Come on, Ernie. Come on!
Slowly, Ernie walked away from the bike and climbed into the van’s passenger seat.
Fighting the urge to peel rubber, Leonard pulled away from the curb and started out the driveway.
Eleven seconds.
Less than a minute had passed since their UPS truck had first appeared at the guard shack. Trembling from adrenaline, Leonard remembered to breathe. He sucked in a huge lungful of air and audibly blew it out. Quite literally, there was no turning back now.
Seven seconds.
Unconsciously, Leonard pressed the gas pedal a little harder than he needed to. The truck’s engine roared as he accelerated down the driveway. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Ernie remove his helmet, lean forward slightly, and stare into the side mirror.
Three seconds.
Mother of God, what are we doing? In his own side mirror, Leonard saw a man in a business suit step through the glass doors. The man looked at the motorcycle, then scanned the area for its rider.
“Adios amigo,” Ernie said.
The man vanished in a blinding flash.
One second he was there. The next, he wasn’t.
Forty pounds of Semtex quite literally vaporized him.
A huge mushroom of fire and smoke roiled skyward, looking as though a small nuke had detonated.
The blast wave accelerated through the glass facade with hideous results.
Traveling at five miles per second, superheated carbon oxide gas separated human flesh from bone, instantly incinerating both. Within twenty feet, the force tore arms and legs from torsos. At thirty feet, entire bodies flew. Necks snapped. Eardrums ruptured. Skin peeled. At forty feet, people were slammed into the walls of their cubicles like rag dolls, knocked lifeless from the force of the shock wave. And at fifty feet, those who weren’t dead were dying.
A chilling silence ensued, broken only by the hiss of a few fire sprinklers, the crackling of flames, and the soft moans of those still clinging to life.
Flat on her back, a woman with no sense of her body stared at the charred ceiling tiles as a fine mist rained down on her. She tried to move her right arm to cover her eyes, but it wasn’t there. Her life ended thirty seconds later.
Choking and coughing, a man in a shredded business suit crawled on his hands and knees across the debris field, heading for the far end of the building where children were screaming in the day-care area.
Chapter 12
Nathan looked at Harv while his call went through.
“Director Lansing’s office.”
“Hello, this is Nathan McBride. The director’s expecting my call.”
“One moment please, Mr. McBride. I’ll put you through.”
A sonic boom, probably from a fighter jet, reverberated through the room.
The line went silent, totally and utterly silent. No clicks, no electronic buzz, no crackling. Nothing. He was about to hang up, thinking he’d been disconnected, when a man’s voice came on the line.
“This is FBI Director Ethan Lansing. Am I speaking with Nathan McBride?”
“Yes.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. McBride?”
“I have you on speaker, Director. Harvey Fontana is with me. Are we being recorded?”
“Yes.”
“Will you reconsider, please?”
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. McBride, because of who your father is, and because he’s also a friend of mine, I’ll agree to keep this conversation off the record. Hold the line, please.”
Once again Nathan found himself listening to complete silence. Coming through the hotel room’s window, he heard the muffled whine of a siren, followed by the staccato blast of a fire truck’s air horn. A few seconds later, Lansing was back.
“Now that we’re off the record, I’ll agree to keep this conversation private because you and Mr. Fontana saved a dozen lives the other day. You’re owed a debt of gratitude for that. I’ll also thank both of you for your military service to our country.”
Nathan felt the director’s gratitude was genuine. “I appreciate you saying that. May I ask how much you know of our past?”
“All of it.”
“I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get to the point. We want a green light to pursue the Bridgestone brothers.”
“I see. As private citizens, you’re entitled to do that provided you conduct yourselves within the confines of the law.”
“Director Lansing, may I speak freely?”
“You may.”
Nathan frowned at a second siren outside. From the window, Harv shrugged. “Circumstances may dictate a certain amount of flexibility,” Nathan said. “You’re aware of how we found Frank Ortega’s grandson?”
