Saints & Suspects

by Jordan McCollum

  Every muscle in his face was carved from stone. “It went with something else — what I planned to give you before you got ‘The Call.’”

  “What, earrin’s? A bracelet? Fan-freakin’-tastic, Zachary.” What could her FBI offer possibly have to do with anything?

  “No, Molly. Not earrings.”

  Raw pain shone in Zachary’s eyes. What else could go with a necklace?

  A car horn broke their silence. The light was green. She tore her gaze from his and started through the intersection, the streetlight glinting off her gaudy fake ring.

  Wait. A chill of realization crawled down her back. Zachary couldn’t mean . . .

  Her head spun. He’d wanted to marry her. He’d transferred here — put his DC fast track on hold — and she’d said she had a lot to accomplish. Small wonder he’d dumped her. Different directions indeed. And her direction had been running away.

  This should’ve been good news. Just as she’d finally accepted she did want to marry him, she’d find out he’d wanted to marry her? And yet somehow it felt like she’d been lied to. Betrayed.

  He didn’t give her a chance. “I don’t understand. We never talked about this.”

  “Didn’t have to. Once, when you were talking to Lucy, I . . . ‘overheard’ enough.”

  She probably didn’t want to know what that meant, coming from a spy.

  In her pocket, her mobile vibrated. She needed this distraction. At the next light, Molly glanced at the message: from Xavier. Which parade?

  That was the right question. She needed to focus on anything but this disaster.

  But she couldn’t scroll through her photos now. She made the last few turns, checking for surveillance, before she pulled up beside Zachary’s Subaru, parked down the block from her building.

  “I’m sorry,” Zachary said softly. “Just seemed like it wasn’t enough to change your mind.” He paused a heartbeat. “I wasn’t enough.”

  The pain in his voice sliced through her again. But this was a pain she knew. “You know, you keep tellin’ me I’m not enough.”

  “What?”

  “You refuse see me as a peer, or a ‘real FBI agent.’ You never believed in me, that I could get this job. I saw your face when I told you I got ‘The Call.’”

  “Your parents were IRA.” His volume rose, defensive. “The FBI would be crazy —”

  She shook her head. “You didn’t know that then.”

  “The Bureau told me when I was at St. Adelaide.”

  “All this time.” Molly stared swords at him. “My parents were with Special Branch. With the Gardaí.”

  “Now I know.”

  “You’re admittin’ you never thought I could get the job.”

  Zachary held up his hands like that would help his argument. “No, that’s not —”

  “Do you think I’m a good FBI agent? Good enough to handle this assignment on my own?”

  He opened and closed his mouth. Twice. And still no answer.

  The final slap. “Exactly.”

  “You know, if I were anyone else, you’d roll your eyes and do it anyway instead of taking everything I say the wrong way.”

  “Well, I expect more from you. I expected you to care about who I am, my dreams, my capabilities.” She fixed him with all the steel she could temper into her gaze and voice. “You’ve never bothered to see the real me. I’m not just a damsel in distress.”

  Zachary stared at her, stunned.

  A car horn honked behind them. “Get out, Zach. Now.”

  “Wait, Moll —”

  “I have waited. I’ve waited for you to get it through your thick head I can do this job without you constantly hanging over me.” She turned to stare forward, gripping the steering wheel. “I’m done waitin’. Get. Out.”

  The horn sounded again, longer and louder. “Fine.” Zach yanked his door open and slammed it behind him.

  Molly hit the gas, turning into her garage faster than necessary. She parked in the closest spot, not caring whose slot she took.

  Her mobile buzzed in her hand. A call from Zachary. She dismissed it without answering — and then she remembered Xavier’s text.

  Which parade? She paged through her pictures, then zoomed in on an aerial photo, a brown square with a green quatrefoil pattern in the center. She knew that block. Buckingham Fountain. Grant Park.

  If that was their target, they were after the main city parade. A million people would attend. Tomorrow.

  This could be the worst terrorist attack . . . ever.

