“He also likes timers,” Andrea said, thinking of Carmen Pena.
“We’re jamming all cell-phone signals within a ten-block radius.”
“But what if it’s on a timer?” Andrea asked. “Can you jam that, too?”
The grim look on the man’s face told her the answer was no. Andrea glanced around, heart pounding. Troopers with bullhorns were hustling people from the Capitol lawn. Kids were still boarding buses.
“Andrea, you need to leave. Now.”
She looked at Jon. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
“Both of you need to evacuate,” the bomb technician said firmly. “Our team is on the way—”
“Shh!” Andrea held her hand up. “You hear that?”
A chorus of sirens whined around them. Beneath it all came a dull thump.
“Listen!” She walked around the truck and leaned her head against the side.
Thud.
Andrea looked at Jon. “God, is there . . . a person in there?”
His jaw dropped. “Holy shit. Elizabeth.”
“Who?”
“Our missing agent.”
She clutched her hand to her throat, horrified. “You think she’s in there?”
“You people must evacuate,” the bomb tech said, but both Andrea and Jon ignored him as they rushed to check the cargo door. It was secured with a heavy padlock.
Jon took off for the nearest fire truck.
“Ma’am, I insist that you move back—”
“Quiet!” She pressed her ear to the truck again and heard a series of sounds now—thump, thump, thump—like someone trying to signal. “Someone’s definitely in there.”
Jon rushed back with a long red ax.
“Sir! Step back from the vehicle. You must evacuate.”
“We’ve got an agent in there.”
He lifted the ax above his head, and the bomb tech caught his arm.
“Wait! We need to check if it’s wired.”
He pulled a cordless drill from the pocket of his cargo pants as two more black-clad bomb techs hustled over. They dropped bags onto the sidewalk and communicated in clipped phrases as they swiftly unpacked gear.
“Andrea,” Jon said.
“Forget it.”
“At least get behind that barricade.”
His eyes pleaded with her, but she ignored him as the technician drilled a hole in the truck’s side. Someone passed him a fiber-optic camera, which he threaded through the hole like a snake.
Jon’s face was taut with tension as he gripped the ax and waited.
A bomb tech bent over a small computer screen, reading the grainy camera image. “No trip wires. We’re good.”
“Everyone back.” Jon heaved the ax over his head. He swung it down. Chunks of metal flew. The bomb techs shoved up the door to reveal a cluster of white drums arranged like bowling pins.
Jon hitched himself onto the truck bed as Andrea peered inside. She smelled gasoline and something else she couldn’t identify. Squinting into the darkness, she spied a pair of women’s shoes peeking out from behind a drum.
“Here!” She hefted herself onto the platform. The woman was bound with cord and had a strip of duct tape over her mouth.
“We need a medic!” Jon yelled.
“Don’t move those drums!” The bomb tech rushed over to help Jon pull her out, and Andrea jumped down as they lowered her to the ground.
“Is she conscious?” the tech demanded. “Ask her what she knows about this det device.”
Andrea crouched next to her. She had bruises on her face, and one of her eyes was swollen shut, like a hundred battered women Andrea had seen over the years. She nudged Jon aside, hoping she’d respond better to a female voice.
“Elizabeth, are you with us? I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt, okay? Just for a sec, though.”
Andrea peeled back the corner of the tape and gave it a sharp yank. The woman yelped with pain, which Andrea took as a good sign.
“Elizabeth, did you see the detonation device?” Andrea asked. “Was it a cell phone? A timer?”
She looked too dazed to answer. Or maybe she didn’t know. Jon had a pocket knife out and was working on the cord at her wrists. The look on his face was calm determination as he cut loose the bindings.
Time seemed to slow down, and Andrea became hyperaware of everything—the howl of sirens, the sharp smell of gasoline, the warm weight of the woman slumped against her. The world was suddenly sharper, brighter, louder, and a surreal mix of joy and terror flooded her all at once. Jon. She should have told him. Why hadn’t she told him?
His gaze locked on hers, and her heart seized up. If this was it, she wanted him to be the last thing she saw.
A loud whoop from inside the truck.
A bomb tech stepped to the door and gave a thumbs-up.
“We’re all clear!”
chapter thirty-one
IN A MATTER OF HOURS, the FBI’s Austin location went from being a sleepy satellite office to the headquarters of one of the largest manhunts in Bureau history. Agents in suits and SWAT gear lined the hallways, checking phones and jonesing for the orders that would send them in pursuit of the missing suspects. Shay Hardin was in custody, but his co-conspirators were still at large.
Meanwhile, Senator Kirby was in the hospital being treated for shrapnel wounds, the governor was all over the news, and reporters were giving breathless updates from the site of what had almost been a mass disaster.
Andrea squeezed through the throng of agents. Most were twice her size. All were armed to the teeth. After spending the past six hours being debriefed and cross-examined by men with big guns and even bigger egos, she felt whipped—a clear case of testosterone overload. She needed to get home.
She pushed through the building’s side door and halted on the steps.
