by Jan Gangsei
The BMW weaved back into traffic and Reynolds followed. He couldn’t imagine how this guy thought he could get away. To the right, the highway’s main lanes were bumper-to-bumper traffic, cars moving at a slow crawl as they approached the intersection with I-66. No escape in that direction. Reynolds radioed ahead so another officer would be ready and waiting at the end of the HOV lane. And if the guy tried to get off the highway altogether, Reynolds would be on him like a fly on shit.
The BMW dodged around a few more cars, then without warning cut across an access path into the main lanes of I-495, where it promptly got stuck in rush-hour traffic. Reynolds snorted, easing the Charger onto 495, and pulled behind the BMW. He switched on his microphone.
“Virginia State Police,” he said. “Please pull over and remain in your vehicle.”
A set of eyes looked back at Reynolds in the rearview mirror again, and the BMW shifted lanes into the center.
What the hell was wrong with this guy?
Well, if that was how he wanted to play it, Reynolds would just tail him all the way to work and introduce himself to the guy’s boss. Reynolds changed lanes, leaned back in his seat, and followed the BMW at the whopping speed of five miles per hour. The guy up ahead took one more look in his mirror and…smiled?
Just then, the Charger jolted. Reynolds sat up straight, gripping the steering wheel. Had he just been rear-ended? He checked his mirror. The guy behind him was a car’s-length distance away. His car jolted again, and the computer on his dash flashed. A message popped up.
Let’s just see how fast this baby can go, shall we?
The officer’s eyes went wide as the car suddenly lurched forward, nearly slamming into the back of the BMW. Reynolds’s chest was flung against his seat belt. His coffee flew out of the cupholder, splashing hot liquid all over his pants. Reynolds cursed and lifted his foot off the gas pedal. He hit the brakes, but the car didn’t slow down.
“What the hell?” he yelled as he pointlessly pumped the brake pedal up and down. The car slowed down briefly, long enough for another message to flash across the screen.
Just don’t hit anything…unless you want to go BOOM!
A picture of an explosive device, duct-taped to the bottom of the Charger, appeared below the message. The car sped up again. Reynolds looked frantically for somewhere to go. Siren blaring, he jerked the car to the right, forcing a slow-moving Jeep to swerve out of his path. Reynolds could hear the distinct sound of metal crunching behind him, but he couldn’t stop. He kept going until he made it to the right breakdown lane, where his car accelerated even faster—twenty, thirty, forty…up to fifty, sixty, seventy miles an hour now. The left tires of the Charger thumped wildly over the warning strip, the picture of the explosives still on his screen.
Reynolds tapped the radio to call the emergency dispatcher. “Officer in distress,” he yelled. “Vehicle out of control!”
He jerked the car to the right again, avoiding a piece of blown-out tire in his path and narrowly missing the guardrail.
Dispatch answered. “Sending assistance. Please remain in your location.”
“Can’t remain in location! And send the bomb squad!” Reynolds hollered as the car barreled forward onto an overpass. He could barely hold the vibrating steering wheel with his sweaty hands. A large orange sign came into view:
WORK ZONE AHEAD. RIGHT SHOULDER CLOSED.
“No!” he yelled, pounding the brakes to no avail. He narrowly missed the sign, only to see rows of orange cones and a flashing barricade coming up fast. Behind the barricade, dozens of construction workers were raking fresh concrete. Reynolds’s heart pounded. He had no choice. There was nowhere to go. It was either mow down a bunch of guys, crash into the guardrail, and cause an explosion, or head back into traffic.
He was nearly on top of the construction site now, the flashing lights of the barricade spotting his vision, orange cones ricocheting off his front hood. He could have sworn he could see the whites of the construction workers’ eyes, wide with fear as they dove to the side. With a quick prayer, Reynolds hit the brakes again and jerked the car to the left. He heard the crunch of metal as his car shoved another out of its path. His front end clipped a second vehicle as he pushed across all four lanes, where mercifully, the Charger came to a sudden stop in the left breakdown lane.
