The Lights of Tenth Street (70 page)

“How about the remote control?” the decoding expert said. “Everyone has one.”

“No, if it had explosives packed inside, it’d be too heavy.” The bomb expert put a hand to his head, thinking hard. “It would have to be something that someone would expect to be somewhat heavy, and would have enough room both for the explosives and for whatever its ostensible purpose is.”

Ronnie felt a memory pushing at the back of her brain and tried to push aside her fear long enough to concentrate and retrieve it. What was—

She gasped and sat up so sharply that everyone swiveled toward her.

Her voice was hoarse. “The … uh … that new kind of voice-activated remote control … that black box thing.” She fumbled to describe it with her hands. “My … uh … one of my regulars ran a company that sold those.”

“Could that be it?” Agent McKendrick looked at the bomb expert.

“It could. It really could. It’s the right size, and it would be placed near or on a TV. If there’s a shape charge inside, it would blow out the TV and use its flying fragments as the bomb. Most people aren’t killed by the bomb blast itself, you know; they’re killed by the shrapnel. That could really be it!”

“We’ve only got twelve minutes to midnight! Do we have one of those devices in use in this building?” Agent McKendrick looked around at all the negative responses and swore to himself. “How can we confirm this?”

“Wait!” Someone jumped up. “Hold on! I’ve got one in my car!”

The man ran out the door and returned, breathless, lugging a box, interrupting
Agent McKendrick, who was reporting in to his superiors in Washington.

“It’s never been opened. We were going to return it to the store today.” He started to rip the heavy cardboard open, and three others reached out to help him.

He pulled out the black box, ripped off the interior packaging, and laid the box on the table. The bomb expert pushed him aside and stood the device on its end, his eyes intent. He pulled a tiny screwdriver out of a small belt pouch and unscrewed the cover. He looked at the mass of wires, then pushed a few aside and tensely turned a heavy black piece over and detached it.

His face white, he gasped out “X ray!” and ran out the door. A sizeable chunk of the agents followed. Through the open door, Ronnie could see them running down a long hallway and rounding a corner toward the security station.

Within a minute, they came running back. The bomb expert tried to gasp out the news to McKendrick, but the senior agent handed him the cell phone and said, “Speak!”

“It’s a—it’s an antipersonnel fragmentation device—a shape charge. Packed plastic explosives, probably C4, surrounded by ball bearings. It’ll blow out whatever TV set it’s attached to, and kill or injure everyone in the blast radius. There’s enough actual explosive to damage the house structure, if the TV is set against a load-bearing wall.”

Agent McKendrick snatched back the phone. “Did you get all that! … Yes, sir! There have got to be hundreds of thousands of those devices out there! … I changed my mind. We
have
to use the EAS message to tell people to unplug those remotes and turn off their TVs!”

He looked at his watch, then clamped his hand over the cell phone mouthpiece and spoke to the others in the room.

“They’re doing that now—thank God for modern technology.” Something jarred his attention back to the phone. “Yes, sir!” He sagged in relief and found his way to a chair. “It’s done. The EAS message will broadcast in five minutes, starting immediately after midnight.”

The room was suddenly alive, the sounds of piercing relief and congratulations filling the air. Backs were slapped, hugs and handshakes exchanged.

Ronnie looked sideways at Doug, who was still sitting—as he had been for the last hour—with head bowed. She touched his arm, and he lifted his head, turning his tear-streaked face toward her.

“We only have five minutes. Five minutes for my family—” His voice broke and he could not go on.

“Let’s go.” Agent McKendrick stowed his cell phone at his belt and pulled on a jacket. He held a radio in his hand, its red power light seeming to burn with urgency.

Doug looked up in confusion. “Go where?”

“Let’s get you home.”

He pulled Doug up from the chair, and the three visitors and several agents began hurrying around corners, heading for—Doug discovered—the FBI garage. They piled into an unmarked van and sped north on the highway, watching as the dashboard clock clicked over toward midnight.

T
he great being was no longer shining. He was cloaked from sight by the Spirit of God. He soared, all his efforts focused on tracking with his charge, hurrying the little car’s progress, making sure the timing would be just right.

There were other angels everywhere, and these
were
shining, blazing with holy fire, attracting all attention. These were the colleagues who were fighting the battles, their shouts and exertions and cheers ringing out as they clashed with their foe, drawing them off, fighting a real fight but leading them ever-so-subtly away from the target.

The great angel pierced the clamor quietly, unseen, shepherding the little car, turning left, turning right, now stopping, now starting. Every uncertainty cost precious moments and it was his task to smooth the way. To smooth the way, and to conceal.

“So are there any blind spots?” Agent Jackson conferred with two team leaders, balancing a hand-drawn diagram on a rock between them, shading his special light so it couldn’t be seen from five paces.