  And Molly had just kicked her partner out.

  They should’ve been on the same team — in so many ways — but she could work as well alone. Especially when so many people were in danger in less than twenty-four hours.

  His call rolled to voicemail — she must’ve seen his number. Zach sighed and hung up to try again.

  What did she mean, he didn’t see her as a real FBI agent? Just because he wanted to help — okay, more than help. But she needed him. She was barely out of the Academy. She couldn’t handle this on her own.

  Except she had. Memories paraded through his mind: Molly at lunch with the Canavans, trying on wedding dresses, getting in with Grace, coming up with a cover tonight when he blanked. He’d told SAC Evans he was impressed and written up the commendation, but even then he hadn’t appreciated how much she’d done.

  All this time he still thought of her as someone he needed to protect. Like Lucy. But Molly was the one protecting Lucy from Grace.

  He’d always loved that about her. How had he forgotten?

  He’d really screwed this up.

  Zach picked up his phone again. Even if he left a voicemail, what was he supposed to say? She hadn’t said anything close to what he had. He’d admitted he bought an engagement ring and moved here for her, and she hadn’t even said she cared.

  But her expression — the shock, the horror at what she’d done. Or was it horror at what he was saying?

  His phone vibrated. Before he dared to hope it was Molly calling, Xavier’s name and photo popped up.

  Right. They had a terrorist bombing to avert. As always, his personal life would have to wait. He’d waited last year for the transfer to Chicago. He’d waited when the Bureau gave him an assignment the weekend he’d planned to visit Molly to propose. He’d waited when Molly got “The Call.” And tonight was no different.

  Only Molly could afford the luxury of not waiting.

  Zach answered his boss’s call. “The Canavans gave their surveillance the slip,” Xavier began immediately. “I got the pictures. We hunting for this building?”

  “Yeah, I’ll put in a request, and some clerk will find the address by Monday.”

  “Whoa, no, we don’t have time for that.” X sounded offended he’d even suggest standard operating procedure.

  “St. Patrick’s Day isn’t until next Friday.”

  “Molly didn’t tell you? Let me talk to her.”

  “Um . . . she’s not here.”

  Xavier was silent. “Listen, man. I’m saying this as a friend: you’re an idiot.”

  “Thanks.” Like Zach needed another vote of no confidence after Molly’s expression tonight. “What did she tell you?”

  “She just texted. They’re targeting the city parade. It’s tomorrow, and a million people are supposed to be there.”

  “A million? An actual million?”

  “Yeah. Including the mayor and the governor.”

  And Molly’s little Irish dancers. Zach had never been to the Chicago parade. He tried to picture the route — by Grant Park? A million people along that street?

  A recipe for disaster. No, for a massacre.

  Tomorrow.

  Zach checked the time. “Where do they keep the floats beforehand?”

  “Probably in a warehouse.”

  “Hang on.” Zach consulted the photos Xavier had forwarded him. The pencil sketch of a rectangle by a street — a building. On Patoka Avenue. He opened his GPS app. The street ra
n right through some industrial districts. He scrolled through the map. Patoka was almost three miles long, and the overhead map wouldn’t cut it.

  Could be worse. “Ready to drag the strip?”

  “Yeah. I’ll see what I can do for backup. You’re lucky I’m in town this weekend, man.”

  Zach almost laughed as he pulled into traffic. He was anything but lucky. How long did they have to find this place?

  Grace dialed Pearse as Ed pulled into the DontRain warehouse car park. Pearse had better have got this right. She noted the dark car park — no light above the side door — with satisfaction. The first phase of Pearse’s job had gone off well. Nerves gnawed at her middle.

  “’Round the back,” Pearse answered the phone.

  “’Tisn’t alarmed, is it?” Grace didn’t dare look at Ed, originator of the awful pun.

  “Has an infrared sensor. I’ve fixed it.”

  “Motion sensors?”

  “Only in the front offices.”

  Grace hesitated. Things went wrong when people took that attitude.