Entire body shaking, Reynolds jumped out of the vehicle and looked underneath. The bomb was there, still taped in place. Breathing heavily, Reynolds stood and turned around, surveying the terrifying scene behind him: a tangle of smashed cars, fenders dented, smoke curling from the hoods. The chain reaction had caused a pileup as far as Reynolds could see. The officer’s only hope was that the slow-moving traffic had kept anyone from being seriously injured. He shuddered at the thought of having harmed anyone. At least the bomb hadn’t detonated.
Reynolds could hear the wail of fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances approaching. But he didn’t wait. He made his way through the wreckage, looking for anyone who needed help.
Above his head, the digital traffic sign went black. The 3 MILES/15 MINUTES TO I-66 message disappeared. A new one flashed yellow in its place.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
President Webster sat in a plush leather chair at the head of the twelve-person conference table in the Situation Room, rubbing his temples. Cheryl Fergusson sat to his left. General McQueen, NSA Director Davis, and the directors of the CIA, FBI, Secret Service, and the Department of Homeland Security rounded out the group. They silently watched the news footage of the trooper’s wreck on 495 play out on the television screens surrounding the room.
The president broke the silence. “Okay people, give me the latest.”
FBI Director Justin Lassiter responded first. “Our team on the ground has verified the ‘bomb’ strapped beneath the car was harmless,” he said. “We’re analyzing security footage from the precinct to see if the vehicle was tampered with there, but we suspect whoever did this accessed the car while it was parked overnight at the trooper’s residence.”
President Webster nodded. “Keep me posted on any developments.” He glanced at DHS Director Rebecca Ashland. “And what about Homeland Security?”
“Mr. President, sir,” she said. “As you know, we’ve upped the threat level both in the city and nationwide. We’ve increased security at all train stations, Metro stations, and airports.”
“And Cabot?” the president interjected.
“Locked down as tight as the White House,” said Robert Wilson, director of the Secret Service. “We’ve got additional patrols stationed around the campus, and Agent Alvarez will not let your daughter out of her sight. Of course, this is in addition to Cabot’s own security, which as you know is extensive. If we have any reason to be concerned, we will pull Addie out of there immediately.”
“Good,” President Webster said. “Sorry—please continue, Rebecca.”
Director Ashland began speaking again. “As you already know, we’ve also advised major malls and public venues to up their security. And we’ve stepped up our ‘If You See Something, Say Something’ campaign. However, the problem is…” She paused and shifted in her seat.
“Yes?” the president said.
“The problem, sir,” Ashland said, “is that we can increase security in all the obvious places, but it’s nearly impossible to prevent Cerberus—or anyone else, for that matter—from attacking places we can’t completely secure. Just like we saw this morning.”
The room fell silent again. McQueen cleared his throat.
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” he said. All eyes turned toward the retired general. “I disagree. It is possible to predict and prevent these attacks.” He thumbed through the updated daily intelligence briefing on the table in front of him. “In fact, we have pages of evidence right here, detailing exactly what was going to happen before it ever did,” he said. “Text messages, e-mails between Cerberus members…”
The president held up a hand, quickly shutting McQueen down. “I th
ink I’ve already made my position on this matter clear. Our current level of electronic surveillance is sufficient. Anything more far-reaching would be unconstitutional.”
“Sir, with all due respect, this is pretty clear evidence that the current levels are not sufficient,” McQueen said. “These e-mails and messages are proof that—”
“—they are trying to manipulate us into doing just what you’re proposing,” the president cut in. “We’re not going to give them what they want. I refuse to play into their hands and spy on citizens. What I expect is for you to do your job and shut these people down.”
“Yes, sir,” McQueen said, clenching his jaw.
“Cheryl,” the president said. “How is this playing out in public opinion?”
“Our poll numbers are still down,” Cheryl answered. “I suspect they will drop further after this morning’s attack. The public doesn’t want to hear theories right now. They want an arrest. Something that shows we’re taking action.”
