by P A Duncan
Despite Elijah’s recent doubts, Carroll had done everything Elijah asked of him. If ordered, Elijah knew Carroll would light the fuse, but Yahweh would guide Elijah’s hand. Igniting the second American revolution was Elijah’s place in history. John Carroll was merely the means.
Should he kill Carroll, leave his body in the truck, have it all fall on his shoulders? Elijah could hear Lewis’ voice: “No, let the police take him.”
For all intents and purposes, Elijah didn’t exist. Even if Carroll gave the police Elijah’s name, the cops would think Carroll was merely evading responsibility.
If Lewis were here, as he should have been, he would say to Elijah, “I am proud of you, my son.”
From his trouser pocket, Elijah took an antique, silver cigarette lighter, ornate engraving worn smooth in places. The SS emblem remained sharp. Whenever Elijah held it, he felt connected to a long line of Aryan warriors. It had been Lewis’ most prized possession.
Elijah turned it over to re-read the German inscription: “Presented to…” Here, Lewis had obliterated his real name, but Elijah saw a “P” at the beginning and three letters at the end: “and.” “…For his service to the Fatherland from his grateful Fuhrer. A. Hitler March 1943.”
Tomorrow was Hitler’s one hundred sixth birthday. Until Killeen happened, April 20 was going to be the date of this reckoning. Lewis had changed it to April 19 for better symbolism.
Elijah flicked the lighter open, rotated the striking wheel. The butane-fueled spark flared, quivered in the morning breeze, and steadied. He focused on the unwavering flame that would light Yahweh’s all-consuming fire to punish…every-fucking-one.
He closed the lighter, brought it to his lips. The residual warmth was the breath of Yahweh’s love. God was great. Elijah kept the lighter tight in his fist as he climbed into the truck’s cab. He gave John Carroll a smile of encouragement.
No. Not John Carroll.
The Instrument.
Show time.
41
Encounters
Short of blocking every street in downtown Kansas City, Mai realized they couldn’t establish a solid perimeter. Her frustration became anger when she saw the sheriffs packing their gear.
“What are they doing?” she asked Alexei.
The bomb squad chief spoke. “Lady, we went through every room on every floor and around the exterior twice. Nothing.”
“The bomb is on its way,” Mai said.
“Yeah, well, my FBI buddy says you’re full of shit. Have a nice day.” The sheriffs climbed into their vehicles and drove away.
“Bastards,” Mai muttered. “We can pull a fire alarm.”
“Let me think,” Alexei said.
Mai started to rebuke him but saw his tired eyes. “It’s 0820.”
“Mai, give me a minute,” he told her.
She showed him her disappointment and walked away.
Alexei turned to Lucas Walker. “Eighteen of us makes a porous perimeter.”
“It’s all we have,” Walker replied. “You think the bomb’s on the way now?”
“In a twenty- to twenty-four-foot rental truck. The bomb is two tons or more.”
“Jesus! Is it a fucking A-bomb?”
“ANFO.”
“Jesus. When he called me Director Stark said my response was at my discretion, so everyone here is at your disposal.”
Nodding, Alexei said, “Move out in an expanding circle. Are you on tactical radios?”
“I got a couple of spares.” Walker handed over two radios.
“Thanks. A rental truck, any variety, and a man in his late twenties, buzz cut, blue eyes, my height. He carries a forty-five Glock in a left-hand draw. Take him alive if possible.”
A late model sedan approached the two men, slowing. Walker’s hand went to his gun but relaxed when the driver’s window lowered.
Karen Wolfe.
“What’s up, Sky?” she asked, eyes on Alexei.
Alexei realized Walker had called in his agents early, except for her. Alexei looked for Mai. She’d turned around to watch.
“Alexei,” Karen said. “How are you?”
“Busy.”
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Not now, Karen.”
“Can’t be civil if wifey’s around?”
He pointed a finger at her. “Stop. Now.”