“Yes, I’ve had a complete briefing.”
“I’m asking for a temporary extension of that flexibility.”
“If I understand what you’re asking for, then you must know that as a sworn law-enforcement officer, I can’t agree to it. I did not approve the interrogation of those individuals at the farmhouse outside Sacramento, and I’m disappointed it took place.”
“Director Lansing, I’m not recording this call either, you have my word. No one was seriously hurt at the farmhouse.”
“That’s beside the point, Mr. McBride. This isn’t Nicaragua, or the former Soviet Union, and you aren’t a CIA operations officer anymore. You’re a civilian now, governed by the laws of our land. The Constitution isn’t just a piece of paper, it’s a fundamental building block of who we are as a society. It defines us.”
The man’s a politician, Nathan thought. Of course he is, he has to be, it goes with theterritory. Forcing himself to relax his grip on the phone, he continued. “Frank Ortega’s wife said something to me, and I agreed with it. She told me life is never as simple as a book of rules.”
“Diane is fine woman and I don’t disagree with her from a philosophical perspective. But what you’re talking about is a very slippery slope. One digression could be regarded as a mistake, two is a pattern. I want containment at this point. Involving you further has considerable risks. Can you imagine the fallout if this ever leaked? The FBI can’t afford that kind of coverage from the media. We’re already under the microscope with the presidential-powers issue of wiretapping suspected Al Qaeda operatives.”
“Based on everything you know about my past, I’m asking you to trust me, to trust my judgment. I’m not indiscriminate.”
“For what it’s worth, I do trust you, but I can’t agree to what you’re asking. I cannot, and will not, sanction your continued involvement. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for your help to this point, but that’s as far as it goes. You’re a smart man, you know why I’ve taken this position.” There as a pause on the other end. “Hold the line, Mr. McBride.”
He looked at Harv. “What’s going on out there?”
“Something big. I just saw another fire truck speed through an intersection followed by two police cruisers.”
Lansing came back on the line. “I’ve got to go, Mr. McBride. We’ve got an emergency situation.”
“What’s happening?”
“There’s been a bombing at our Sacramento field office.” The line went dead.
The sonic boom. Oh please, dear Lord, no. Not the missing Semtex. Holly! A horrible image flashed through his mind. Was she dead? Worse than dead? He imagined her burned, broken, and bleeding. He grabbed the note with Holly’s phone number from the nightstand and dialed. It was ringing. More than once. That gave him hope she hadn’t been there.
Come on. Come on. Answer. Answer the phone!
The line connected and a man’s voice spoke. “Hello?”
Nathan used an alias. “This is Special Agent Robertson from DC. I’m calling for Special Agent in Charge Holly Simpson.” Nathan heard the whine of a siren in the background.
“We didn’t know her identity. She’s unconscious. We’re en route to Sutter’s emergency room.”
“What’s her condition?”
/> “Critical. She’s got multiple fractures to her legs, one compound. She’s got second- and third- degree burns. Probably bleeding internally. Both her shoulders are separated. We’ve got her stabilized, but her head trauma is our biggest concern. Who is this again?”
Nathan ended the call. He turned toward Harv. “She’s being taken to Sutter’s emergency room in critical condition.”
“I’m sorry, Nathan.”
“Can you handle our guys when they arrive from San Diego? Get them set up?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Will you call the bell desk and make sure there’s a cab ready at the curb?”
“No problem.”
“I’m sorry to dump this on you, Harv.”
“I got you covered. Go.”
* * *
Special Agent Bruce Henning’s expression turned dark as Nathan strode into Sutter’s emergency room. The man was no longer immaculate, far from it. He looked like he’d been dragged by rope down a dirt road.
“What the hell are you doing here, McBride. All of this is your fault!”
“Where’s Holly?”
Henning didn’t answer.
Nathan took step toward him. “Where is she?”
“Upstairs in ICU. Hey, where’re you going?”