Media vans lined the street, their antennae reaching high into the night sky. Riot police manned barricades between the reporters and the parking lot. News crews crowded the sidewalk, setting up klieg lights and jostling for camera angles.
“Damn, this place is a zoo.”
At the voice, she glanced over her shoulder to see Torres pushing through the door. He stopped beside her and slapped her back.
“Good work earlier,” he said.
“Thanks.”
A surge of warmth flooded through her. When was the last time she’d heard anything like praise from a fellow cop?
Jon emerged from the building, phone pressed to his ear. He scanned the crowd and frowned when he spotted her. He ended the call and tucked his phone away.
“Thought you’d be home by now,” he said. No praise there. He was still angry that she hadn’t followed orders and evacuated.
“Hey, I’m in the car,” Torres told him. “Later, Andrea.”
Jon gazed down at her. “You don’t look good.”
“Really? Because I feel good. Nothing like six hours in a metal chair being interrogated by MIBs.”
He glanced past her at the growing crowd of reporters. “Looks like someone chummed the waters.”
“Who?”
“Someone in the governor’s office.” His jaw tightened. “They heard we’re moving the prisoner, so now they’re lining up for a front-row seat.”
“Do they even realize who he is?”
“You mean Philly? Yeah, I think they put it together.”
He stepped closer and stared down at her. A few hours ago, she’d looked into those eyes and thought his face would be the last thing she ever saw. Now she looked at him and felt vulnerable, so vulnerable her chest ached. She wanted to fall into him and cling to him, but she’d done that already. She’d let her guard down and trusted him, and he’d betrayed her without blinking an eye. She couldn’t let it happen again.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out and checked the number, and she knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
“We have a briefing,” he said. “It’s
important.”
“I know.”
“Listen, I’ll call you later.”
“No need. I’m fine.”
He looked impatient. “You’re not fine. We’re not fine. But I can’t leave right now.” His phone buzzed again, and he glanced down and cursed.
“Better get that.”
“Andrea—”
She turned and left.
♦
Elizabeth sat in her car, watching the door. Her stomach refused to settle. The entire drive in, she’d felt nauseated, and at one point she’d even pulled over and thought she’d get sick. But the moment had passed, and she was back on her way again.
She glanced in the mirror and felt a fresh flood of apprehension. Makeup concealed the bruises mostly, but nothing besides time could fix her swollen eyelid and the line of sutures marching across her forehead like ants. According to the intern who’d stitched her up, it would be at least three weeks before she looked like herself again. She didn’t have three weeks. She had a job to do. And as afraid as she’d been of coming in this morning, she was even more terrified of staying home for days and days and losing the heart to come back at all.
Today was a workday like any other. She was going to treat it that way so she could get through it, one hour at a time.
She pushed open the door and gathered her purse. She walked briskly across the parking garage and filed in with all the other agents carrying computer bags and travel cups. She felt people’s startled looks as they noticed her face and her sling and realized who she was. She kept her chin up as she stepped onto the elevator and rode to her floor.
The doors parted, and she headed across the bullpen, resisting the urge to duck into the bathroom and get sick. A hush fell over the room. Phone chatter quieted. She’d almost reached her desk when she decided to veer for the coffeepot. People were going to stare no matter what, so she might as well give them a chance to have a good look and get it over with.
She filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee she didn’t want.
“Elizabeth?”
Jon North. She hadn’t expected to see him first. She felt a sudden gush of emotions and had to look down.
“Hi. What’s up?” She clumsily tore open a creamer and dumped the contents into her cup.
“I assumed you’d be out for a while.”
“No reason.” She sipped her coffee. “Just a few stitches, really, so the doctor cleared me to work.”
She felt people’s gazes on them. She knew what they were thinking, too, especially the ones who’d had their start in police work. She looked like a woman whose husband/boyfriend/pimp had beaten the shit out of her, like one of those women who called 911 in a moment of panic and then, when the cops showed up, turned around and begged them not to arrest the guy. She’d always thought those women were stupid and cowardly, but she understood them now in a way she hadn’t before yesterday, when she’d been at the mercy of a man’s fists for the first time. Now she knew they weren’t cowardly—they simply had more faith in pain and retribution than they did in the system.
Jon was looking at her now, and she saw the worry etched on his face. He’d just helped apprehend one of the worst homegrown terrorists in American history. She’d expected him to look triumphant this morning. Maybe even smug. Instead, he looked stressed. Ragged. Even the suit and tie didn’t help. Maybe he’d been up all night, too.
“Listen, Jon.” She cleared her throat. “I need to thank you. For yesterday.”
“Forget it.”
“No, I mean it.”
He gave a sharp nod, and she knew he understood. “I don’t know if you heard or not,” he said. “Ross and Randy Leeland were arrested early this morning at a border checkpoint in Del Rio.”
Randy Leeland was in custody. She felt dizzy. She leaned against the counter and let the news sink in.
“They’ve lawyered up already, but we’re not too concerned about that. Both of them had bomb residue on their clothes at the time of their arrest. Apparently, they were in charge of the truck bomb this time—possibly with Driscoll’s help—while Hardin carried out the attack against Kirby.”
“So what was their game plan?” she asked.
