Lone Wolf

by Sara Driscoll

  He yanked open the car door, diving in and jamming the keys in the ignition. His surprisingly steady hand hit the right spot on the first try and the car roared to life. Turning on lights and sirens, he roared out of the parking lot, around the corner and onto Maccorkle, heading east. The thump and splash on the roof of his car barely registered as his nearly full coffee cup flew off. But the rush of adrenaline swamped any effect caffeine might have had.

  You’re insane. You can’t follow an airborne drone through city streets and catch it.

  Maybe not, but he was going to try. And he was going to get as many people as possible to help.

  He picked up his radio mic, speeding through traffic and weaving around cars that pulled out of his way with only one hand. “Dispatch, this is Patrol 24, 10–8. I have an 11–54, an unidentified flying object seen flying into South Charleston over the Kanawha. I think it’s a 10–79. It looks like the drones used in the DC and Maryland bombings.” He automatically rattled off the radio codes for a suspicious vehicle and a bomb threat. “Recommend emergency evacuation of all federal, state, and municipal government offices and buildings in South Charleston.”

  “This is Dispatch, 10–4. Report current location and direction of travel of 11–54.”

  “I’m on Maccorkle Avenue Southwest, just turning onto E Street. The drone is headed southeast, toward downtown. Request all available units to report visual on 11–54.”

  “10–4.”

  Dispatch went silent and Howard jammed the radio mic back into its slot. With both hands on the wheel, he hit the accelerator hard, sorting through possible targets in his head. They said a one-mile range, so has to be downtown. Government or administration. Post office. Police headquarters. Fire headquarters. Division of Natural Resources. What about churches? Or banks? Too many banks to protect them all. A part of his brain considered and discarded the Dow chemical plant. Past it already, thank God. If that had been the target, it would already be too late and we’d have a massive environmental emergency on our hands.

  The radio crackled to life. “Patrol 11 to Dispatch. I have eyes on the 11–54, 6th Avenue and D Street. Headed southwest.”

  Howard took a hard left onto 7th Avenue, still one block north and west of the drone’s location. Tires squealed and cars pulled out of the way as he flew by. Even shooting through city streets at sixty-five, certainly faster than the drone could fly from his single quick view of it, there was no way he could match its straight trajectory over the city buildings when he had to follow the grid city planners set out almost a century before.

  He took a hard right at D Street, the car shuddering when it nearly went on two wheels as he shot past the Criel Native American burial mound from 250 BC without a glance. The car’s back end started to swing out and he white-knuckled the steering wheel, fighting for control and only barely winning. His heart pounded even harder now, the throbbing in his ears nearly blocking out the cacophony of other sirens as he bulleted down D Street. It was clear every available officer was converging on downtown.

  City Hall. Had they thought about City Hall? Evacuated it? A stream of faces appeared in his mind’s eye like a slide show. The mayor, his staff, the clerks. Good people who always had a kind word for those trying to make their way in this small suburb of the capital of West Virginia. Who would want to kill these people?

  “Patrol 4 to Dispatch. The drone appears to be landing on the roof of 324 4th Avenue.”

  Howard’s mouth ran dry. The Division of Natural Resources. They had seconds now, half a minute max. Had word gotten through? Was everyone out?

  He had to slow slightly as another police cruiser coming from the south careened around the corner onto 4th Avenue, but then he followed, hammering the brakes almost immediately. The street was full of people still streaming out of the post office on the north side and the Division of Natural Resources on the south.

  He’d done it. They were getting out.

  He jerked to a stop on the side of the road behind the other cruiser and sprinted from the car toward the Division of Natural Resources, encouraging confused workers to keep going. “Keep moving, get as far down the street as you can. Keep—”

  The roar of the blast came from overhead and Howard only had enough time to wrap his arms around an older woman, pulling her down to the pavement on her knees and curling his body over hers before the wave of heat hit.

  Monday, April 17, 2:09 PM

  Tyler Mountain

  South Charleston, West Virginia

  Success.

  The single word beat victoriously behind the man’s sternum, matching the beat of his heart. Suc-cess. Suc-cess. Suc-cess.

  He swayed on his feet, nearly light-headed with the joy shooting like lightning through his veins. He was in control and they trembled at his will. Never before in his life had people truly feared him; but now they did, and it was a truly heady experience.

  He’d heard the sirens, so they knew ahead of time the hand of doom was about to smite them, but there’d be no way to know what his target was and no time to figure it out. And now the Division of Natural Resources was gone.

  In the distance, black smoke boiled in greasy billows from a location inside the heart of downtown. He couldn’t see the actual building from this distance, but he knew he’d hit the mark. Wanting the cover of the line of buildings down the length of 4th Avenue, he’d come in from the northeast, skimming the rooftops. He couldn’t have missed number 324; it was the only three-story building on the block. Guaranteed bull’s-eye.

  He could imagine his target as he must have been in his last moments. Sitting behind his desk, toiling away at the nonsensical red tape that was his entire existence. Probably searching for ways to make the lives of honest Mountaineers more difficult. Raising his head slightly at the sound of sirens in the distance, wondering what poor schmuck had gotten himself in trouble this time.