“I don’t have time for you, Henning.”
“You can’t go up there.”
“Watch me.” He approached a nurse who was running toward the ER doors.
“Where’s ICU?” Nathan asked.
“Third floor.” The nurse pushed through the dual swinging doors. Nathan had a brief look inside. Doctors. Nurses. Blood.
“Damn it, McBride. Wait.”
“You coming, Special Agent Henning?”
The fed stepped into the elevator. “You’ve got a lot of nerve barging in here like this.”
“Save your resentment for someone who gives a shit.”
“I should arrest your sorry ass.”
Nathan squared with him. “You’re welcome to try.”
At the third floor, the elevator chimed and the doors opened to a horrific scene. Directly ahead the nurse’s station was abandoned. Several dozen gurneys containing the wounded lined the perimeter of the room. The floor was tracked and smudged with blood. What was normally a quiet place had been transformed into battlefield triage unit. Physicians, paramedics, and nurses were hovering over the injured, and from the look of things, many of them critically. It was plainly evident there weren’t enough doctors and nurses to deal with the situation. The moans of pain sounded forlorn and eerie. A uniformed officer stationed just inside the room looked ashen, his expression grim. He stepped toward Nathan and Henning, but when the FBI man flashed his badge, the officer turned away.
On the far side of the room, a doctor leaning over a wounded woman looked over his shoulder and yelled, “I need help over here.”
No one came. Clearly, no one was free.
Nathan sprinted over. “What do you need?” He looked at the woman’s arm where a twelve-inch gash had laid it open, exposing muscle and tendons. The skin surrounding the wound was charred and blistered. Blood was pooling on the sheets of the gurney.
“Who are you?” In his mid-fifties and balding, the doctor wore protective goggles over rimless eyeglasses. Nathan towered over him by a good twelve inches.
“I’ve got field-medic training, tell me what you need.”
“Throw on some gloves. Behind you on the counter. Nurse’s station.”
Nathan ran over and grabbed a pair of light-green latex gloves from the box and pulled them on.
“When I pull the bicep aside, I need you to clamp the brachial artery as close to the tear as you can. The tear’s just above the radial and ulnar branch. I’m pinching it closed right now with my fingers.” The doctor looked at the mobile table containing instruments. “Shit, use the hemostats, they’re all I got. You’ll need to sponge the blood first. Ready?”
“Yes,” Nathan said.
With his free hand, the doctor reached into the woman’s arm just above the elbow, grabbed a handful of muscle, and pulled it aside. “Sponge,” he said.
Aware of Henning’s presence behind him, Nathan pressed the sponges into the opening, and watched the blood soak into them. He knew he had mere seconds to get the artery clamped before more blood would overflow the sponges and fill the cavity. “I see it,” he said, opening the hemostats. He inserted the tool into the wound and applied the needle-like pliers just above the tear in the artery.
“Not too tight,” the doctor said. “One click.”
“One click,” Nathan repeated. He pinched the hemostats to its first locking setting.
The doctor released the artery from his thumb-and-forefinger grip. “Good job.”
Nathan removed the sponges without being told and set them on the table.
The doctor let the muscle slide back into place, which overlaid the pinching end of the hemostats. He removed the tourniquet. “That artery will have to be repaired where it’s clamped. Crushing it with hemostats makes it susceptible to clotting at the crush point, but it’s the lesser of two evils. It’s better to damage the artery and repair it later, than to lose the arm.”
“How long can you leave it that way?” Nathan asked.
“Not very long. Ischemic time for muscle is two hours max. We have to add the tourniquet time to the clamp time so she’ll need a vascular surgeon within ninety minutes at the outset. Problem is, she’s tied up downstairs in the ER. We need to repeat this procedure for the other end of the tear to prevent back bleeding from collateral artery pressure. You ready?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m going to pull the bicep aside again. Use another pair of hemostats on the other side of the tear. Clamp it as close to the tear as you can. Get ready with a sponge again. Here we go.”