  “I made sure, Mam.”

  Ed piped up. “Security code’s six five one six. Then hit pound.”

  Grace gaped at him a moment. Why hadn’t he told her this sooner? She relayed the code to Pearse and waited.

  Pearse crowed in triumph. “System’s disabled.”

  “They’ll think my supervisor’s responsible.” Ed almost cracked a smile. “Never liked him.”

  “’Round the back, then.” Grace fell silent as they slid into the warehouse’s shadow. “Boyo’d better be right.”

  “Learned from the best, didn’t he?”

  “We’re the best because we’ve experience. He hasn’t.”

  Ed pulled the car to the last bay of the back wall. The garage-type door at the top of the cement ramp slowly raised, and they rolled up into the warehouse bay, right up to a set of racks.

  Almost too easy.

  Pearse hit the switch to close the door against the snow blowing in. Ed and Grace got out of the car, moving with the stealth and efficiency from decades of clandestine attacks. Pearse and Ed retrieved the squib from its hiding place in the boot.

  A banker’s box sat in the trunk. A second bomb? “What’s this, then?” Grace demanded.

  “Sorry,” Pearse said. “For your man, Allen; didn’t know if I’d get another chance to get it down to the car.”

  She got her pistol and the tools before Pearse slammed the boot shut. “We can still be quiet.” Grace scowled at her son as Ed passed around the torches. “We don’t need any extra attention.”

  “Sorry, Mam. First time jitters.” Pearse directed them to the target. “O’Connell Publishin’s down this middle row.”

  He led the way, carrying the bomb between him and Ed, Grace bringing up the rear.

  “Like the old days, yeah?” Pearse glanced from Grace to Ed.

  “Complete with chatty novice,” Ed grumbled.

  Pearse took the hint. He said nothing further and led them down the aisle, past the empty floats. She could almost see the rightful paraders from Pádraig Pearse down to her own brother. They’d be proud of her, this ghostly procession.

  They reached the chosen float. The flatbed was exactly what they’d expected after studying at the last three years’ floats. Green fringe dragged along the bottom edge with more green frilled crepe decorating the sides of the risers. Fake grass covered the main surface and gold shamrocks festooned the white gazebo in the middle of the float.

  But the ostentatious display of “Irish” pride had nothing to do with why they’d chosen that float. If that’d been their only criterion, they could’ve used any of the fleet. DontRain was singlehandedly keeping alive an entire industry of Irish kitsch.

  No, they’d chosen O’Connell Publishing for this honor because of that book — another anonymous coward had come forward with a so-called exposé on the republican movement “from the inside,” though he didn’t have the bottle to sign his real name to it. Using the publisher behind the book would make the bomb all the more poignant — and attention-grabbing, after the headlines that book generated.

  Grace took her place on the risers at the back of the float to hold the torches, one thing she’d been sure to invest in. She shone the light on the right spot, and Pearse and Ed set the bomb down gently. The fertilizer/diesel mix, and even the rest of it, the C-4 and the blasting caps, were stable enough that it didn’t require much caution, but the glass jar they were sealed in was another story. Crack that, and they’d have bomb sniffing dogs swarming them.

  Contrary to the impression Pearse had received, this wasn’t like the old days, not really. In the old days, they could be bold. Sure, there was a lot of skulking around, a lot of care about keeping their identities unknown to police, but there was also the strength of their numbers that gave them license to do nearly anything. The one thing she missed about the organization.

  Without a word, Ed and Pearse went to the tool kit for cable ties and electrical tools, then dragged the bomb with them under the flatbed. Grace was alone with the muffled noise of the continued install. For several tense minutes, the occasional soft tearing of crepe paper was the only sound in the warehouse while they moved under the float and back out. Pearse fetched the trigger, a mobile phone with wires dangling from it. He carefully applied super glue gel, curled his hand under the float and held the mobile inside the plywood till it dried.

  Ed gave a satisfied sigh. “Where’s the electrical tape?”

  “I thought you got it.”

