Bozeman likes the feel of his badge, the sharp corners and the sheer weight of it. It sits comfortably in his palm and especially likes the instant respect and authority it offers. He once pulled it on his wife to see how it would fly, and soon found out it only worked outside the confines of marriage, and found the only thing that flew was her hand across his face.
The middle-aged policeman panics, quickly rises and swings his shaking 9mm Glock with both hands an inch from Bozeman’s nose.
‘Stop.’
Bozeman gulps, hands are soldiers and close to his face. Now isn’t the time to add to the tension. Thinks, maybe he worked the aftermath of the marathon bombing and hasn’t come away quite the same.
‘Gingerly,’ Bozeman exclaims. ‘No objections from me.’ Looks cross-eyed at the barrel. Then noticing the questioning eyes staring at his mangle leg adds, ‘Caught a nasty case of dog bite, earlier today.’
The policeman takes a quick glance at the badge and lowers his gun. ‘I’ll look after this,’ Bozeman says sighing with relief. ‘I need you to go up the lane and maintain the blockade in the front of the building.’ Pockets his badge and puts a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Thanks.’
‘All yours detective. Looks like two gunshots judging by the wounds. One obviously to the head.’ The man nods and walks away.
‘Yeah, one splitting headache.’ Bozeman lets his voice fade watching him leave, bends down and riffles through the dead man’s pockets. His knee screams murder. A hand brushes over a hard metal object. Warm fingers curled around a trigger guard.
Poor bastard never had a chance.
Lifeless fingers recoil like rubber as Bozeman thrust his hand further between the man’s hips and the concrete and unholsters the gun. Once free, is swiftly concealed in the small of his back, the jacket pulled down hard. His own gun had fallen out of his pocket unnoticed as he lay recovering on the stairs last night from retrieving the C4.
He cranes his head searching for the man’s ID and shifts weight to his other knee in an attempt to placate the pain as it starts drawing up through his leg, threatening to topple him and there he would stay, beached like a whale. The amount of people running has declined to the odd person scurrying past. Visibility is improving which makes the clock tick faster.
He unfurls the right side of the man’s jacket and sees the ID on the inside. Secured on a metal lanyard around his neck, pressing against a dark patch of clothing. Bozeman quickly puts it around his neck. A snap inspection and he is Special Agent Smith and smudges a finger across the photo, partially blurring it with blood making a connection between photo and face that little bit harder.
Walking through the mass of people outside, he checks bewildered and questioning faces for Coffey and Rodriguez amongst the crowd, anguishing at the futility of identifying the murderer amongst the pit full of snake eyes at the same time. He only saw a partial of the man from above. Not exactly a great point of view for a positive identification. The periphery of the crowd is carefully checked as well. Clusters of hopeless and lost faces. He coughs and whines in the smoke and dust.
‘Excuse me,’ a blond woman with a pen wedged behind an ear says irritably as she turns to face Bozeman who pushes past and into her shoulder.
‘Sorry lady,’ Bozeman offers disingenuously jostling around her and rises on to his toes for a better view.
Nothing.
He fears the worst.
He finds his feet on the path that leads to the entrance of the building, up a small flight of stairs. Security is looking everywhere, controlling people as they exit the building and spots a set of eyes looking his way, growing more curious with every step.
A man with sleeves rolled up an over the shoulder gun holster is helping people out of the doorway, guiding them towards the first step, occasionally gazing up at an ever increasingly anxious Bozeman. Thinks, this guy is going to make me. That one salmon going against a river of people.
The man takes one step down, trying to look at his ID, which Bozeman has partially hidden with the lapel of his jacket and the sway of his walk, trying for a cool demure. The man suddenly changes course without warning, and heads directly towards him. Thinking that a quick punch in the stomach might be the best defensive play, then a hobbled dash inside for concealment. His options thin the closer the man gets. He does his best to ignore him, without the appearance of deliberately ignoring him. When, to both men’s surprise a bloodied scream bellows out. Bozeman turns away instantly; maybe too quickly, and sees the crowd look to a woman crouched over the body of Special Agent Smith. Feels the man’s shoulder brush past as he dashes forward.
