Hoebeek was at the end of the row, elbows on spread knees, viewing a monitor with a man to her left. He had salt-and-pepper hair and wore a navy windbreaker with the letters FBI in bold yellow on the back. Though both were seated, it was obvious Hoebeek had five inches on the guy.
In the gap between their heads, I could see action on a screen. Figures in helmets and fatigues, a dog on a leash, the inside of what I assumed was a horse barn.
“Ma’am.”
Hoebeek turned at the sound of Albee’s voice. Eyes bluer than delft took in our foursome.
“I assume you’re Night.” Studying me.
“I am.”
“Nice when an outsider embraces local traditions.”
Blushing, I winged the tricked-out helmet onto a folding chair pushed to one wall. Didn’t recall bringing it from the hotel.
“This the guy dimed 911?” Hoebeek indicated Gus.
“It is.”
“Thought the caller was your brother.”
“You thought right.”
“I’ll be damned. Name?”
“Gus.”
“Two Nights. Ain’t we blessed. Who’s this?”
“Denise Scranton.”
Hoebeek’s brows dipped in annoyance. “Why’s she here?”
“She can ID members of Bronco’s group that we don’t know.”
“No way I involve civilians.”
“I’m a civilian,” I said.
“You were on the job.”
To cut off further discussion, Hoebeek cocked a thumb at the empty chair to her right. “Sit.” Pointed a finger toward the desks. “You two, park there.”
I sat. Kerr sat. Gus remained standing, arms folded, feet spread. Albee retreated to stand guard in the corridor.
Pivoting back toward the screen, Hoebeek made introductions by stating our names. “Special Agent Jordan Millet. Sunday Night.”
Millet and I exchanged nods. He had small, close-set eyes the same French roast as his skin. They didn’t look pleased with my presence.
“What’s happening?” I asked, focusing my attention on the monitor in front of Hoebeek.
“First off. Don’t misconstrue your being here as meaning you’ll take part in any action.”
“Your confidence in me is uplifting.”
Hoebeek motioned with a slight tip of her head. “We found one. Barn five.”
“This is bullshit.” White heat flaming my chest. “You let us cool our heels until you had proof?”
Hoebeek fixed me with hard blue eyes. “You got a problem with the way I run my command?”
“Did you notify those in charge?” Forbidding the anger to scorch my words.
“I’m in charge.”
“Of the track.”
“They know.” Swiveling back to the screen.
“They didn’t ask to close shop?”
“Quite the opposite.”
“Did you give them a deadline?”
“I did.”
A few moments of morgue-chill silence. Millet avoiding eye contact. Then I refocused. The last thing I needed was a face-off with either.
“Bomb type?” I asked.
“Pressure cooker.”
“They’ve upped their game.” I didn’t know if either had been briefed on Bronco and Bnos Aliza, wasn’t about to do it. “Disguised how?”
“In a feed sack.”
“Same as the Tsarnaev brothers at the Boston Marathon,” Millet said unnecessarily.
“Except for the feed sack.” I felt hostile eyes hit the side of my face. Didn’t care. “Has it been disabled?”
“We deployed a robot outfitted with an XSR.” Hoebeek referred to an X-ray scanning rover, an apparatus providing high-resolution scans in real time. “Then we blasted the bitch with a water charge.”
“What about the other two locations?”
“Teams are working the Jockey Club, the Lockheed Martin tent, the grandstands, the vendor areas. Got EDCs sniffing every square inch of this place.” Explosive-detecting canines. The woman liked acronyms. “So far, nothing.”
And so we waited. Paced. Stared at screens. Downed coffee that tasted like old stool specimens.
At 4:37 and 20 seconds, Hoebeek’s phone rang. She checked the number and clicked to speaker function. The room went absolutely still.
A dog named Pickle had alerted on a case of Fritos.
“Where?” Hoebeek asked.
“A food storage area servicing the Jockey Suites.”
“Send in the robot.”
“Moving.”
“And maintain voice contact.”
As though sucked forward by a vortex, everyone present drew toward the monitors. Preoccupied, or not caring, Hoebeek didn’t object.
On monitor six, the robot entered the frame, positioned itself on one side of the corn chips, and extended its X-ray arm around the back of the carton. A pause. Then the voice came again through the speaker.
“The scanner shows a pressure cooker bomb inside.”
“Take the son of a bitch out.” Hoebeek, steely.
We heard a confusion of voices and barking and running. Then a muted pop as, far down the line, the box, the Fritos, and the bomb were blasted by water powerful enough to blow them to bits.
“We got her,” the tinny voice said.
“Well done. Now, let me remind you. The special agent sitting beside me has a huge throbbing hard-on for every speck of trace at that scene. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And get the dog a Milk-Bone.”
Then we waited some more. The techs and Millet scouring pixels. Gus scowling. Kerr snoring. Hoebeek wearing her pin.
5:14.
5:19.
At 5:30 Hoebeek asked me to join her on a walk. I thought it odd but followed out into the hall. When safely distanced, she stopped and thumb-hooked her belt.
“You appreciate why I had to check things out.”
“Check things out?” My eyes level and steady on hers.
“Before bringing you here, I dimed Beaumonde.”
I said nothing.
“He told me about the kid you’re trying to find. Explained why you’re intent on nailing these turds.”
“Did he.”
“I remember the rash of murder-suicides back in the nineties. Branch Davidians. Heaven’s Gate. Solar Temple. Don’t recall your particular coven, maybe because of the no name thing.”
