Had she tricked us? Did she have another set of followers out there who had carried out her plan while she was behind bars? Was she sitting in a cell smiling at the carnage she knew had just taken place?
How many people had been in the scope of impact from these bombs?
Just not my daughter. Please.
I pushed the myriad of questions and nightmarish predictions out of my head. Find Erin, and find her alive and well. I wasn’t religious—thanks to my wonderful upbringing. But right now, I’d trade anything to have Erin safe. Take my life. Take a limb. Give me cancer. End my life early. Whatever it takes. Just leave my beautiful, precious daughter alone. Allow her to grow up, experience the joy of life, of a first love, of enduring friendships, of great memories with me and the family.
Just don’t take her away from me.
I could feel a lump in my throat. I swallowed and took another step forward. Unfortunately, that step wasn’t productive. I tripped over someone’s leg, was bumped as I was falling, and dropped straight on my shoulder. I grunted out a breath and struggled to get to my knees as people banged into me. My shoulder felt funny; I tried rotating it.
Stabbing pain, but not in my shoulder. It burned down the side of my arm. What the hell had I just done to myself?
Fuck it.
I pushed up to my feet and started running. Just as I was hitting my stride, a man twice my size slammed into me—he was hairy and sweaty.
“Sorry,” he said, rushing by me.
I grabbed my upper arm. “Shit!” I realized my shout was more because of my fear and frustration in not finding Erin than the pain itself.
Wait. Her phone. Maybe she’d answer a text. I quickly pulled my phone from my pocket and almost dropped the darn thing. I punched in a quick text to Erin: Where r u?
I stared at the phone and shuffled my feet like a little girl who needed to pee. Seconds went by. She wasn’t responding. Either she didn’t see the text, or….
Don’t even think it.
With the phone still in my hand, I took off again, barreling into people like I was some type of pinball.
A huff of breath shot out of me. I’d just run into a gaggle of women who, for whatever reason, weren’t moving on the street. They were loitering, spinning around, looking at the whole scene. I finally fought my way through them...
And saw Erin.
She was covered in blood.
3
“Erin!”
She looked up as I ran toward her. She was hobbling, but the blood…
“Erin, are you okay?” I was out of breath when I reached her. Blood was smeared across her cheeks and neck. I looked down and spotted more blood on her coat and hands. “Where’s the wound? I can try to—”
“Mom, Mom, hold on. Becca hurt her ankle.”
I hadn’t even noticed her friend. Becca was in tears, up on one foot. Erin was trying to help her walk.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” I asked Becca.
“No, Miss Troutt. Just my…my goddamn ankle.”
I ignored the cussing. Her parents were strict Catholics; they might not be as forgiving. In our house, it wasn’t nearly as rigid. We were human, all had our flare-ups and dust-ups. But we forged ahead. That was the only way I knew how to live.
“Erin, I can help Becca, but where are you hurt? How are you even able to stand up?”
She grabbed my arm and looked me straight in the eye. “Mom, I didn’t get hit with anything. I’m fine.”
Becca spoke. “Miss Troutt, she helped this man who had three nails jabbed in his neck. Someone pulled out the nails, and Erin jumped in and tried to stop the bleeding until a medic ran up and took over.”
I stared at Erin, unsure what to say.
“She’s right, Mom. I always tell you not to worry about me. I’m fine. I know how to take care of myself.”
Chaos reigned all around us, but I blocked it all out. I spun Erin into my arms and kissed her forehead. “I’m proud of you, and I love you so much.”
We locked eyes for a second, and then she looked away. Had I seen a tear forming?
“Okay, I know, Mom. I love you too. But Becca here needs some help.” Her teenage attitude, with its slight bite, had returned, but just hearing her voice was music to my ears.
I got on the other side of Becca, and she wrapped her arm over my shoulder. I ignored the hot pain shooting through my upper arm. I still didn’t understand why my arm was hurting so much when I’d only landed on my shoulder. I’d investigate later. It was probably connected to my advanced age. For now, it was irrelevant. “This should be easier on you, Becca. Just lean on me and Erin.”
