head. “Can’t remember the last time I was this happy to be upright,” she commented. “Thanks.”
Fribush pointed toward the front seat with his crowbar. “Maltz in there, too?”
“No. Let’s do a quick search of the area.” Syd didn’t state the obvious, that since he’d been ejected they would probably be collecting parts of Maltz to take with them.
Fribush got a look in his eye. He nodded and handed her a spare flashlight.
Syd pulled her shirt over her mouth to filter out the silt. It was impossible to see more than a foot in any direction. The flashlight beam was refracted by the sand in the air, which almost made the cloud more impenetrable. They’d landed well off the highway-thank God Maltz had gotten away from the bridge before the explosion, otherwise they would have hurtled down a forty-foot drop. The area they’d landed in was flat. Her beam picked out a saguaro rising like a ghostly sentinel, spikes collecting grimy flakes of dust. Brush dotted the landscape, grasping at her feet as she shuffled through it. Pieces of metal were scattered across the ground, some from their car, some from others. She came across another twisted metal frame, bent almost beyond recognition. Syd panned her light inside, but it was too late for the driver.
She heard a yell and hurried toward it. Kane was kneeling on the ground next to the highway blacktop. In front of him lay the mangled body of Michael Maltz.
“Is he…” Syd suddenly realized this was going to affect her more than she’d anticipated. She had initially met Maltz in Syria, and they had worked together a few times since then. The sad truth was that more than anyone else in the world, including Jake, he had probably been her best friend.
His leg was bent at a strange angle and his face was a mass of road burn.
“He’s breathing,” Kane said, checking his pulse. “But we need to get him in. Now.”
She nodded. “Where’s the car?”
Kane didn’t answer. He and Fribush had already lifted Maltz. They moved at a full trot, Maltz bouncing slightly as Syd struggled to keep up. A green SUV was parked in the lot of a deserted office park. The steely facade was startlingly incongruous in the haze.
They drove fast, weaving around mangled cars that lay on their sides and roofs as if tossed by a giant tide that had receded. People stood at the side of the road looking bewildered. One raised an arm to flag them down, but they sped past.
“Jesus,” Syd said, taking in the destruction. “How far does this go?”
“About a click,” Fribush answered. “They’re setting up a perimeter now. Probably take them a few hours to help these folks. They care more about containing the damage.”
“How did you get through?”
Fribush didn’t answer, but for the first time since he’d found her managed a small smile.
The haze was starting to dissipate and Syd gulped deep drafts of air, trying to clear her lungs.
“We heard on the scanner that they’re setting up a decontam center at the state hospital. It’s not far. We’ll head there, get you checked out, too.” Fribush shook his head. “All that talk after 9/11 about preparedness. They didn’t prepare jack-shit.”
“They never really thought it could happen here. Not like this,” Syd said quietly. “They never understand what people are capable of.”
Jake, George and Rodriguez sat transfixed by the TV monitor: aerial views of Phoenix from choppers; an enormous cloud shrouding the southern part of the city; interviews with people who had stumbled out of the haze. Survivors were dazed, clearly in shock, all dusted with a fine layer of silt, lending them an oddly uniform appearance. Reporters shouted questions at them as they were bundled in survival blankets and trundled into waiting ambulances. Emergency workers in the background wore grim expressions. Cops held out their arms, shepherding the reporters back. An excited babble of contradictory information. Depending on which channel you tuned to it was a terrorist act by al Qaeda, a gas tanker explosion, a chemical plant accident. Shots of the northern part of the city, a sheer wall of cars with personal items strapped to roofs and spilling out windows as people grabbed what they could and fled. Cell phone networks were overwhelmed by calls and servers were failing. The governor urged everyone to stay calm, claiming they had the situation under control. No one believed him.
“Jesus,” George commented. “If it’s already like this, imagine what’ll happen when someone mentions radiation.”
“They’re probably waiting for the National Guard to arrive before announcing that,” Rodriguez said.
Jake didn’t say anything. He flipped from channel to channel, pausing whenever the camera zoomed in on one of the survivors. Rodriguez and George exchanged a glance.
“Riley, I’m sure Syd’s fine,” George said, not sounding sure at all.
“She was in the immediate kill radius,” Jake said flatly. Which meant her chances for surviving the blast were slim to none. It was almost inconceivable that Syd, who seemed impervious to danger, could be taken out by anything. Even a dirty bomb.
“We don’t know that. They were driving away when it happened,” Rodriguez said weakly.
“We should go there. See if we can help,” Jake said.
George shook his head. “No way. Airports are closed, they’re not letting anyone in or out. Not even us.”
“I can’t just sit here,” Jake said, running a hand through his hair. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so impotent. Syd was in Phoenix, dead or dying. He hadn’t heard from Kelly. The airport was only a few miles from ground zero, she might have been on the ground when it detonated. And he was sitting on his ass in a goddamn trailer in Houston.
“Nothing we can do, bro,” George said sympathetically.
The door opened, and they all swiveled toward it. An agent from the Houston field office stood there. “Where’s ASAC Leonard?” he asked.
“Not here,” George said. “Why?”
“Dallas found something, they’re asking for backup.”
“Great. Tell them we’re on our way,” George said authoritatively, grabbing his windbreaker off the back of his chair.
“I thought Leonard had to clear…”
“It’s fine. Get us transportation there, we’ll take along anyone you can spare.”
“I guess.” The agent looked dubious. “But maybe I should run this past my ASAC.”
“Go ahead. I’m willing to bet right now he’d say the more the merrier.” George raised an eyebrow. “All on the same team, right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“So let’s get to Dallas.”
Thirty-Seven
Dante examined the float. Even he could see it was over the top. But then beaners weren’t known for their good taste, so it was probably perfect. A papier-mache version of the White House covered the barrel that held the bomb. It was surrounded by a desert panorama and photos of famous spics. He shook his head. It was almost too good. Rage welled up in him at the sight of all those brown faces. A few of his guys were going over everything one last time, checking the detonator, making sure the barrel was completely concealed. Tomorrow they’d stock the float with illegals, drive to the parade staging area, and wave bye-bye. Dante glanced at his watch, feeling a tremor of nervous anticipation. In a little more than twelve hours, America would be stepping back onto the right path. There was a cot in the office and he considered trying for a few hours of sleep, but he was too keyed up.
Dante could picture the Feds reviewing video camera footage from the parade route, the shot of the float going by, the bright flash…they’d make the connection, all right. And when they found out the truck was rented in Mexico and driven across the Texas border a week ago, that would clinch it. It was genius. Jackson would make a big speech connecting Morris’s murder to this new attack on America, and the government would finally do something about all the spics.
Growing up, Dante’s favorite movie had been Red Dawn, about a Russian invasion of the United States. The