FBI Director Lassiter cut in. “Sir, as you know, we have a lead on the Republican fund-raiser attack,” he said. “It may go nowhere, but we’ve finished interviewing everyone who worked the party that night—except one. A busboy. We missed him on the first go-round because he apparently clocked in using someone else’s time card. But his description fits the one Burke gave us of the kid he witnessed running out, and his coworkers say he hasn’t returned since that night. We’re putting all of our resources into locating him.”
“Good,” the president said. “I want to be made aware the minute you have him in custody.”
“Mr. President,” Cheryl said, “I also think it would be a good idea to get out in front of today’s attack with a press conference as soon as possible. We need to show the public we won’t be bullied by terrorists. They need reassurance from you.”
The president leaned forward on his elbows. “Set one up for this afternoon. And please stick around so we can go over talking points.” He nodded toward his advisors. “Let’s reconvene here this evening to assess the situation again. Thank you.”
As the president began going over notes with the chief of staff, the rest of the group gathered their papers and filed out the door. NSA Director Davis caught up with McQueen in the hallway. The pair of former intel officers exchanged a dark look before heading through the lobby, not speaking, and out the door into the parking lot. There was a chill in the air and the sky was gray, a light mist falling. McQueen popped a black umbrella open and held it over his and Davis’s heads. They stopped at a dark blue government-issued sedan, and Davis cast a glance around. McQueen lowered his umbrella, obscuring their faces, as Davis pulled a file folder from his briefcase.
“About our conversation the other day…” he said, handing the folder to McQueen. “You might find this helpful.” McQueen glanced inside before discreetly slipping it into his overcoat.
He smiled at his old friend. “Good to see you haven’t lost your touch.”
After British Literature, Addie broke away from Darrow for French. Ninety more minutes of class and lunch was next. Addie followed the map to the cafeteria, an airy room filled with wooden tables and surrounded by tall windows. Addie wasn’t very hungry, but she slipped into the line of students anyway, grabbed a tray, and stacked a chicken salad and iced tea on top. As she moved along the line toward the register, someone tapped her shoulder. Addie turned to see the blonde girl from British Literature smiling at her.
“Hey,” the girl said. “Sorry to bother you. I just wanted to apologize for staring at you in class.”
“Oh. It’s okay,” Addie said, cheeks turning pink. She could already feel every eye in the place on her. One more set hardly made a difference. “You’re not the only one.”
“No,” the girl said as they slid their trays forward. “It’s just…I was just surprised. I was expecting you to look more like her, you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“Elinor,” the girl said. “I thought you’d look more like your sister. Sorry.” She held out a hand. “Anyway, I’m Olivia Gardner. Elinor and I are friends.”
“Oh,” Addie said, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.” The stabbing in Addie’s heart started back up again. She had forgotten that Elinor had been a student here—before she was shipped off to rehab. Addie tried to picture her sister roaming these halls, filling a tray with food, hanging out with friends…but she came up blank. The fact was, Addie didn’t know Elinor anymore.
Addie slid her tray to the register and paid. Olivia did the same, and tilted her head toward a table of girls across the room.
“You can sit with us if you want,” she said.
“Thanks,” Addie said. “But I’m supposed to meet someone here.”
“Let me guess,” Olivia said, eyes narrowing. “Darrow.”
“Um, yeah,” Addie said. As if on cue, she caught sight of him waving from a table by the window.
“No worries, some other time,” Olivia said with a fake smile. Then she leaned in and added in a loud whisper, “But if you want my advice? Watch your back. Darrow has a habit of sticking his nose in places it doesn’t belong.”
Before Addie could respond, Olivia flicked her hair and walked away. Addie headed in the other direction, trying to steady the tray that had begun to wobble in her hands. The other students turned and stared, then quickly looked away as Addie passed. She felt like a walking freak show.
When Addie got to the table, Darrow slid his chair over, making room for her. She exhaled and sat down.
“You okay?” Darrow asked quietly, casting a glance in Olivia’s direction.