She looked away, a hint of tears in her eyes. “What’s going on?” she asked Walker.
“We’ve got an unfolding situation. Go park your car and get back here. I’ll brief you,” Walker replied.
“All right, Sky. Looks like we’re working together, Alexei.”
“Karen, park on the street. Don’t go into the building,” Alexei said.
“Watch out. Wifey might think you care.” Karen drove away.
“I’ll keep her out of the way,” Walker said.
“Thanks.” Alexei put on his emotionless mask, like armor, and strode over to Mai.
“I hope blood remains above your waist,” Mai said.
“It’s nothing.” He handed her a radio.
“An interesting definition of nothing.”
“Mai, it’s nothing. Walker and his men are forming a perimeter around the building. Do you want north or south?”
“North, where the car is. We should do this for no more than fifteen minutes. Then, we need to start evacuating.” She moved away.
“Mai?”
She turned, though she walked backwards.
“Again, be careful.”
He got a smirk for an answer before she turned and jogged away.
42
So Shall You Reap
Elijah continually lit his lighter and closed the lid. Jaw clenched, John Carroll said, “Stop that, please.”
“Why?”
“What happens if we go to light the fuse, and you’ve used all the lighter fluid?”
“Relax. God has it under control.” Elijah looked at the sky. “Yahweh be praised, it’s a beautiful morning. The news helicopters will have perfect angles and lighting for effective shots. The whole world will see what Yahweh has wrought.”
Whatever, Carroll thought. Let Prophet do the God thing. Carroll minded traffic, looked for cops, for anything that might stop them. The traffic was light, even downtown. They were right on schedule. Ahead, a traffic light turned red, and he thought about running it. No, calm down, he thought.
He could see the top of the Becker Building. His face revealed nothing, but his heart raced. He hunted in his jacket pocket for his earplugs and shoved them into place.
“Pull in there,” Elijah said, pointing to a loading dock.
Had Prophet seen something? Carroll obeyed, but no one would question a big truck sitting in a loading zone. He heard Prophet strike the lighter, followed by a sizzling sound.
“That’s the five-minute fuse,” said Prophet.
It sounded like a Fourth of July sparkler on steroids. The cab filled with acrid smoke.
“Fuck,” Carroll muttered and lowered his window.
“No! Someone will see.”
“Dude, I have to see to drive.”
Carroll pulled back onto the street. As the fuse burned rearward, less smoke accumulated in the cab. A traffic light got him again, next to a mid-rise apartment building.
Prophet lit the second fuse.
“You could have waited until the light turned green,” Carroll said.
Prophet slouched in his seat and smiled. The light stayed red. Blood pounded in Carroll’s ears, like when he’d been in combat. He imagined he heard a clock ticking. His eyes watered from the smoke.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered, and Prophet laughed.
The light turned green.
Carroll willed his foot not to stomp the accelerator. The Becker Building loomed before him. His stomach gave one of its nausea-inducing churns, and he swallowed against it.
Mother of God, he thought, I’m doing this. He brought the soldier front and center.
The side parking lot was empty. Had the spot he’d picked been filled, he’d circle the block to the rear loading dock. That would have lessened his chance of escape, and he was glad he didn’t have to do that. Maybe this Yahweh thing was something after all. He parked the truck and ran a mental checklist: fuses lit, parked in the optimum spot, plenty of time to get away.
“Now,” Prophet said, “they shall reap what they sowed.” He opened his door.
I’m outta here, Carroll thought.
Alexei jogged between buildings, south of the Becker Building. The streets filled with morning commuters.
Where the fuck was John Carroll?
Had Mai been wrong?
No. Something filled the air, put his nerves on edge. He was Russian. Gloom and doom were part of his psyche. This was something almost palpable. The sky was so blue it could hurt your eyes. A perfect morning. A nexus of time, place, and history. Now, to keep a bomb-laden truck away from that nexus.