Seizing the opportunity, Bozeman rapidly walks the remaining few steps, pushing past people and into the building, turns a corner and rests. He makes out the reflection of flashing lights of an arriving ambulance in a slither of glass that hangs precariously in the door frame.
‘I’ve got two over here.’ Coffey hears a muffled voice, and after a few seconds feels hands scoop under his arms. He has a broken leg.
‘No, he’s gone.’ The same voice. ‘Give me a hand with this guy.’ And watches at an awkward angle as his legs drag across the concrete; two drag marks run crooked. Another set of hands quicken the pace as he is propped up against a car door next to the exit they had planned to walk through together. Coffey looks up at the man, his lips are moving but has a hard time make out the words. He shakes his head and looks over at another man running with a stretcher.
Coffey arms protest as the stretcher is placed on the ground and the men lift him. He doesn’t want to leave his partner. Gathering the will and struggling to find the energy he speaks. ‘I saw a man running towards the…elevator.’ Coughs. A few hefty breaths and a pause give him the energy needed to go on. ‘He got out from a white Porsche before the explosion.’ Hears his own words that are mostly the sound of listening to a static radio station through a pillow. Glances between the two sets of eyes for recognition. They look at each other and speak between themselves then back at Coffey and nod. One set of lips moving deliberately and slowly.
‘Can’t hear.’ Coffey shakes his head. ‘I…can’t…hear…you.’ A calming hand is placed on his chest. He allows his tortured body to flop onto the stretcher. ‘Masen…I think that’s the guy’s name…Masen.’
Bozeman searches for the stairs to the parking lot. But visibility is poor. Only emergency lighting illuminates the foyer. People are hurrying down stairs and out of elevators, heads covered with jackets, clutching folders, scurrying out the door and away from the sprinklers and the fear of another bomb. Suddenly a loud noise erupts to his left. A door opens and out spills three people huddled together, dragging with them a faint acrid smell.
He has to at least try to help. His stomach feels heavy with the guilt of knowing. My goddamn explosives.
The door starts closing, but Bozeman stabs a foot and pushes through. Car alarms having loudly protesting earlier as the shockwave set them off are now silent, flashing lights a reminder of the recent violence. A man stands by the door to the parking lot.
Bozeman is grateful he walked down stairs. ‘What do we know about casualties?’ he asks conscious of his ID. Looks down to make sure it’s covered.
‘One confirmed dead,’ the man turns round and says. ‘Found near the blast.’ The man gives him a quick once-over before refocusing on the team as they search for survivors and suspects. ‘Good, we need more people to properly secure the area.’
Bozeman nods. Beyond the man he sees torch lights flash long beams into the darkness.
Water trickles down his back. ‘Suspects? Anyone in custody? People are asking.’ He squirms and twists as it makes its way under the fabric of his pants, around the gun and down through his ass crack. He pinches his pants, but it doesn’t ease the tickle of it.
‘They’ll have to wait. The area isn’t secured. For all we know there might be another bomb waiting to clean up first responders.’
Bozeman points a
t what looks like two people carrying a stretcher out near the boundary of his vision. Rodriguez. Coffey. ‘They need help.’ And jabs a finger at a group of people huddled against a large internal concrete wall near a red exit sign. ‘I’ll go see what they need.’ And taps the man on the shoulder.
Underneath, it feels like he’s walking on pebbles. Small chunks of glass illuminate yellow and red. Falling metal and glass make eerie and unexpected sounds as if there is a presence following him, drunkenly knocking over objects.
He stops.
Rounding a column he makes out the mangled Porsche. The blast pattern shows the car blew out along four main paths: into the concrete pillar in front; partially bent and missing a large chunk as if it just dissolved and lay scattered like confetti on the ground; and out of both sides, and behind. He imagines the shockwave as it bounced off the walls several times before the mass of metal, glass and concrete absorbed the energy, dissipating up through the building like a chill vibrating up a spine.
Bozeman squints and wipes his eyes.
