As he stepped away, the woman standing next to Tucker said something in a low voice.
“Excuse me?” Tucker said.
“What?” She sounded startled. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I was … well, I was practicing what I was going to say.”
Tucker laughed. “No problem. Completely under—”
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Tucker whipped his head around, looking toward the voice. It had come from somewhere beyond the street.
A man dressed in dark jeans, black T-shirt, and a jacket had entered the parking lot and was walking toward where Tucker and the others were waiting, his hands raised in the air. Several Secret Service agents already had their guns drawn, and aimed at the man as they walked quickly toward him.
“Sir, you need to stop right where you are.” The voice was that of Agent Dettling, but it hardly registered to Tucker.
What caused him to freeze was the man with his hands in the air.
Jonathan Quinn.
“Fuck me,” Tucker said under his breath.
Quinn stopped twenty feet into the parking lot, his arms still raised above his head.
A quartet of Secret Service agents walked toward him. Each had a gun trained on his chest. Behind Quinn, back toward the exit to the street, he could hear at least as many police officers closing in.
Quinn focused on one of the men in front of him. “I need to talk to the agent in charge.”
“Sir, get down on your knees, then lay down on the ground,” the agent said.
“I need to talk to the agent in charge.”
“Get down on your knees, then lay on the ground. Now!”
Quinn knew they were going to rush him, but if they did, he’d lose what advantage he had.
“You need to call off the event,” he said. “There’s a bomb.”
Everyone stopped moving.
Tucker pulled out his phone and the piece of paper he’d been given when the helicopters had landed. Somewhere out in the streets surrounding the school there were two parked cars with enough explosives to get everyone’s attention. The plan was to set them off thirty seconds after the bombs in the school were detonated, helping to create even more chaos so that Tucker and his men could get away. All he had to do was call the phone number on the paper, then the first would go off a moment later, the next twenty seconds after that.
He glanced at Petersen. “Be ready,” he mouthed.
One of the agents lifted his wrist to his mouth and spoke too low for Quinn to hear.
“I’m not joking around,” Quinn said. “Call it off. There’s a bomb in the building.”
“On the ground,” the first agent said.
Quinn looked past him toward the crowd gathered on the sidewalk. It was a mix of adults and children, all staring at him, the children in curiosity and the adults in fear. All, that was, except the large man standing toward one end. The look he gave Quinn wasn’t fear. It was anger.
And several people away from Tucker, toward the middle of the group, was one of the men Quinn had seen at Yellowhammer. He was holding Iris in his arms.
“It’s him!” Quinn said, still keeping his arm raised, but pointing in Tucker’s direction. “The bomber. He’s right there!”
The agents didn’t turn around, their training keeping them focused on what they considered to be the primary threat. But Quinn had said it loud enough to reach the crowd at the sidewalk. Several of the adults and two of the agents who had held back looked where he was pointing.
“On the ground n—”
The agent’s voice was cut off by the near-deafening boom of an explosion.
CHAPTER 41
The crowd both inside and outside the school grounds started screaming. People began running in all directions. Before they could get even a few feet, a second bomb went off. Like the first, it was somewhere in the streets beyond the school grounds.
The chaos became total. Three of the agents watching Quinn took off in the direction of the explosions, leaving only the fourth to guard him.
“Over to the sidewalk,” the agent said.
He held his position, waiting for Quinn to pass by him. But when Quinn came abreast of the agent, he dropped low and rammed his head into the man’s gut. The agent expelled a loud breath, then fell to the ground.
Quinn pinned the agent’s arm down with a knee, preventing the man from using his gun. Then he punched the man twice in the face. It took a third hit, though, before the agent lost consciousness.
Quinn jumped up and sprinted toward the sidewalk near the school entrance. He all but expected another agent to come at him, but they were occupied elsewhere.
People were running everywhere. To the school, away from the school, in all directions. Some of the people who had been in the streets had moved onto the grounds, seeking shelter and adding to the frenzy.
Ahead at the door that led into the school, two women were trying to get the last of the children inside. The final child was a little girl who couldn’t have been any more than five. African-American. And like the boy who had reached out to Quinn in the room at Yellowhammer, she also appeared to have Down syndrome.
“Come on, Iris. Let’s go inside,” one of the women said.
“No!” Quinn yelled.
The women looked up in terror, then grabbed the girl and rushed her across the threshold.
Quinn raced down the sidewalk and threw the door open. He had to get to Iris before she triggered the explosives hidden somewhere inside.
That was if he wasn’t already too late.
Tucker ran as fast as he could. Petersen, who had been built for strength more than speed, had fallen several paces behind.
Smoke, dust, and debris from the car bombs had begun to descend over the neighborhood, creating a milky haze. Some people were still screaming as they ran. Others had faces covered with tears, while a few tried to act the hero and urged everyone to remain calm.
“Get out of my fucking way,” Tucker said as he shoved a teenage boy into a parked car.
He just needed to get a few more blocks. A blue Honda Accord was parked waiting for him on Anchor Street. With so many Hondas on the road, it would provide a certain amount of anonymity. Tucker had memorized the license plate number, and been told the keys would be under the front seat.
The crowd thinned the farther he got from the school, some choosing one street thinking it would take them to safety, while others chose another. By the time Tucker was within a block of the car, there were only a handful of people still running with him.
He glanced over his shoulder to see how far back Petersen had fallen. He could only see four people. A man and a woman on the other side of the street, gripping each other’s hands as they fled. And on his side, farther back, a teenage girl, and behind her several paces a woman.
Nowhere did he see Petersen.