“I’m fine,” Addie said with a small smile, aware that the rest of the people at Darrow’s table had stopped talking and were now staring at her.
“Hey, you going to introduce us, D?” said a sandy-haired guy in a Caps jersey.
“Sorry, guys,” Darrow said. “This is Addie.”
The girl next to her, a blonde with blue-tipped hair, held out a hand. “Harper,” she said. Addie shook it as Darrow introduced everyone else: Connor, the guy in the Caps jersey; Luke, a kid with dreadlocks and a calculus book open on the table in front of him; and Keagan, a petite girl with long red hair and blue eyes.
“Nice to meet you all,” Addie said.
“You too,” Harper said, looking right at her. “We’ve heard a lot about you.” Addie appreciated how direct this girl was.
“Yeah, I bet,” Addie replied. “I’m everywhere these days. Can’t even avoid myself.”
Harper grinned. “You probably want to sometimes, huh?”
Addie rewarded Harper with a real smile, the first she’d worn all day. “You have no idea.”
A group of girls sat at the next table. Connor glanced up from his lunch, clearly checking out one in particular, a pretty sophomore named Ruchi that Addie recognized from Biology class. He watched the girl, ignoring everybody else, as she poured dressing onto her salad. Luke glanced at Keagan, held a finger to his lips as he unscrewed the top of the saltshaker, and then dumped it into Connor’s Coke.
Connor made eye contact with Ruchi and smiled. As she slowly grinned back, Connor picked up his Coke and took a huge sip, promptly spewing soda everywhere. The girl cringed and quickly looked away.
“What the hell!” Connor sputtered, wiping his mouth.
“Just doing you a favor, mate,” Luke said with an impish smile. “She’s already said yes to Sam Bergmann, and this way you’re spared a public rejection.”
Everyone at the table cracked up—except Addie, who wasn’t in on the joke.
“Prom,” Darrow explained. “Connor’s been plotting to ask Ruchi for weeks now.”
“Guess you’re stuck with us,” Keagan said.
“Wait, you want to go with me, Red?” Connor said with a smirk.
“Dream on,” Keagan said.
The group laughed again. Harper nodded at Addie. “You should come with us,” she said. “To prom. We all go together.”
“Yeah?” Add
ie said. “That sounds cool. When is it?”
“April fifteenth,” Harper said.
“April fifteenth. Count me in,” Addie said, a small smile creeping across her cheeks.
Luke’s phone buzzed. “Hey,” he said, tapping the screen. “You guys see this? News alert. Some cop went insane near 66 on the Beltway. Barreled through a bunch of backed-up traffic. Caused a pileup a half-mile long.”
“What?” Connor said, color draining from his face. “My parents drive 495 to work every day.” He took out his own phone and began typing. “I’ve gotta make sure they’re okay.…”
“According to this, there were no serious injuries,” Luke said. “Just major traffic delays. It’s only getting cleared up now.”
“Thank God,” Keagan said.
“But get this,” Luke said, still reading. “Cerberus is taking credit. They say they operated the car remotely. And there’s more coming if people don’t listen to them.…”
Harper shuddered. “More attacks?”
“Guess it’s a good thing our new friend here comes with a security detail.…” Connor nodded toward Agent Alvarez, who was standing by the wall, watching with arms folded across her chest.
Nobody laughed. An uncomfortable hush fell over the table.
“Not funny, dude,” Harper said.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.” Connor pushed up his jersey sleeves, cheeks burning red.
“It’s okay,” Addie said softly. She looked down at her hands, suddenly realizing she had ripped the napkin in her lap to shreds. She crumpled it into a ball and tossed it on her tray, wondering why Christina hadn’t yanked her out of here yet, like she had that day at Dr. Richards’s office. Must be security was better here than over on Georgetown’s open campus.
The bell rang, and the students emptied their trays and streamed into the hallway. Darrow stayed close to Addie, as though trying to protect her from some unseen enemy. When they reached her next class, he stopped outside the door, touching her elbow. An unexpected tingle went up her arm.
