Suicide Bomb

by Bobby Nash

At the door, Jacks stopped. She handed him her business card.

  “You ever get homesick and want to swing by Homicide, take a stroll down memory lane, you call me and I’ll set it up.”

  He took the card, looked at it through squinting eyes.

  “Thanks. I may just take you up on that.”

  Jacks shook Mr. Bramlett’s hand and thanked him again for his assistance. He shrugged it off and told her to have a good night before she left. He bolted the door and kept an eye on her until she reached Daniel’s car.

  Jacks offered a polite wave to the guard before she stepped inside.

  “You get what you came for?” Daniel asked once she was back inside the warmth of the car.

  “Yeah.”

  “Big case?”

  “Big enough.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “You know I can’t discuss the particulars with you, Councilor.”

  “I know. You just seem less chipper than when we arrived.”

  “Oh,” she said. “It’s not that. That security guard back there sort of reminded me of my grandfather. He was a cop also. My Father wanted nothing to do with that life and he was none too happy that I followed my Grandpa into the family business. He died several years back. Prostate Cancer.”

  “I understand. To this day my Dad doesn’t understand how I could stoop so low as to be a…” he gasped for effect. “Lawyer. He’s definitely not a fan of the profession.”

  “No offense,” Jacks said. “But I can understand his position. A lot of people in your line of work have something of a reputation.”

  “I guess the same can be true of any profession. There are bad apples everywhere. Even your own ranks have yielded some rotten fruit.”

  “True enough,” Jacks said. “Why don’t we change the subject and go find ourselves something to eat. I’m starved.”

  “Now there’s a splendid idea,” Daniel said as he pulled away and reentered traffic.

  “Trust me, you’re going to love this place.”

  ###

  “I love this place.”

  Jacks had to admit that he had surprised her again. They were seated in a cozy booth along the outer wall of a small Italian restaurant outside the city. The lights were low and soft music played from speakers hidden throughout the restaurant. They each had a glass of wine in front of them and were munching on warm sticks of freshly baked garlic bread.

  “I told you so.”

  “That you did,” she said, smiling around a mouthful of the best meal she’d had in some time. “And you were right. This is delicious.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Daniel started.

  She smiled again, lifted her wineglass to her mouth to try and hide it.

  “So, is this more in line with how you expected our first official date to go?”

  “Will you be disappointed if I say no?”

  “Of course not,” he said, leaning back in the chair, a move she had seen him do in court on more that one occasion. “I am curious what you were expecting, though.”

  Jacks laughed softly.

  “I figured a smooth operator like you would suggest something a little fancier than this. You know, really wine-n-dine me and show me how cultured you are. I just wasn’t expecting something this casual.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Oh, no. I love it. It’s just not what I was expecting, that’s all. Let’s just say that I am pleasantly surprised.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “As you should,” she said. She twirled a finger around to indicate the surroundings. “So, come here often, do you?”

  “Sometimes. The food’s good, not too expensive, and there’s plenty of room so I can spread my work out on the table while I eat.”

  “Well, that’s a little depressing.” Jacks said, her expression telling him she didn’t believe a word of it. “Are you telling me you eat a lot of dinners alone?”

  “Well, no. I’ve been known to enjoy a meal with delightful company from time to time.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So,” he said, changing the subject. “Since this is an official date, I guess we should get to know one another a little better.”

  “I’d say you probably know me better than most.” She blushed slightly. “Especially after last night. Not a lot of unexplored territory, if you catch my drift.”

  He smiled and it was disarming. “I mean, I know the professional you, but I know almost nothing about who you are when you’re not wearing the badge and gun.”

  She chuckled.

  “Assuming you do take them off,” he added.

  “I’ve been known to let my hair down every once in awhile,” she said. “My job, as I’m sure will come as no surprise to you, doesn’t exactly keep bankers hours. Even when I’m not on duty I’m still kind of on duty, if that makes sense.”

  She spread her arms in a what can you do? Gesture.

  “Nevertheless, I’d still prefer to talk about anything but work if that’s okay,” he said.

  She leaned back in her chair and held out a hand toward him.

  “Fair enough,” she said. “What would you like to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “You may have to be a little more specific than that.”

  “This isn’t an interrogation, Catherine.”

  She winced.

  “What?”

  “Catherine,” she said, trying to hide a sheepish grin. “I’m just not used to being called that, Catherine, that is. Most of my friends call me Jacks. My parents call me Catherine. My sister calls me Cat…”

  She held up a warning finger to stop him before he decided to repeat it.

  “…but so far she’s the only one I let get away with that.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said in triumph. “I’ve heard people call you Jacks around the courthouse. Is there a story behind the nickname?”

  “Not really. It started in high school. I was very athletic, much to my mother’s eternal embarrassment. It was apparently easier for my friends and teammates to shout ‘Go Jacks!’ than ‘Go Catherine!’ It stuck and the next thing you know everyone’s calling me Jacks.”

  “Except your mother.”

  “Except my mother.” She shrugged. “I like it though.”

  “I think it suits you.”

