitress’s attention. “I was too busy trying to coordinate a response to the Boston debacle you dumped on me.”
A waitress approached and Harry ordered a diet coke and hamburger. She nodded with a smile and looked at Charlie.
“How's your turkey club?” she asked cheerfully.
“Very good, thank you,” he answered.
“Wonderful. I'll be right back with your coke,” she told Harry before turning to disappear toward the kitchens.
“I hunted you down to tell you Boston has been handled,” Harry said once they were alone again. “The driver is in custody.”
“What happened?”
“He was stopped on a parade route through downtown,” Harry told him. “Did you realize it's Palm Sunday?” Charlie looked at him and Harry grinned. “Of course you did. Well, there was a procession down Washington Street to kick off Holy Week. Lots of faithful congregants, priests and the like carrying palms.”