“We’re not sure yet. Looks to me like they didn’t think they’d get caught. When everything fell apart, they decided to make a run for the border.”
“And Mark Driscoll?”
“Still missing, but I don’t think that will last long. His face is all over the news.”
The mention of news triggered memories of yesterday’s chaos—the crowds, the helicopters, the TV cameras.
“The team’s about to meet,” Jon said, “but maybe you want to sit this one out?”
She glanced at the conference room, where all of her colleagues had gathered. Maxwell was eyeing her with concern. Torres glanced over, and the instant shock on his face underscored just how awful she must look.
It was going to be a long day. But she was glad she’d come. Randy Leeland was in custody. Hearing that one kernel of information firsthand made it worth the effort to be here.
“Elizabeth?”
She looked at North. “I’m coming. I’ll be right there.”
“You sure? No one’s going to think less of you if you need some time.”
“I don’t. I’m fine,” she told him. She almost meant it.
♦
It was a dead, motionless sleep, and Andrea awoke feeling slightly drunk. Her muscles ached. Her mouth felt sandy. Her head seemed swollen and heavy.
And someone was in her kitchen.
She dragged herself out of bed and pulled on the jeans lying on the floor before shuffling out to investigate. She’d expected to see Gavin foraging through her pantry for Pop-Tarts, but instead, she found him at the sink, rinsing a mug.
Bits of information pelted her all at once: the scent of coffee, the laptop sitting open on the counter, the basket of laundry on the floor beside her stacked washer-dryer.
Gavin’s damp hair.
When had he showered? She’d been so comatose she hadn’t even heard him.
When she finally made it home last night, she’d been on the verge of collapse. But then she’d mustered the energy to sit up with Gavin into the wee hours, flipping news channels and filling him in on what had happened. Finally, she’d had to shut it off. Shay Hardin had dominated her thoughts for far too long. Andrea wanted her life back.
She eyed the basket again. “You did laundry.”
“Yep.” He shut off the water. “That load’s clean, just has to be folded.”
She leaned against the counter and stared across the kitchen at him. He was showered and scrubbed, and something was definitely up.
“I’m heading out,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind I used your computer to look up bus schedules.”
“How’d you get my password?”
He rolled his eyes at her as he put the milk back in the fridge.
So he was taking the bus. Okay, then. That would save her the drive. “Do Dee and Bob know you’re coming?”
“I’m not going to Pearl Springs,” he said. “I’m going to Midland.”
“What’s in—” She stopped short, realizing.
“Vicky’s going through a tough time. Her whole world’s imploded. I need to be with her.”
Andrea looked at her brother, finally awake enough to really see. His shirt was neatly tucked in. He’d shaved. And the despairing look in his eyes had been replaced with hope.
Andrea cringed inwardly. He was going to travel three hundred miles to visit a woman whose life was fraught with problems and complications, all because of the absurd idea that he was in love with her. This plan had disaster written all over it.
And it finally hit her, in a sudden burst of clarity.
This isn’t my problem.
Gavin was an adult. She wasn’t his parent and never had been, no matter how many times she’d tried to fill that role. With every fiber of her being, she believed he needed to finish school and get a
job, but instead, he was determined to go to Midland. It was a disaster for sure, but it was his disaster. She’d bailed him out for the last time.
Gavin picked up the sticky note beside her computer and tucked it into his back pocket.
“So I need to get going,” he said. “The twenty-two comes at eight fifty.”
He was taking a bus to the bus depot. He didn’t need a ride from her.
And he was watching her now, clearly expecting something—probably a lecture.
Andrea cleared her throat. “Have a safe trip.”
He gave her a funny look. And then he walked over and put his arms around her. She leaned her head against his bony chest and heard the thump of his heartbeat and felt a tug of fear. She didn’t know when she’d see him next. Or where. Their lives were diverging and had been for a long time.
He planted a kiss on top of her head, and she walked him to the door. He didn’t have any luggage, only himself and the promise of Vicky.
“Thanks for letting me crash here.” He stepped out the door and turned to look at her. “And for everything else, too.”
“You really love her, don’t you?”
He smiled sheepishly. “Yeah. I do.”
She watched him walk down the steps and forced herself to close the door. She went back into her silent apartment and stood beside her window, looking at the street streaming with morning traffic, and she felt the familiar anxiety percolating.
She had no job. No schedule. She didn’t even have a brother to pester. Really, she didn’t have anyone in her life who truly needed her. For a brief instant, she might have had Jon, but that had been an illusion, as fleeting as a cactus flower after a desert rain.
What she’d had that was lasting, her career, was over now. Done. And it was her own fault. She’d given in to her fears and let it slip away without a fight, and there was no way to get it back. Frustration and regret burned inside her chest.
Andrea turned and eyed her phone on the kitchen counter. Possibilities whirled through her mind, and every last one of them made her intensely uncomfortable. But even worse than her discomfort was the stinging memory of Jon’s words: You’re scared, and so you’re running away.
She’d ignored his phone messages last night. Much like she’d ignored Nathan after the shooting.
Far Gone Page 29