  “I’m just glad I didn’t get stuck with a nickname I hate,” she admitted.

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  She gave him a quizzical look.

  “I sense there’s a story behind that.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But that’s a bit too personal for a first date.”

  “You rat,” she joked. “Now I really want to know.”

  “We’ll save that for our second date. That way I know I’ll get at least one more out of you.”

  She snorted playfully.

  “It’ll take more than that, buster.”

  They laughed and talked more as the evening went on. The food, as Daniel had promised, was exceptional. It was quite possibly the finest Italian meal she had ever tasted, and she told him as much.

  “I thought you’d like it. There’s a Japanese Steak House we should try,” he suggested.

  “They cook everything hibachi style right in front of you. The chefs are great, flipping utensils and juggling eggs. Plus, and I say this in all honesty, they have the best fried rice I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Sounds delicious,” she said. “I’m a sucker for fried rice.”

  “Really?”

  “Looks like you might just get that second date after all, Mr. Benson.”

  His cocky smile returned. “You say that like there was ever any doubt, Miss Jackson.”

  “Someone sure is confident,” Jacks teased.

  Daniel grinned in response as he took another bite.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So, what do you have planned next?” she asked, carefully. She had no intention of waking up at his pla
ce two nights in a row.

  He flashed that charming smile.

  “I’m thinking coffee.”

  “Coffee’s good.”

  “I know this perfect place about ten minutes from here.”

  “Of course, you do.”

  “Great atmosphere. Good music. The coffee’s not bad either.”

  “I’m sold,” she told him. “Let’s go.”

  eleven

  Langley, Virginia

  Saturday

  Calvin Hutchinson had worked the night shift at CIA headquarters for years.

  A forty-year veteran of the Central Intelligence Agency, Calvin was nearing mandatory retirement, a prospect that scared the hell out of him. He had always felt that he was a part of something in this fabulous place. The job was rewarding, even with such a meager position as he held where there was no fanfare for a job well done. Nothing more than the occasional pat on the back from his superiors and the knowledge that he had done his part for democracy and Mom's apple pie. He knew that sounded corny, but he believed every word of it.

  A successful mission by the CIA meant that no one outside the family knew about it.

  For the last fifteen years, Calvin had overseen the Electronic Espionage Division where he was eventually promoted to Deputy Director. His job description to the contrary, he was little more than a liaison between the National Security Agency and the Central Intelligence Agency. The NSA collected data from around the world on a variety of subjects ranging from the movements of high threat terrorist cells to the more mundane tracking of software piracy. Once the information was sorted and verified it would then be distributed to the appropriate government agency where appropriate action could be taken.

  Cyber Terrorism was the major topic in Calvin’s department, having grown exponentially as technology advanced at a staggering rate. The CIA kept tabs on the top suspected cyber criminals around the globe through the EED. Calvin and his team hacked the hackers, so to speak. It was a daunting job that required brilliant investigators to run through the millions of bits and bytes of data streaming through the office daily.

  Calvin’s high IQ had certainly served him well in his position for the last fifteen years. Before taking over the Electronic Espionage Division, he had worked in Special Operations, detailing covert ops to field agents. At age forty-nine, the CIA had decided that he was no longer suited to fieldwork, of which there was little.

  As age caught up with him, Calvin found himself becoming tired far easier than when he was younger. He was not an old man or infirm in any way, but he had to begrudgingly admit that there were a few more aches and pains in the joints now than there had been once upon a time.

  But the brain remained as sharp as ever.

  As his shift was winding down, Deputy Director Hutchinson typed up his daily reports and emailed them to the appropriate department heads on the CIA’s encrypted mainframe. To his surprise, he finished up with a good twenty minutes to spare before his third shift counterpart arrived. A significantly smaller crew worked the night shift as opposed to the day shift, so things were generally pretty quiet on the floor.

  “Time to catch up on some mail,” he said as he scooped up a stack out of his IN-BOX. Unlike at home, there was no junk mail here. Everything was an official inter-office document that never left the building. He spent ten minutes catching up on his mail, finding anything of interest in only one of the company drafts. The FBI had been looking into one of the many-suspected cyber terrorists to which Director Hutchinson’s section was assigned and were requesting information.

  With practiced ease, he opened the files on said suspect and pulled the appropriate information. After a quick scan of the material to make sure that only relevant information was forwarded, he saved a copy to his drive. Dropping the completely sanitized version of the file into an email, he zipped it off to Special Agent Mark Pembrook over at the FBI.

  He printed out a hard copy of the same sanitized file and dropped it into his briefcase. The file seemed interesting and piqued his curiosity. He would read it over at home before coming back in to work Monday. Part of him wanted to take the full file, but only the sanitized version was allowed to leave the building, even though that was discouraged unless absolutely necessary.

  Minutes later, Calvin’s shift replacement arrived for the graveyard shift. After a short briefing on the night’s events, a few trivial work-related odds and ends, he signed out and the day was done. Since he had Sunday off, he was really ready to go home.

  At midnight, it was time for Calvin to call it a day, go home, and get some sleep.

  He was very tired.