All in a morning’s work.
Time to start an evacuation. Perhaps if Carroll saw that activity, he’d drive away.
Alexei sensed the truck before he saw it. Whether his own intuition or some vibration from the engine, it didn’t matter. To his right, a yellow Ryder truck left a traffic light, slow enough he could catch it. He stepped off the curb, stopped at the blare of a horn. The driver of a Mercedes glared at Alexei.
Alexei caught a glimpse of a crew-cut head as the truck drew away and turned into the small, side parking lot of the Becker Building. If Carroll was lighting the fuse now, Alexei had time. If it were already lit, he was a dead man.
Did he have time to call Mai, tell her he loved her?
That was defeatism.
He was a block away when John Carroll left the truck and hurry-walked north. Where Mai was. Alexei had a clear shot at Carroll’s back and brought out his gun. A second man left the vehicle, and Alexei recognized him.
Elijah stopped, looked at Alexei, and smiled. Alexei took out his mobile and speed-dialed Mai. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Headed back to the building.”
“Negative. The truck’s here. Carroll’s headed your way. Get him.”
“Alexei. Get out of there.”
“Working on it.” He hung up.
Elijah motioned him to come.
Alexei dialed the ATF office.
“ATF, Karen Wolfe.”
Irony was interesting. “Karen, Walker told you to stay outside.”
His and Elijah’s eyes locked.
“Alexei? I’ve got work to do.”
“Karen, a truck in the side lot has a bomb. Start an evacuation.”
“Are you serious?”
“This is Elijah’s work. Get people out through the rear exits. Now.”
“Alexei…”
“Do it!”
“God, let me look.”
“No! Karen!”
The phone thumped on a desk.
Elijah leaned against the truck, eyes triumphant. Alexei’s mobile beeped with an incoming call.
“Alexei?” he heard Mai say. Her voice, now, in his ear. He shot Elijah between the eyes.
The light enveloped him; the roar deafened him. The concussion lifted Alexei off his feet and hurled him backward in a cloud of smoke and dust and debris.
43
Don’t Look Back
Damn, Mai thought, looking for Carroll’s familiar form. Alexei could take care of himself. She headed for the getaway car and stopped dead.
The car was gone. No, she couldn’t have missed him. Not enough time for him to get here.
The two men this morning, one twirling a key.
Mai ran back to the larger street. She glimpsed a yellow truck in the Becker Building’s side lot. A movement to her right. A tall, crew-cut man walking fast. He ducked behind a parking garage. He glanced back over his shoulder, and Mai recognized his profile.
Who had moved the getaway car? Why?
No time for analysis.
Mai charged toward John Carroll.
DON’TLOOKBACK! DON’TLOOKBACK!
He focused on getting to the car but couldn’t resist the need to look. He stopped, turned.
The building shone in the morning sun. Nothing had happened. Was he going to have to go back?
Running footsteps coming toward him. He whirled, hand on his gun. His body convulsed with recognition. She’d come for him, like in his dreams. She slowed and brought out her Beretta, pointing it at him.
“Siobhan?” he said. “It’s me.”
“I know who the fuck you are,” she said. “The truck key. Give it to me.”
Carroll frowned. Siobhan didn’t sound like Siobhan.
“Carroll, give me the fucking key!”
“Siobhan, I don’t understand.”
“Move!” she ordered, motioning with the gun. “Back to the truck now, or I blow your head off.”
“No, it’s too late.”
She pulled out a cell phone and dialed someone. “Alexei,” she said.
Who the hell was that?
A gunshot.
She heard it, too, and looked toward the building.
The roar made his ears hurt despite ear plugs. The ground heaved, and Carroll lunged toward Siobhan to break her fall. She crashed on her side, a grunt emerging. Every building around them shuddered or swayed. Glass exploded from windows; bricks tumbled to the ground. The concussion whipped around buildings, the Venturi effect almost sucking air from his lungs. A split second of deep, eerie silence followed by a constant rumble rising to another roar. Debris rained. Carroll curled in a ball and covered his head with his arms. He peeked and saw Siobhan had done the same.