We walked half a block, making slow but steady progress. I had to find a safe place for the girls. But I wondered where one existed. It had been a good ten minutes since the last explosion—all three had occurred in less than thirty seconds. Was it over?
A second later, Brad ran up, his eyes wide when he saw Erin and the blood. “Dear God. Erin, where are you hurt?”
Erin didn’t exactly roll her eyes, but she gave me that Oh, this again? look.
“She helped someone who’d been injured,” I said. “No injuries on her. She’s fine. Becca, though, hurt her ankle.”
“Yeah, some crazy woman ran me over, and I turned my ankle stepping off the curb,” she said. “Hurts like a motherfucker!”
Again with the cussing. But, damn, could I blame her? “Not sure if it’s broken or a sprain,” I told Brad. “But I’m more concerned about finding a safe spot.”
“The command center,” he said, snapping his fingers.
Of course. How had I forgotten? I glanced around, tried to get my bearings.
“It’s four blocks east of here, just on the other side of Boston College. I’ll take Becca,” he said, scooping her up like she was a toddler. No sweat. Really, though, she wasn’t a wisp of a girl. She and Erin were practically mirror images of each other, almost exactly my height of five-six, athletic, and lean. All muscle. Solid. They were both members of the Salem High School varsity tennis team.
Brad marched ahead, and, without thinking, I grabbed Erin’s hand and followed. She quickly snatched it away. “Mom, I’m not five years old.”
“But it’s dangerous, Erin. The maniacs who did this don’t give a shit if you’re five or twenty-five.”
I went for her hand again, but she was quicker, jogging up next to Brad instead.
Kids. Uggh.
I didn’t push it. I was more concerned about getting them to safety. As we made our way toward the command center, the crowd became denser. “Not sure we can get through this mess of people. We’re coming up on the last bomb scene,” Brad said.
I put a hand to my head. Think, Alex. “Let’s curl around the crowd, go around the block. Follow me.” I wasn’t sure what to expect at the command center. The task force leader, Randy, was an old colleague. He could have been the poster boy for the start of the #MeToo movement. I’d been a recipient of his sexual harassment on countless occasions. Not that it had devastated my self-worth. I was a female working in a man’s world. I’d been up against those odds my whole life. To me, it came with the territory. But for my daughter, I wanted her to pursue the world without those kind of obstacles. Same for my son.
Doting Mom alert.
As we reached Beacon Street, the crowd thinned somewhat, and I realized we’d gone another five minutes without an explosion. In front of us, I saw the steepled rooftops of the main Catholic church on the Boston College campus.
Another half a block, and we could see the command center. People were walking around, stunned, bloodied. Probably hoping for refuge, guidance, comfort. I know I was. I also saw dozens of official vehicles, most of which had lights flashing and sirens whooping. The entire area was beginning to have the feel of a war zone, one that might normally be seen through the lens of a courageous news photographer in some dusty foreign land.
“Crap,” I said with a huff. I knew the subways would either be closed, stuffed with far too many people
, or worst of all, a prime target for a terrorist bombing, especially if the terrorists had anticipated mass chaos and wanted to turn the screw even more. My car was back at the FBI office in Chelsea; the old downtown location had closed months ago.
“New plan,” I said to Brad. “Let’s keep moving south. I’ll call Nick—I know he has his phone in his fanny pack—and try to rendezvous with him and Stan…maybe at that cemetery on the south side of Boylston.”
“A cemetery. Really, Mom? Can you get any more creepy, considering what we just experienced?”
I gave her a blank look. What the hell did she know? I had my reasons for choosing that location, and I didn’t want to take the time to explain it to my child.
Brad shrugged. “Okay, let’s head out.”
“Hey, are you all right? Do you need medical attention?” A young man walked up and touched Erin’s arm.
She looked into his eyes, and she froze.
Oh, brother.
“She’s fine. Just has some blood on her,” I said.