He recognizes Coffey up ahead. Muddied and torn, his face caked with patches of blood that darken his skin, laying still on a stretcher and looking up. Poor Bastard. You must have been close. And scans for Rodriguez, shaking his head imagining a different story, knowing he’s the one that’s dead.
Maybe if there was less.
Coffey looks at the source of the shadow and smiles recognizing Bozeman. Working on a plan to escape, to blend into the chaos, but not having any hope of walking out unaided, not with a broken leg.
Bozeman crouches and puts a steadying hand on Coffey’s shoulder and points enthusiastically to the exit sign and nods looking directly into his eyes. He can’t believe anyone could have survived the crash.
Coffey smiles.
The man in a suit minus tie and jacket—no doubt CIA—points to his ears to tell Bozeman that Coffey can’t hear. Bozeman gestures for the man to pick up the stretcher and says loudly, ‘He needs a hospital.’ Stands, lifting the handle near his feet.
As the stretcher tilts, the agent hastily picks up the other end and compensates and says looking to the internal stairs. ‘That way.’
‘No,’ Bozeman protests. ‘Out the emergency exit.’
‘Can’t,’ the man says and looks behind to an agent blocking the door. ‘This man said the bomber ran from the car. He might still be in the car park.’
‘Shit!’ Bozeman says.
Not five steps and Bozeman makes out Rodriquez. He stops and takes him in. Partially hidden between the broken column and twisted car. If not for a small fire that glows enough to make out eyes that sparkle and focus on nothing, the thin layer of dust would morph his body completely into the charred surrounding.
Clear of the parking lot, the man who Bozeman previously had a word to rushes to meet them and leads up the stairs, making sure the stretcher has a clear path all the way to the foyer. Exhausted, toes drag, foot flops eagerly at each step at which Bozeman thinks, hopes, will be the last. It takes all his will power and reserves of endurance to propel himself. At least the state of his leg fits in amongst the carnage.
He is back at the tow company and sees the teeth of the German Shepherd thrashing, ripping at air as it tries to eat his ankles. Dozens of white knives with red handles cutting the air, lubricated with drool, desperate for fresh meat. But he is free. Through the wire gate except his jacket had gotten caught on a sharp edge that slowed him that fraction of a second it took for teeth to make contact and to bite down hard.
The man leading them opens the door to the foyer and stops two anxious woman who want nothing else but to push past and sprint outside. Bozeman emerges first, stumbles at the top of the stairs. Holding the handles of the stretcher tight surges forward and turns uncontrollably as Coffey and the agent holding the other end instinctively compensates. Coffey white-knuckles the edge and just misses the fire extinguisher bracket as Bozeman bends his head and indents the side of his face into the plaster wall. Somehow they all manage a coordinated, half deliberate collapse as the stretcher twists and tumbles onto the wet floor.
‘I have to get back,’ the man who held the door open for them says then disappears into the stairwell.
Bozeman nods and holds up a limp hand.
The agent lets go of the stretcher and brushes himself off. ‘He needs to be treated as a suspect.’
Struggling to breathe, Bozeman nods his agreement, ‘Don’t…need to…tell me…my job. He’s not…getting out of my sight.’ His head slumps. The agent now satisfied, walks back through the door leaving Coffey and Bozeman alone.
‘We need to go now,’ Bozeman pants. Coffey gives a thumb’s up and they use each other’s frame for support. Like erecting a tepee, they heave themselves up. Bozeman looks around the foyer as Coffey clings breathlessly, afraid of letting go. He knows they can’t stay. If only I was twenty years younger, he thinks. Curses himself for not looking after his body, and curses that bloody dog.
Bozeman yells for help.
Coffey isn’t going anywhere, not with that leg. A middle-aged man carrying folders speeds up looking his way only to pass. More people rush past unwilling to help. Outside, the crime scene would be more secured by now. Maybe that annoying woman with a pen shoved behind and ear might have eagerly given his description to any investigating agents. Time is running out. He comes up with a plan. He has to choose carefully.
Assesses people’s candor. A young man fumbling down the stairwell. No, he looks a bit too weak, might freak out. Another one, this time a woman, older but sensible looking and stocky.