Something struck the side of Siobhan’s head, above her ear, and blood spurted.
“No!” he said, reaching for her.
A popping sound made him look around. A power line had snapped free from somewhere. Whipping back and forth, it headed straight for her. Carroll gained his feet, grabbed her under her armpits, and pulled her away. He rolled her beneath him and covered her body with his. The live wire struck the ground several feet away and sputtered. Dozens of tiny fires burned around them. Pieces of singed paper fluttered about like confetti.
Siobhan elbowed him in the gut and pushed him away. She stumbled to her feet and pointed the gun she’d somehow held onto.
“You bastard,” she said. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Christ, yes.”
“On your feet.”
His hands raised, he stood. Blood dribbled down her neck, staining her white shirt. She looked at the building. Swallowing hard, he did too. He couldn’t see the building. For a moment, he was exhilarated. Had the whole thing come down?
Siobhan peered at the streets around them as if looking for someone. She lowered her gun. He’d never seen such desolation on her face. She looked at him. “I found you before. I’ll find you again.” She turned and ran toward hell.
“Siobhan!” he called.
44
Chaos
Mai ignored Carroll’s calls to Siobhan. She’d seen to Carroll’s capture; the hard edges of the license plate dug into her back.
She had to find Alexei.
Her ears rang. Everything sounded as if she were under water. A group of people running away from the building swarmed around her, and she waded against the tide. The Becker Building looked as if someone had taken a impossibly large knife and carved half of it away. Smoke poured from the ruptured structure. Dozens of car alarms blared. She looked to her right.
How odd was it someone had left a bundle of clothes propped against a building? It looked like a man with gray-white hair.
“No, no, no,” she murmured. She repeated that, hoping the bundle would disappear, that she was seeing things.
She stumbled to where Alexei lay against a building, legs splayed, hands at his sides, head lowered. One blackened and bloody hand held his mobile; the other his gun. She almost laughed; they’d both held onto their weapons amid the c
haos. Mai knelt in a pool of his blood.
Fingers trembling, she checked his pulse. Fluttery. She leaned down to peer into his face. A bad cut on top of his head had left a streak of blood over his forehead, beside his nose, over his lips and chin. Embedded in his chest and legs were shards of glass, fragments of metal and plastic. When she’d decided not to wear a ballistic vest, he’d followed her lead.
Think, Fisher. How do you staunch his bleeding without pushing shrapnel deeper? Nothing came to her. Fecking useless, she thought.
Sirens.
Mai looked to her left. A line of ambulances headed toward the Becker building. On shaky legs, she ran toward them, leaving bloody footprints. The first two ambulances ignored her wave.
Eejit, you have a gun.
She stepped into the street, Beretta aimed where the driver would be. He slammed on his brakes, stopping inches from her. Mai went to the driver’s door and yanked it open.
“I’m a cop,” she lied. “I have an officer down.”
Cop. The magic word. The paramedics grabbed their gear and ran to where Mai pointed. Her head and her side throbbing, Mai jogged after them.
“What was it?” an EMT shouted over her shoulder. “Gas main?”
“Bomb,” Mai said.
The EMTs clustered around Alexei, and Mai hung back. Two women passed by, enough alike they had to be mother and daughter. The older woman held the younger one upright. The younger woman kept saying, “My babies are in there.”
Mai closed her eyes. Had Walker and his agents been far enough away? How many people lay dead and dying because of her arrogance?
“Ma’am?”
They’d come to tell her he was dead. She’d let John Carroll live and killed Alexei.
“Ma’am?”
Mai brought her mask up and turned.
“Ma’am, you’re hurt.”
Mai looked at herself. The front of her shirt was red with blood. “Am I?” she asked.
