bringing them outside the perimeter in case this thing is on a timer. Bomb squad is going to fly in some suppressant and dump it over the truck. But so far so good.”
“What exploded?” Jake asked.
“Flash bangs after we blew the tires. These boys are practically bleeding out their ears.” The agent on the radio chuckled. “We had them on the ground and hog-tied in under a minute.”
“Nice work,” George said. “Keep us posted.”
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Rodriguez sighed. “Looks like they didn’t need us after all.”
“You kidding? I was not liking the possibility of being anywhere near a dirty bomb,” George said. “Those things mess with your DNA. And I plan on sending little Fongs out into the world someday.”
“God help us all,” Jake said.
They all laughed harder than the joke deserved. Since arriving in California six days ago, Jake had existed in a tight knot of adrenaline and nerves. It was a relief to feel some of that release.
“One more down, anyway,” Rodriguez said. “Wonder how they’re doing in San Diego.”
As if on cue, George’s phone rang. “Fong here,” he answered.
His face grew still as he listened. Jake and Rodriguez waited impatiently for him to finish. After a minute he said, “Right, I understand. Thanks for calling.”
“Well?” Rodriguez asked.
George examined the dashboard. “They stopped the bomb in San Diego. Leonard had high-tech jammers block detonation.”
“So what’s with the face?” Rodriguez asked. “This is good news, right?”
George met Jake’s eyes for a second before shifting back to the dash. A chill crept around Jake’s heart.
“What is it,” he asked, fighting to keep his voice level.
“Dante had a grenade, they think it was his backup plan to ignite the C4. It didn’t work, but a bunch of agents were moving in to arrest him. Leonard and two others were a few feet away when it blew. They didn’t make it. Another nine are injured, some critically. And Agent Jones…”
“She’s dead?” Rodriguez asked.
“No, she’s in a medically induced coma. Jake, they said it doesn’t look good.”
Jake’s jaw set in a hard line. He whipped the car around and floored the accelerator.
“Maybe I should drive,” George said.
“Jake, we haven’t actually gotten permission to leave-” Rodriguez protested.
“Fuck permission,” Jake snarled. “I’m getting on the next plane. Find out what hospital she’s in.”
July 4
Forty
Jackson Burke jerked awake. An empty bottle of whiskey lay beside him, the television was still tuned to Fox News. With a groan he rubbed his head. He didn’t remember polishing off the rest of the bottle, in fact he didn’t remember much after his conversation with Dante. The disposable cell phone sat on the end table next to his blood pressure medication. He’d have to dispose of it today, maybe bury it in the woods.
His eyes narrowed as a newscaster announced that the Phoenix bombing was being declared an “accident,” and that contrary to rumors no chemical toxins were dispersed by the dust cloud. In fact, the governor was urging people to return to their homes. The camera cut to the governor at a press conference. Jackson snorted as his old pal Gary bleated on about the state coming together in the aftermath of this terrible tragedy, about how they’d all work together to rebuild, blah, blah, blah.
But could they be lying? Surely they would have tested the area for radioactivity. The emissions should have been significant. Jackson pondered it. Either the government was willfully encouraging people to remain in an area polluted by gamma rays, or something had gone wrong with the bomb’s construction. He clenched his hands. Apparently Dante had let him down again.
Jackson frowned and kneaded his temples. It took a minute to pinpoint what was nagging at him. Why weren’t they discussing San Diego and Dallas? Those explosions should be dominating the news. He flipped through the channels, all were still spreading and discrediting rumors about Phoenix. Every major affiliate was interviewing locals who had lost family in the blast. A cement wall near the off-ramp was covered with photos of missing relatives, serving as an impromptu bulletin board.
Irritated by the sight of an obese woman whimpering into a microphone, Jackson shut off the TV and stomped to the desk in the corner. Grabbing his laptop, he stormed back to the couch. The online news sites all had the Phoenix incident as their top story, although most claimed it was an accidental crash involving a truck transporting crude oil. He finally located a link to San Diego. Around dawn the AP reported a small explosion near the U.S./Mexico border. Initially news crews leaped on it, but a border patrol spokesperson announced it was just fireworks, and the story quickly slid into the background. Search as he might, he couldn’t find anything about Dallas.
Jackson reflexively clenched his fists. So it had all been for nothing. True to form the government was burying it, making sure the event went down as an accident. And there was a chance that both Dante and Christian were alive and in custody.
Jackson felt a familiar light-headedness and his vision blurred. Faltering to his feet, he lurched across the room, grabbing the pill bottle on his second attempt. He wrestled the top off, palmed a pill and tossed it in his mouth. He gagged as it caught in his throat. Jackson stumbled to the wet bar, stuck his head under the faucet and gulped some water. Standing and wiping his mouth, he immediately felt better. Thank God for modern medicine, he thought.
An instant later, an enormous pressure as if someone had reached into his chest and was crushing his heart.
Jackson tried to sit, but a spasm rocked him and he went down hard. Jesus, he’d never experienced pain like this before. Sweat poured from him, and his lungs compressed. He gasped for breath. The cell phone was still on the end table. He had to get to it and call 911…
A blond woman appeared above him. He blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating. She was dressed all in black, her feet on either side of his head. Jackson grabbed at her ankles, but she kicked his hands away. He opened his mouth to beg for help, but only a strangled gurgle came out.
She shook something. It made a happy sound, like maracas. “You looked stressed, so I replaced your pills with Nardil. Hope you don’t mind.” She knelt by his head, stroked his hair, and bent to whisper in his ear. “But you really should have mentioned the high blood pressure meds. All sorts of drugs don’t react well with those. Especially if you’ve been drinking.” She nodded toward the bottle on the sofa.
“Ple-ease…” he managed to grunt, imploring her with his eyes.
“Sorry, Mr. Burke,” she said, strolling toward the door. “I’m fresh out of favors at the moment. Happy Independence Day.”
Forty-One
Jake sat by Kelly’s hospital bed, head in his hands. He’d had to fight to enter the ICU. In the end, George’s badge got them through before Jake punched a nurse.
George stood by the window, gazing out at the setting sun. They’d taken the first flight out of Dallas, arriving in San Diego around noon. George periodically excused himself to field some calls, then returned with updates on the bomb investigation. Jake didn’t even bother processing those, he just sat staring blankly at the motionless form on the bed. Kelly looked so small lying there. Part of him didn’t believe it was really her, she looked too frail, her skin so pale it was almost translucent.
A hole had been torn in the truck by the force of the blast, but the C4 didn’t ignite. Leonard died instantly,