She’ll do, Bozeman thinks.
Craning his head, quickly swings his free hand back and pulls out the gun and points it towards the woman. Looking his way, he mouths ‘Over here quickly’ thrusting the gun frantically at her. Her face turns ghostly white. Thinking she is about to scream, Bozeman shakes his head sternly.
‘Quickly, quickly,’ he says and gesturing the level urgency with the gun. Coffey is stunned. Up to this point he thought he’d make it out. Now he isn’t sure if he’s going to die in some Wild West shoot-out only a few steps from freedom.
The woman walks over and starts tearing up as the gun touches her trembling forehand. He pushes her into position on the other side of Coffey. ‘We all walk out together,’ Bozeman says as the woman bites down on her lip and nods shallowly and dropping her folders. ‘Hold it together lady. If you lose it, you’ll give the twenty or so highly armed and pissed off soldiers an excuse to turn us into one big lead pincushion.’
She tries to speak but can’t find any words.
Bozeman stows the gun. ‘Just breathe, you’re doing fine.’
Progress is slow across the foyer and are soon walking down the stairs. They pass serious men holding serious guns. Bozeman and Coffey turn and exchange a look that says they have to leave Rodriguez behind. There’s no other choice.
Coffey sees it, what Bozeman is surveying and knows the plan. Bozeman turns the entire show left, towards the row of wounded and five waiting ambulances with doors open for business. More are in the lane with lights flashing waiting to be called forward.
A medic in a white coat is busy assessing and coordinating the dozen or so wounded into designated ambulances.
‘He needs assistance ASAP,’ Bozeman says. The medic turns around and starts walking over. Sensing they might be asked to join a line, adds. ‘We have no time. He’s a suspect and we need to get him away before everyone finds out.’ And moves his eyes and twitches his head as if letting him in on his secret. The medic continues to assess Coffey, but reacts to the part where Bozeman implies the man might be somehow involved with the explosion.
‘Mob justice,’ Bozeman says pushing towards an ambulance. ‘I wouldn’t blame them. I need to question him to see if there are anymore bombs in the building. This is urgent.’
The medic nods and signals two waiting helpers, who have just finished securing a casualty into the ambulance, s
lapping the back door as it shuts. They rush over and grab either side of Coffey helping him onto a stretcher bed, and into the ambulance.
Bozeman leans into the woman’s ear. ‘You’re coming with us.’
31
U.S. Naval Base, Sasebo, Japan
Jessica Bradbury looks up biting into her sandwich. ‘Do you know Amanda Lane?’ She asks with a look of sadness, as if she doesn’t really want Masen to answer.
Suddenly he isn’t so hungry. He doesn’t want to pollute her thoughts with his own story about Lane so keeps it simple. ‘I know of her.’
Wiping a crumb from the side of her mouth with the napkin she replies, ‘I haven’t heard or spoken that name for a long time.’ And pauses as if framing a suitable response, her eyes steering thoughts through a minefield of emotions. She hands him the napkin with the name Amanda Lane written on it. ‘When I left you that day at university it was for a meeting. I was dropping out. I had already planned to go back home and study closer to family.’ He can tell she is having a hard time reliving the moment so doesn’t interrupt. ‘I was walking back to my dorm to drop off some books when a tall blond woman approached and introduced herself.’
‘Amanda Lane,’ Masen prompts.
She looks to the napkin. ‘…Yes.’
Masen casts his mind back over old terrain. He doesn’t recall ever hearing the name during his time at university. It is possible Lane approached him on campus, might have passed or given her instructions as to where the dorms were located.
‘She started walking with me,’ Bradbury continues. ‘She seemed friendly.’ Her face searches for meaning, an explanation, justification. ‘We talked about classes. Apparently her niece was going to start the following year. She asked me if it was all right if we continued talking as we turned into the dorm building and walked down the hall. I had no idea. She asked if it was okay if she inspected the accommodation.’ Her head dips and she pulls up the sheet to wipe her eyes. ‘That’s all I remember. When I woke I was handcuffed to a seat on a plane.’
Iris Rising Page 18