  They’re coming for you. . . .

  The thump of something hitting the roof over his head, the squint of confusion. Then the whoosh of the explosion and the openmouthed, glassy-eyed expression of shock as the fireball raced toward him before consuming him in its hellish maw. Until nothing was left of his worthless self but carbonized bone and charred muscle.

  With a jubilant laugh, he settled back down on the hillside. He could bask for another minute or two; there was no way anyone would be looking for him here . . . yet. They’d be scouring the town first and wouldn’t look toward the hills beyond until eyewitness reports came in. So he had a few minutes to sit and watch the beauty of destruction he had caused.

  He liked the feeling of control, of knowing that the power of life and death was cradled in his rough, work-weary hands.

  He wanted to do it again. Soon.

  But what should he cleanse next? The drone was starting to be notable, so he might only have one or two more opportunities to use it.

  Go big.

  Did he dare?

  Few things would be bigger, or be a way to thumb his nose at the government, quite like this. It would take planning. It would take smarts. It would also take the kind of balls that few who knew him would think he had—because to pull this off, he’d need to be close, real close. Close enough to risk capture.

  He grinned, feeling even more victorious than just a few minutes ago. Three down and they still can’t catch me or stop me. And if nothing else grabbed their attention, this certainly will.

  Time to move. He had the next strike to plan. And this one was going to put him in the history books for sure.

  Chapter 18

  Clear: A call made by the handler that a search area is blank.

  Monday, April 17, 2:24 PM

  Forensic Canine Unit; J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Washington, DC

  Meg looked up from the report she was reading as Hawk jumped up from where he snoozed beside her desk. His body was tight with tension, his tail held high as he stared intently toward the open door of the Forensic Canine Unit bull pen.

&nb
sp; She laid a hand on the back of his neck, feeling the coiled muscles under soft fur. “What’s wrong, Hawk? What do you hear?”

  Brian and Rocco were on their feet then, while Lacey lifted her head from where it had rested on her paws, her ears quirked forward toward the open doorway. Only then could the humans in the room hear running feet.

  Meg’s stomach tied into a greasy knot, instinct already knowing what was coming.

  Craig sprinted into the canine unit bull pen. “Another bombing!”

  The remaining team hit their feet.

  “Where?” Meg asked.

  “South Charleston, West Virginia.” Craig picked up the remote to the wall panel and brought up a video feed. “This is live, courtesy of the local PD.”

  The video showed a small-town street with cars parked in diagonal slots along both sides. Fire trucks filled the road in front of the building. The ladder truck was already in use and firefighters at the top of the ladder directed a high pressure stream of water toward the top of the building.

  Brian walked closer to the screen. “Are they so lucky the fire station is directly across the street?”

  “Looks like it,” Craig said. “Looks like the trucks only had to pull out to the far side of the street and set up. That would have saved considerable time.”

  “Do they need us to go?” Lauren asked. “Or do they have local search and rescue who can get there faster?”

  “I don’t think they need search and rescue at all.” At Lauren’s indrawn breath, Craig clarified. “From what I got from the fifteen-second conversation I had with Peters in the hallway, they think they got everyone out. They’re doing a head count now.”

  “Got them all out after the bomb went off with no injuries?” Brian’s tone was heavily laced with skepticism.

  “No. Before the thing even landed. A really on-the-ball cop heard the thing flying in over the Kanawha River, connected it to the bombings, and radioed it in. South Charleston PD had every municipal, state, and federal office building evacuating while the drone was still incoming. It landed and went off, but there was no one inside to be injured. Property damage, sure, but initial estimates are no loss of life and only a few minor injuries—a twisted ankle on the stairs and being hit by debris from the blast in the street, that kind of thing.” Craig studied the footage. “That’s why there are so many people. It’s not just the one building; it’s the post office across the street and the city library next door. Once they were out, they stayed out.”

  Meg sat back down in her desk chair, her knees weak with relief. His first major failure. What fallout would that cause? “How did they get them out so fast? They couldn’t have had more than about two minutes’ notice on it.”

  “They figure about two and a half. The PD took the easy route. They pooled their dispatchers and called one person per building, telling them to pull the fire alarm. That got everyone out. Explanations could come later.”

  “Smart thinking.” Brian patted Lacey. “Down, girl.” Then he stepped around her to study the video footage. Several cops milled around the area helping the injured or calming the upset. “That cop deserves a medal. Quick thinking may have saved a lot of lives.”

  “I’m sure we’ll hear more about him or her in the coming days,” Craig agreed. “It’ll be nice to see something positive above the fold for a change.”

  “I can see it now.” Using both hands, Brian drew the headline in the air as if it was a long banner. “FOILED! MYSTERY BOMBER CHEATED OF HIS TARGET.” He grinned. “Yeah, that will be nice to see.” His hands dropped to his sides with a light slap. “But you know what this really means?”

  “Skinner isn’t our guy.” Meg leaned back in her chair and blew out a breath. “We’re back to the drawing board.”