“No, sir.” One of the team leaders pushed his night-vision equipment atop his head and pointed at several spots on the diagram. “Perhaps here … or possibly here. But we scouted the entire house and saw wide-range motion-sensor lights covering pretty much every area.”

“Can we take them out without alerting the men inside?”

“No, sir. We’re just going to have to run for it across the no-man’s-land.”

“That will mean that the hostage takers will get to their captives before we get to the doors.”

The three men looked at each other. Finally one of the team leaders spoke up.

“I guess we’re just going to have to run really fast, sir.”

Agent Jackson stuffed the diagram into one of several cavernous pockets. He looked at his watch. “We have four minutes before the EAS broadcast. To your places. We’re a go on my mark.”

“Gulfstream 232, sorry for the delay.” The voice came crisp over the pilot’s headpiece. “You got three minutes to midnight, you sure you don’t want to wait on the New Year’s celebrations?”

“Negative, tower. On a schedule. What’s the holdup?”

“Unknown. We’ve got a temporary hold on air traffic out of Atlanta Hartsfield.”

“Just Hartsfield?” The pilot looked behind him and snapped his fingers to get the passengers’ attention. Jordan was at his side in an instant.

The pilot kept his voice even, speaking as much for Jordan’s benefit as the tower’s. “There’s just a hold on air traffic out of
this
airport?”

Jordan wheeled and hurried to a table in the main cabin where a laptop waited. He pecked furiously at the keys, transferring his attention between the laptop and the nearby television that was broadcasting “New Years’ Rockin’ Eve” to all the interested eyes on the plane.

The voice of the tower was still clear in the pilot’s ear. “Unknown, Gulf 232. Could be other area airports as well.”

“Waiting for permission to roll, tower.”

“Understood, Gulf 232. We’ll try to get you out of here quickly.”

The silence in the speeding van was broken only by the sound of Ronnie’s stifled tears.

Why she was crying and not Doug, she didn’t know. He sat directly behind her, his eyes red and weary. But the expression on his face was one she had never seen before. It was a look of complete surrender to the God that he clearly believed was worthy of such utter abandonment. It made no sense … and it broke her heart. She turned her head away, unable to stop her weeping.

Beside her, she felt Tiffany move closer and put an arm around her shoulders.

“It’ll be okay.” Her friend’s voice was soothing. “We’re not going to be blown to bits tonight. We’ll be okay.”

Ronnie kept her head turned away and whispered, “That’s not why I’m crying.”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s Doug’s family, Tiff! I just can’t bear—” She broke off, unable to continue.

Tiffany snuck a quick glance over her shoulder. “I don’t understand him. He looks so … detached about the whole thing.”

“How can you say that? Can’t you see what he’s going through?”

“Not really. He should’ve gone with those SWAT team guys right from the
beginning. I don’t understand why he waited.”

“He said he felt like he had something he had to contribute, like he was
supposed
to stay.”

Tiffany removed her arm from Ronnie’s shoulders, her voice sad and quiet in the darkness. “I guess I just don’t buy it. I think he’s just deluded. And it may mean he never sees his family again.”

Up front, they heard the radio crackle. Agent McKendrick picked it up. “Yes!”

“We just got the signal. They’re in position.”

“Keep us informed.”

The radio clicked off. Ronnie turned and watched Doug continue to stare straight ahead, that look—that look on his face. Her lips started trembling and she bowed her head, fresh tears coming fast, trying to think how this should be done.

“God.” She whispered in her mind. “God, if You’re up there. Please—please do something. Help them save Doug’s wife … and kids … and the Woodwards. Please, God.” More tears. “Don’t let them die.”

Sherry watched the two men confer again, prepare to switch places again, watched Vance again test his bonds as soon as they were out of sight and quietly try to stand, lifting up the chair … again, with no success in getting free. His expression had grown intense, concentrated, almost fierce. She knew that he would not let them be shot without somehow trying to fight, even with a chair tied to his back.

Jo looked across and caught her eye, her face taut with strain, her lips moving in constant prayer.

Sherry’s eyes swiveled from her friends to the clock above the mantel-piece.

One minute.

Jordan stared at the laptop screen, his eyes taking on its eerie glow, swearing and muttering in an unearthly growl. He almost couldn’t breathe, couldn’t function, his being filled with a great and throbbing pain that would know only one release.

“It looks fine, but then why are they keeping us here? Why!”

He reached for his cell phone, hissing to himself, ignoring the strained looks between Tyson and the others. He clicked open his cell phone, then patted his pockets, looking for the number. It wasn’t worth waiting until later; he needed blood, something to lessen the weight of these interminable minutes. After they were done, he would watch the little signal load on the laptop, would watch the news unfold—the inevitable carnage—in all its shocking, gratifying detail.

The angel pulled up and hovered, shielding his charge from watchful eyes … including the mechanical eyes that surrounded the house.