  Ed frowned. “Wires might drag. Don’t want anyone seein’.”

  “Should be somethin’ around for that, yeah?” Pearse checked for his parents’ approval. Ed nodded, and Pearse grabbed a torch from Grace. He pointed to the southwest. “That way?”

  “Only the break room over there.”

  Pearse saluted, jogged to the north end of the row and turned east.

  “Nothin’ that way either,” Ed muttered. He stalked off toward the south, turning east at the opposite end of the row to his son.

  After waiting a reasonable amount of time without results, Grace grumbled to herself. Men. Couldn’t find their nose with two hands and a map. She climbed down from her perch and started for the car. Even if she didn’t find the tape first, she could still search the whole northwest quadrant of the warehouse before they returned.

  Twelve hours until the floats left the warehouse. Plenty of time.

  After an hour, Zach had scoured the north mile of Patoka Avenue block by block. The Canavans’ overhead map of a warehouse and one street wasn’t helping. Even an aerial photo wouldn’t do them much good, since a rectangular warehouse could hardly be unique in an industrial district.

  He’d found one building that seemed to match the sketch, with a parking lot between the cross street and the longer side of the building, but a nasal spray company was not the right place. Xavier’s last text said he’d had the same luck at the other end of the street. With only one mile left between them, they were running out of possibilities.

  Man, he wished Molly were here to help — but that was his own fault.

  At least it’d stopped snowing. Zach pulled over on the next block and scanned the buildings at each corner. Nothing like the sketch. He puffed out a breath and drove on to the next intersection.

  Once again, he pulled over and started with the building closest to him, the northwest corner of the intersection. No parking lot. Southwest corner: parking lot behind a chain-link fence, building facing Patoka. Southeast corner: dark parking lot with another chain-link fence. The building was hard to make out without a light on this side. Zach pulled back into the thin traffic and rolled through the intersection slowly, craning his neck for a view down Riverbend Drive.

  A parking lot in front of the building, the long side of the warehouse facing Riverbend. Like the sketch.

  His heart rate spiked a split second. Zach parked quickly, fighting off the surge of nervous energy. Grabbing his
gear from the glove box — gun, creds, and lock picks, just in case — he glanced at the lot. No cars visible. No lights in the building.

  He tucked his creds and picks into his pockets and his gun into his waistband holster, covering it with his sweater. With his head down, Zach walked across the street like he had somewhere to be, somewhere he went often. He didn’t slow or look up until he was across the street from the building. Bricks showed through the building’s faded logo: DONTRAIN PARADE FLOATS.

  Bingo. Zach backtracked to the car and ran through his legal options. The map wasn’t the strongest evidence, and without anything amiss here, not enough for exigent circumstances. Maybe enough probable cause. He just had to find a cooperative judge at — he checked his phone — ten o’clock on a Friday night.

  Could be an easier route. He called X. “You there?” Xavier answered.

  “Yeah — wait, where?”

  “The address Molly sent.”

  How’d Molly find this place? “Didn’t get it yet. What’s the address?”

  “Riverbend and Patoka. DontRain Parade Floats. Lame name.”

  “Yeah, I’m here. She say anything else?”

  “She’s hunting down the owner to get search consent. Unless you see a car in the lot?”

  Zach checked again, in case one materialized. “Nope.”

  “Hear a baby crying?”

  Zach didn’t dignify the overused “exigent circumstances” pretext.

  “Have you gotten any of her texts?”

  “Not since we left the Canavans. My phone must be acting up.”

  X didn’t respond at first. “What did you do?”

  Zach leaned back against the headrest. “Didn’t propose when I should’ve.” Even if she would’ve said no.

  Again Xavier was silent. “I didn’t know —”

  “You two can start a club. Text her about it.” Bitterness snuck into his tone.

  “Yeah, I’ll just let you know when she’s got consent.”

  “Great.”

  If she could get ahold of the guy. They could still try a warrant. Zach paged through his contacts for the judges he usually called. Who might be available for a warrant?