  Yet another thing that never used to happen to a night owl like him.

  ###

  Calvin let out a deep yawn.

  Stretching as he pulled past the guard gate out onto the street, he was feeling a lot more tired than he had been earlier. Must be getting old, he laughed to himself though he found no humor in it. He remembered fondly those days when he was good to go after a short power nap. These days, a power nap lasted around seven or eight hours.

  It had taken him a good twenty minutes to get out of the building and to his car. By the time he left campus, most of the second shift was long gone. At least traffic would be light.

  Cranking the radio, he cracked the driver’s side window and a cold Mt. Dew to help keep him focused on the drive. Then, Calvin set course for home. A careful driver, he never once crept above the speed limit as he sang along to the satellite oldies channel he liked to listen to on his way home every night.

  “They sure don’t make them like this anymore,” he said as the DJ introduced one of his favorites, an Elvis Presley tune called Jailhouse Rock. Calvin was not a very good singer, not that it mattered when he was the only one in the car, so he sang loud and proud, butchering the lyrics.

  His was the only car on the road and he allowed himself a moment to enjoy the insanity of trying to sing like The King. He even tried to make his mouth curl up into a snarl the way Elvis had in his hey day.

  For a short time, his were the only headlights on the road.

  When a pair of bright lights appeared in the rearview mirror, Calvin was startled. The bright light reflecting in his rearview mirror, causing him to squint against the glare. The headlights bore down on him quickly. The driver was in some kind of hurry.

  “What’s that idiot doing?” he said aloud.

  Courteous, and anxious to let the wild driver pass, Calvin eased over toward the edge of the road and slowed down enough to give the idiot plenty of space to go around.

  The headlights in his rearview moved closer and closer, but made no attempt to pass.

  “This guy’s in a major hurry.”

  The speeding car jumped into the next lane and shot up beside Calvin’s 2012 Oldsmobile.

  A screeching of tires followed and the speeding car locked its brakes. It looked to be a dark colored Ford, but Calvin wasn’t much of a car guy so he wasn’t sure what model. The passing car slid, fishtailing into Calvin’s Oldsmobile, forcing him closer toward the edge of the road.

  And the deep drainage ditch that waited there.

  Panicked, Calvin slammed down his foot on the accelerator and his car leaped forward, but the other driver was prepared for that. Like something out of a movie, the two cars slammed together at the doors, sending a shower of sparks in their wake as metal rubbed against metal.

  The edge loomed closer.

  Calvin’s right tires went off the road, making the ride that much rougher. He couldn't get his bearings. “Call the police!” he stammered as one hand fumbled for the cell phone in his console. In his frantic state he completely forgot about the onboard phone system in his car. He had complained about it the moment he bought the car, but all of the newer models came with the fancy extras Calvin swore he’d never need.

  “Where is that damned phone?” he shouted, panic threatening to overwhelm him as he dug through the console. His fingers finally closed upon the small phone
and he breathed a momentary sigh of relief.

  Then he heard the gunshot.

  The driver of the dark car shot out his own passenger side window to fire off three shots at Calvin’s car. The first shot shattered the Oldsmobile’s driver side window. The second shot spider-webbed the front windshield. The third shot found its mark and Calvin felt something warm on the side of his head.

  Calvin Hutchinson was dead before his car ran off the edge, plummeting straight into the drainage ditch at sixty plus miles per hour. The bottom of the drainage ditch was a good thirty feet down and Calvin’s Olds crumpled like tissue paper on impact. Screeching metal mingled with shattering glass and the sound of impact into a cacophony of death for the CIA analyst.

  The dark Ford slid to a stop at the edge of the road, kicking up dust as it dug into the gravel. Quietly, the driver got out and walked over to the edge. He looked down at the crumpled remains of Calvin Hutchinson’s car. Without a word, the man, probably in his early thirties, returned to his car. Silently, he opened the trunk and pulled out two containers of gasoline. He opened them quickly, dropping the plastic lids to the ground as though they were a mere inconvenience. Methodically, as if he had practiced this maneuver a million times over, the man poured the gasoline over and around his own vehicle before tossing both red plastic containers back into the trunk without reattaching the lids.

  Easing back into the driver’s seat, the man stared blankly ahead. He didn’t seem to notice anything. Not even the blood pouring from his nose as it ran down his face into his shirt and pants. He let out a sigh and all rigidity seemed to melt away as if a great weight had been lifted from him. His shoulders slumped.

  He looked like a man without a care in the world.

  With a quick turn of the key, the engine fired up. The young man pulled a cigarette from inside his shirt pocket, despite the fact that he had given them up three years before. It wasn’t even his brand, he noticed. He tapped the cigarette against the steering wheel a couple times, then spit out the blood that had seeped into his mouth. Gingerly, he put the cigarette between his dry, cracked lips and lit it with the new freebie lighter he’d gotten in the mail just the day before. He puffed on the cigarette, enjoying the warmth of it before exhaling the cloying smoke inside the car. It had been so long since he had felt the sting in his lungs as he inhaled. God, how he had missed this!