Nathan had no trouble clamping the lower end of the tear. The bleeding was much less severe, but as the doctor had known, the lower end of the tear had been oozing blood from back pressure.
“Okay. I need you to wrap up this wound with gauze fairly tight, but not too tight. Don’t worry about the hemostats. Just leave them where they are and work around them. Shave the area around her head wound, clean it up, and lay gauze over it, not taped. Try to keep her hair out of the cut. Keep an eye on her IV. She’ll need another bag of saline in a few minutes. Can you stick around until more of our people arrive?”
“You got it. No problem.”
“I appreciate your help.” The doctor looked Nathan’s face over. “Looks like you’ve had some trauma yourself. Do you know how to hook up an intracranial pressure monitor?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just do what you can.” As the doctor moved to the next gurney, Nathan wrapped her arm.
“That’s Special Agent Ashley Banks,” Henning said.
“Find me a bag of saline.”
The man didn’t move.
“Henning!”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll be right back.”
For the next twenty minutes, Nathan went through a dozen pairs of gloves assisting other doctors, nurses, and EMTs. He and Henning spent most of their time acting as a couriers, bringing monitoring machines, medical instruments, and bandages to the doctors and nurses who called for them. He kept looking for Holly, but she wasn’t here. She must be undergoing emergency surgery. That had to be it. They were operating on her, right now, at this very moment. He wasn’t willing to distract anyone by asking. Now wasn’t the time, and no one up here would know her status anyway. Stay busy, he told himself, stay focused.
As each minute passed, more of the hospital’s staff arrived. By the time he felt some sense of sanity had returned to the room, the ICU had close to fifty doctors and nurses attending the wounded. Nathan respected the dedicated people working here. Although he’d only been helping for a short time, he felt drained, as though hours had passed, not minutes. Most of the victims were burned to one degree or another, some sev
erely, and the smell of charred flesh permeated the room. Nathan was no stranger to the sight of blood, he’d seen plenty, but Henning was another matter. All things considered, the man had managed to hold himself together pretty well.
Senator Stone McBride was on the phone in his office when he heard a knock. He covered the mouthpiece. “Come in.”
His secretary handed him a note. Leaf Watson holding on line two. SUPER-URGENT. He nodded and she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Stone continued with his call. “Look, Scott, I can’t promise a yea vote yet. I haven’t read the entire bill. As long as the bacon’s not raw, I don’t see a major problem. Give me another day or two. What’re the latest poll numbers? Well, that’s something. Listen, I’ve got to go. Two days, max… Okay, let’s do lunch soon…. Take care.” Lobbyists, he thought. He punched line two. “Hello, Leaf.”
“Turn on your television.”
“Which channel?”
“Any of them.”
A knot wrenched his stomach. He grabbed the remote, swiveled around in his chair, and pressed the power button. The Fox news channel filled the screen. The image was taken from a helicopter orbiting high overhead. Dozens of emergency vehicles, with their red-and-blue lights flashing, lined the streets surrounding a two-story building with a gaping hole in its side. Smoke belched from the opening. Above the damaged structure, a black column climbed a mile into the sky. Booms from ladder trucks were spraying jets of water into the open gash and onto the rooftop.
Stone turned up the volume.
He caught Shepard Smith in mid-sentence: “…know so far. A bomb has been detonated at the Sacramento field office of the FBI. We have no information on the number of people killed or wounded. From what local authorities have indicated, this is clearly an act of terrorism, and not an accidental explosion. The bomb was detonated very close to ten am Pacific time-”
“Get everyone in here.”
“They’re already on the way,” Watson said.
His secretary appeared at the door. “The president’s on three.”
He nodded to her. “Leaf, I want a chemical analysis on the material we seized in California. Find out if it matches this new bombing. Make it happen fast. I’ll call Quantico and tell them to expect your call.” Stone disconnected and punched the blinking button. “Mr. President.”
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