“You sure?” The kid wore a gold-and-burgundy collared shirt, all preppy-ish. Looked like he hadn’t shaved in three days, and his spikey hair was held in place with gel. “We have a medical station over at my frat house.”
I turned to Brad, as if I were seeking his input. In reality, I was all about forging ahead. Call Nick, stick with the plan. I started walking but held up when I realized Erin was not moving.
“I’m just covered in someone else’s blood,” she said to the guy. “My friend, Becca, though…she hurt her ankle.”
“My buddy’s dad and mom are both doctors, and they’re helping as many people as possible with minor injuries. We can at least get some ice on that ankle.”
Erin looked at me. I looked at Brad. He was straining just slightly as he held Becca, but he just shrugged.
Lots of help.
“Okay, okay. Lead the way,” I said.
“Yo, I’m Dylan,” he said to everyone.
Erin looked at Becca, her eyes wide with… What exactly was it? Giddiness? In this setting?
Oh, brother.
We followed Dylan to his frat house. Once there, I met Drs. Talley, male and female. They checked out Becca’s ankle while Erin chatted with Dylan.
Boston, home to thirty-five colleges. It was impossible not to intersect with the college population in this city. But Dylan and his college frat-boy charms was one of the reasons I’d been delaying Erin’s next step in life—dating. Older guys could not be trusted. Of course, her view was different, almost defiantly so. I’d told her to wait until she was seventeen, just another couple of months away. To her, two more months of not dating was like twenty years in prison.
Hmm. Prison, maybe even shackles. I like it.
“It’s innocent, Alex,” Brad said, leaning into me.
“We’ll see.”
“Bottom line, though, is that the girls are safe.”
I nodded. “I probably need to check in with the chief asswipe officer, Randy, to see if he needs my help.”
“I thought you were going to reach out to Nick. Want me to do that?”
“First, can you make sure Becca calls her parents? Then, yeah, go ahead and call Nick. Maybe he and Stan have figured a way out of this mayhem.”
I found Randy in my contacts list—I’d been forced to save his number while working part-time for the task force leading up to the marathon—but I paused a second. Volunteering to work with Randy was like asking me to do a swimsuit modeling session for him. Just being around him made me want to take a shower—alone. “Do it for your country, Alex,” I muttered to myself. Not much gusto behind that statement.
I dialed up Randy, and it rang four times. Before number five, though, he picked up.
“Mrs. Giordano, how nice of you to call in during this time of crisis.”
My body temperature rose a quick five degrees. He knew I didn’t appreciate the use of my old married name. “It’s Troutt, Randy. Don’t forget that. What’s going on?”
“Troutt, like a fish. Why can’t I keep that at the top of mind? Oh well…doesn’t really matter.”
His phone sounded like it was being frisked. Then I heard a few muffled voices, maybe someone cussing.
“Randy, are you there?”
“I’m here, toots.”
I ignored his demeaning tag. “How can you use me? I’m here to help any way I can.”
“Well, I could think of a couple ways you could assist me, but right now, I’m a little busy dealing with three detonated bombs.” He snapped off a quick chuckle.
What a fucking tool. And why was he acting so damn smug? His task force was in charge of all event security. They were in the middle of a crisis, and yet he had time to act like a big fat asshole.
“Randy…” I was about to fire off a zinger that would make his head spin.
Then what would happen, Alex? He has a higher rank than you, and given the good-ol’-boy system that still existed, it could get messy for you. You want to throw away your career because of someone like Randy?
I actually debated that last question for a second—and that surprised me.
“Listen, Giordano—”
“It’s Troutt.”
I was so pissed off I could feel my eyes burning. I turned to see Brad walking my way, waving his arms and pointing at his phone.
“Yeah, whatever. I’ve got everything under control.”
“Control? It’s fucking chaos out here. Sounded like those were shrapnel bombs…at least one was. How about the other two bombs? And do we have any suspects on our radar or in custody?”
“We’re way ahead of you, Troutt. No need to worry. The good guys are on this. You go do what you normally do, and we’ll work night and day until we catch the bastards who attacked our city again. Later.”
The phone clicked off.
