building, and the quantity of SEMTEX H that would be necessary to cut through such material.
Shakib had appreciated the patient explanation, and absorbed the information attentively with few interruptions. Although the American understood nothing of Islam, his technical expertise accorded him some measure of respect. Shakib admired diligence in one’s chosen profession. In the end, the months of preparation had come down to this one moment.
It was time.
Eight floors down, the reporters were angrily berating the police officers pushing them farther down the street. The nasty edge to the elevated voices carried high above the crowd, adding to the collective tension. New barriers were erected and more men stationed behind them. Luke Hendricks was holding a cell phone in each hand, barking orders into each as lesser agents hovered around him, vying for his attention.
Ryan and Naomi had been pushed aside by the agents milling around the command vehicle, so that they were now on the perimeter, almost as far away from the action as the buzzing reporters. This was moving too fast. Kealey wouldn’t breathe easy again until Shakib was on the ground in handcuffs, and everybody was clear of the area. Instinctively, he began looking around for potential cover, his gaze settling on the heavy transport van located just a few feet away. Far above his position, a sniper from the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team spoke into his headset.
“All ground units, this is Sierra Three. The doors to the balcony are open, over.”
On the ground, eyes shot skyward in unison. Hendricks lifted a radio to his mouth, walking away from the crowd of people surrounding him. “Sierra Three, this is Command. Do you have a shot?”
“That’s affirmative, over.”
“Okay… Okay, sit tight. We need to-”
“Hold on,” came the sudden interruption. “Command, he’s got something in his hand. I can’t identify-”
Luke briefly wondered what it could be as various scenarios raced through his mind. When he hit upon the worst possibility, he was shouting into the radio, “Sierra Three, take the shot, I say again, take the shot now!”
Special Agent Mark Silverstein peered through the Leupold Vari-X scope mounted to his custom-made Remington 700P LTR rifle. The cold wind whipping across the top of the building scraped at his nerves, but he had already adjusted his sights accordingly. There was nothing more he could do, except to put his faith in his training. At such a short distance, he elected for a head shot, and was surprised to see the target smiling in his direction as he eased back on the trigger.
As the. 308 round violently exited the back of Michael Shakib’s head in a pink cloud, the spasm caused by his sudden death caused his right hand to squeeze tight around the electric detonator it contained. It could have gone either way, but the fist was squeezed tightly… The circuit that his visitor had carefully constructed less than two weeks earlier was finally completed.
Before Hendricks even issued the order to fire, Ryan Kealey was already pushing his way through the crowd of agents and police officers who were staring at the top of the building. He was dragging Naomi behind him and screaming at Hendricks to evacuate the area, and then at the crowd: “GET DOWN, GET DOWN!” Even as the words left his mouth, he knew that they wouldn’t make a difference. He pulled Naomi toward the transport van, his eyes locked onto the open rear doors of the vehicle.
Far above, a brilliant white light erupted from the side of the building, immediately followed by an ear- splitting crack as the cutting charge ripped the pillar in half. Before the loudest part of the explosion reached them, the crowd below was momentarily blinded by the initial flash. Fortunately, many were spared the sight of the eastern face of the building collapsing out toward them.
Assistant Special Agent in Charge Luke Hendricks had been distracted by the figure racing through the crowd. His vision was not obscured, and so he was able to watch in disbelief as death rained down from above. Falling awkwardly to the ground, he pressed his face into the freezing asphalt, covered his head with his hands, and opened his mouth to scream.
The thunderous roar of the explosion echoed in Kealey’s ears as he threw Naomi into a corner of the armored vehicle and covered her body with his. Her muffled screams vibrated through his chest as thousands of pounds of cement, marble, and iron from the building’s facade crashed down onto Connecticut Avenue. He could hear no other sound of human life, only the deafening sound of the world falling down around them. A sudden impact crushed the opposite end of the vehicle, flipping the van onto its side like a toy. He felt something sharp tear into his face as the walls caved in, the wheels ripped from the axles, the polycarbonate glass crumpling in the windshield and passenger doors. Then the noise was gone and everything went black.
CHAPTER 8
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Connecticut Avenue was a scene of devastation this morning as an explosion tore apart the eastern face of the Kennedy-Warren residential complex. Although the building was evacuated prior to the explosion, officials fear that the death toll will continue to climb as many people at the scene are still unaccounted for. The explosion appears to be terrorist related, and is thought to have originated in the eighth-floor apartment of Michael Shakib, the man who allegedly provided information that led to the assassination of Senator Daniel Levy, the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, here in Washington almost two weeks ago. We’ll have more updates on the way. I’m Susan Watkins, for CNN.”
Katie Donovan hurried past the disbelieving crowd gathered round the television in Terminal A of Dulles International, barely taking the time to glance at the ruined building on the screen. United Airlines Flight 213 had just landed after leaving Bangor less than ninety minutes earlier. She had gripped the armrests tightly the entire flight, struggling to maintain the self-control that had been gradually slipping away since she first heard about the bombing earlier that morning. A sick fear had taken root and blossomed in her chest as the hours crept past.
Ryan had given her a cell phone number for emergencies, but she reached only his voice mail each time she tried to call. Then she attempted to reach him by calling Langley direct, but they refused to give her any information, instead referring her to a hotline set up to handle calls from friends and relatives of the victims. Victims. The word echoed in her head. It was hard to imagine Ryan being victimized by anything, but she couldn’t shake the fear, and the panic threatened to consume her — if he was okay, he would have called. She knew he would have called. By the time she reached the Avis counter, it was all she could do to keep from screaming.
Forty-five minutes later, Katie’s rented Taurus screeched to a halt outside Georgetown University Hospital. A uniformed police officer yelled at her as she ran through the assembled crowd of reporters and into the building, leaving the car unattended with the keys still in the ignition. A preoccupied nurse absently waved her toward surgery care, which led in turn to a large room decorated in a failed effort to project cheer. Katie could not imagine a more despairing sight. The room was filled to capacity with frightened-looking people. She was dimly aware of quiet whispers of support and low, muffled sobs.
With weak knees, she squeezed through the crowd to the desk and tried to speak to the woman on the other side, but the words were slow in coming.
“Are you okay?” the attendant asked with a genuinely concerned expression. The young woman standing before her looked terrible, hair plastered to her face, the skin around her eyes red and puffy. “Take your time, honey. It’s going to be fine.”
Katie took a deep breath and rested her shaking hands on the counter for support. “I’m looking for my fiance, Ryan Kealey. Ryan Thomas Kealey.”
The nurse looked down through the list, shaking her head. “I don’t see anyone by that name.” Katie felt her heart sink, but there was a glimmer of hope. Maybe he hadn’t even been at the Kennedy-Warren. But if he was okay, why hadn’t he called? It just didn’t make sense… “Hold on, honey, let me double-check.” As the nurse turned to question a harried surgeon, Katie squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to breathe again.
“Katie?”
She looked up to see him standing in the doorway, a large bandage covering the left side of his face. She could see long tears in his leather jacket, streaks of dried blood on his stained jeans and the backs of his hands. He hadn’t called… It didn’t matter, because he was there, alive. Her right hand flew to her mouth, the other reaching out for him as the tears streamed down her face.