  “Back to the drawing board, but maybe not exactly to square one,” Craig said. “We’ve covered a lot of ground since we focused on Skinner, and he even taught us a few things about that mind-set. I honestly think we’re looking at this kind of guy, just not this particular guy. Think about all the things he said about the government.”

  “Every one of them rang true to what we’ve heard so far from our bomber,” Meg said.

  Craig nodded his agreement. “This kind of discontent is like a disease slowly spreading through the country. There are certainly more of them out there than I suspected. We have a much better understanding about where our guy stands mentally because of all the time we spent with Skinner.”

  “Our guy may not even know he’s failed yet. But when he does, I have a bad feeling he’s not going to take it very well,” Brian said.

  “Funny, I was thinking the same thing. Is this kind of failure going to prompt him to try for a bigger target? Or change his tactics since the drone is beginning to be its own calling card?”

  “He hits a big enough target, he won’t need to stop using the drone. The locals got away with it this time because it was a small, three-story building in a small city. If he hits a skyscraper in New York City, they won’t have enough time to evacuate.”

  “He tries to go after New York City, the inhabitants will rip his country bumpkin ass limb from limb,” Brian muttered loud enough only Meg could hear.

  “So it’s even more important we find this guy pronto,” Craig continued. He looked back at the video footage. The crowd had calmed and order prevailed. In fact, there was an air of triumph, of nice-try-but-you-missed-us in the air. “Hey, I bet that’s him right there.”

  “Who?”

  “Look at the cop on the left there. The one who looks a bit sheepish as everyone is slapping him on the back or trying to talk to him. There’s your hero. He looks like a regular guy, just out there doing the job. But he’s one of us. He’s going to help us nail this son of a bitch.” He turned back to the team. “He just bought us a day or two of no fatalities. Let’s not fail him by dropping the ball.”

  There was a chorus of agreement and the team returned to work with fresh enthusiasm.

  Chapter 19

  Fringing: The tendency of a novice or poorly trained nose work dog to indicate or alert when it is near, but not at, the actual source of the target odor.

  Tuesday, April 18, 10:14 AM

  Outside Moorefield, Hardy County, West Virginia

  He’d failed.

  Not one person died or suffered more than a minor injury in the attack. That meant his own personal target was alive and well, and probably entertaining everyone he knew with his tales of derring-do. It made him want to put his fist through a wall.

  Then there was the newspaper. The Washington Post was spread across the kitchen counter, the headline screaming in sixty-point font: THWARTED—BOMBER HITS TARGET BUT MISSES VICTIMS. Under the headline was a four-inch square head shot of the cop in his uniform, as American as apple pie with his baby blue eyes, overly white smile, and uniform hat perched over sun-bleached blond hair. He looked like the goddamned captain of the football team.

  He himself was just a below-the-fold footnote. The bomber who had killed and maimed was losing his edge. His bombs now came with their own built-in early warning system and, while still effective, he was missing the mark.

  A single swipe of his arm sent the pages scattering to the ground. He stepped on the newspaper and ground his boot heel into it, hearing the satisfying rip of paper shredding.

  He returned to the rough kitchen table, yanking out a chair with a screech of chair legs on floorboards, and threw himself down, studying the completed drone that stood on the table.

  Leaning forward, he gave one of the propellers a flick with his forefinger, watching it spin. The other drones had been perfect for what he needed them to do—create as much damage as possible while he controlled from a distance—but that was no longer enough. He eyed the bulk of C-4 blocks strapped to the bottom of the drone, the dull silver of a series of blasting caps sunk deep into the plasticine-like material of the blocks. The detonation cord from the blasting caps was coiled on the table still and wouldn’t be connected to the c
harge until he was on site. He didn’t want a bomb of this size sitting live in his house overnight or in his truck while he was driving.

  It was the biggest bomb yet, which meant he needed his biggest drone to carry it. Considering the weight of the frame and the bigger propellers and the additional explosive, his battery time was going to be under five minutes, so he was going to have to be close.

  Close meant risking getting caught. He likely only had one shot left to deliver a bomb via drone, and he was ready to take that chance. He was willing to risk it all for a chance to take out the National Security Agency.

  Go big or go home.

  The NSA was a glorified bunch of snitches. Eavesdropping on phone conversations and ferreting through your e-mail or browser history. Telling the higher-ups so they could unleash the power of the government all over your ass. Sending you to jail for expressing your God-given rights to freedom and self-determination, rights they didn’t seem to think you deserved.

  So the snitches would pay. They’d pay for all the misery they’d caused. For all the families broken apart and the innocents sent to jail. For spying on their own people.

  They’d pay with their lives.

  Chapter 20

  Heart Dog: A dog with a unique connection to its handler, often spoken of as a “canine soul mate.”

  Tuesday, April 18, 10:54 AM

  Richmond Police Headquarters

  Richmond, Virginia

  It had been years since Meg stood in this sunlit foyer, but it felt like only yesterday. And now to stand here without a dog at her side left her feeling naked and alone.

  The dark paneled walls were covered with numerous framed pictures and display cases—department photos, awards, trophies, portraits of police chiefs, and more—but her eye was drawn to a single display case on the far wall.