I growled, squeezing the phone until I thought it might crack in my hand.
“Alex, I just spoke—”
“That fucking Randy. I should have known better than to call him. I should have just shown up at the command center. Or just called Jerry and asked him how I can help. Maybe I’ll call Jerry now, since King Douchebag doesn’t think he needs my help. But if this city is relying on that guy to figure out who’s behind those bombings, we’ve got a major problem.”
I finally stopped for a second. Brad’s face was contorted. His body was rippling with tension.
“Sorry. What were you saying?”
“It’s Stan. He—”
“Stan? I thought you called Nick.”
“Give me a second. I called Nick, but Stan picked up his phone.” He wiped his face. “Nick’s been injured.”
My heart leaped into the back of my throat, and I froze.
“Stan said it’s bad. Real bad.”
4
Massachusetts General Hospital was only four miles away, but with all the chaos, I felt like it might take hours to reach Nick’s bedside. Still at the frat house, I spun in circles as I tried to think of the fastest way to get to the hospital. Erin grabbed my arm, stopping me mid-circle. “What is it, Erin?”
“Dylan has a motorcycle. He could take you there, weave through traffic.”
Dylan pulled up next to her—a little too close for my liking. “I’d be happy to help out.”
The little eavesdropper. But a motorcycle would definitely solve my problem. I started to give him more details, but he held up a hand.
“This is just wasting time. I have an extra helmet, if you’re game.”
With no better options, I was more than game. I kissed my family—Brad said to call as soon as I knew something, and he’d take care of the girls—and then I jumped on the back of Dylan’s motorcycle. We got to the hospital in fifteen minutes. I thanked Dylan, then rushed inside and found Stan sitting in a waiting room, his eyes stuck to the floor. He looked pasty white.
I touched his shoulder. “Stan…”
He stood, stroked his mustache with his good arm. He had a prosth
esis in place of his other arm, which had been severed by a psychopathic killer. It was after that near-death experience that Nick had flown down to San Antonio and willed his cousin to take charge of his life, including his bad eating habits and his understandably poor attitude. Apparently, Stan’s friend, Ivy Nash, played a major role in pushing Stan as well. It worked, which is all that Nick cared about. Stan had lost a ton of weight, put everything into his rehab, and made a goal to run a marathon. This marathon. Most of the incentive came from his competitiveness with Nick. They’d grown up together in the same Brooklyn neighborhood, had been an inseparable pair. When Nick returned to Boston, he gave me the full rundown on his cousin. “I had to do something,” Nick had said, “to get him off his ass and stop feeling sorry for himself.”
That was Nick. Loyal to the end.
The end. Just repeating it in my mind made my chest cave. This couldn’t be the end for Nick. No way. Not possible.
Stan’s eyes were wet as he rocked on his feet for a few seconds. He appeared to want to speak, but he wasn’t talking.
“What’s the status of his injuries, Stan?”
He gave me a heavy sigh. “You just missed him. They wheeled him into surgery.”
“Surgery. Why? Dammit, Stan, tell me what’s going on.”
“It was like a war zone. One moment, we’re all jogging up Heartbreak Hill, the crowd cheering us on, the weather just perfect, and then the next… I don’t know; it was crazy. All hell broke loose.”
He looked away and didn’t elaborate further. But I needed details. I needed information, just so I could process everything on my own. My partner, Nick, one of my closest, most loyal friends on the planet, and a damn good agent… We couldn’t lose him. I couldn’t lose him. Erin had been spared, but would the winds of fate be that cruel to take Nick instead?
“Lots of blood, Alex. More blood than—” He stopped short.
“What are his actual injuries?”
He pursed his lips and cleared his throat. He didn’t say anything for what seemed like forever. Finally, he said in such a low voice that I had to lean closer to hear him. “Punctured lung, for sure. Internal bleeding. They suspect the shrapnel has made a mess of his insides. Blood loss was extensive.”
AT Stake (An Alex Troutt Thriller, Book 7) (Redemption Thriller Series 19) Page 2