Her words sent a high-voltage impulse into my brain. Hoebeek had probed the holy hell that was my childhood.
“It’ll stay between us, of course.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak.
“Apologies if it’s insensitive, but I’d like your take on what’s going on here.”
“Take your apology and stick it right up your ass.”
Hoebeek’s cheeks flamed as though she’d been slapped. Looked like blood spreading on snow.
Knowing my reaction was out of proportion, I went into control mode. Deep breath. Another. Then I turned and strode back to the command post.
5:45.
5:54.
The tension in the room was thick enough to roast on a spit. I sat, paced, palms damp, mouth dry. A flash storm raging in my head.
A summer night. A breathless sprint through dark woods. Charred corpses. Blackened lips that had once kissed my cheek. I hated Hoebeek for poking down the snake hole and setting the images free.
But who was I kidding? It wasn’t Hoebeek. I’d lived this before. And failed. Everyone. My own mother.
One night. Not two.
He’d lied. I’d missed it. In his voice, his body language, his animal eyes.
The Leader. The Monster.
Feeling powerless, I got up, dropped back down, chewed my shiny black nails.
Wondered, where the fuck was Stella? Would she also die because of me?
Churchill Downs was scheduled to open at eight. How late would Hoebeek go before ordering that the gates stay closed? If I was wrong, how much revenue would b
e lost? If I was right, how many lives would be lost?
Did another bomb exist? Had the third been deleted from Bronco’s plan? Placed elsewhere? If so, where? I knew so little. I’d fail again.
The doubt and fear began to devour the space in my brain I’d reserved for clear thinking. To undermine my capacity for logic.
At 6:10, Hoebeek’s phone rang again.
An ATF dog was alerting on a box of plastic drink cups in the Lockheed Martin tent. The first sweep had missed it.
Hoebeek ordered in the robot. The scan showed a bomb.
The adrenaline cleared my head quickly. “We should be leaving decoys. In case Bronco checks.”
“You think so, lollipop?”
Attributing Hoebeek’s dig to ire at my earlier comments, I let it pass. Gus didn’t.
“Yes, cupcake.” Anger simmering below the civility. “We think so.”
Hoebeek twisted in her chair. “Sir, long ago I told you to sit. Yet there you are standing.”
“Here I am.” Belligerent.
“Don’t get smart.”
“One of us should.”
Blue eyes locked with green. Hoebeek blinked first. “We’re leaving decoys.”
Within the hour, the third IED was disabled.
With a promise to me of an upcoming interrogation, Millet hurried off to oversee the processing of the final scene. Maybe to pee.
Everything from my stomach to my throat was in restless turmoil.
“The track opens in forty-five minutes,” I said. “Bronco and Landmine will be coming for their big show.”
“We’re on it,” Hoebeek said.
“How will you know them?”
“We have your pics.”
“That won’t be enough.”
“We’ll nail the cocksuckers.”
“You haven’t so far.”
Maybe remorse over her lollipop crack. Or her tactless incursion into my personal nightmare. Hoebeek didn’t bite back. “Bronco’s not inside now. I’ve had teams looking all night.” Rising, she jabbed a finger at me. “I’m about to spread joy to a gaggle of seersuckered jackals. Your cheeks stay glued to that seat.”
They did. Briefly.
I looked at Gus. He tipped his head toward the door.
Grabbing my flowery helmet, I bolted.
Lines were already forming outside. When the gates opened, spectators streamed in. A trickle at first, with increasing volume as the sun climbed. Figuring Hoebeek would focus her efforts on the bomb sites, Gus and I split the territory as we had the day before.
By mid-morning, the place was sweating room only. The crowd worked in our favor and against us. The press of bodies helped us to blend but also provided cover for our quarry.
By noon, we’d not seen Bronco, Landmine, or Stella. We’d also not seen them by two P.M.
At 4:17 I spotted Landmine exiting a men’s room near the grandstand end of the infield tunnel. He was wearing a white shirt and black pants, all size elephant. Dark Ray-Bans covered his eyes and a straw panama hat rode low on his brow. A track employee ID hung from his neck.
I donned my headgear, turned a shoulder, and allowed him to pass. Then, gaze fixed on the panama, I dialed Gus, who was circulating with Kerr.
“Landmine’s here,” I said, walking fast enough to keep him in sight, slow enough not to draw his attention.
“I’ll need more than that.”
I gave him my location. “Looks like he’s dressed as a vendor or waiter.”
“Think Hoebeek’s dogs will spot him?”
“In those shades and that hat? I almost didn’t.”
“Alert her.”
“I will.”
As I disconnected, Landmine pulled out a cell and answered a call. We’d both arrived at the infield. A click of a conversation, then he circled to a point opposite the Lockheed Martin tent. Pocketing the phone, he turned and peered into the swarm of humanity covering the grass.
I called Hoebeek. Got voicemail. Left a message.
I could have taken Landmine. I wanted Bronco. And Stella, wherever she was.
Five minutes. Ten. A voice warbled from the PA system. My eyes jumped to the Jumbotron screen. Race ten, the Woodford Reserve Turf Classic, was about to roll.
I watched Landmine. Landmine watched his surroundings, head moving in slow little arcs. He didn’t look quite as gorilloid as I remembered. Maybe the hat. Maybe his canines didn’t really interlock.
More amplified announcements. Jolly. Unaware.
More arcing scans.
When Landmine’s head froze, I followed his sight line.
Bronco was worming through the crowd. The dark suit, curly-cable earbud, and newly shorn hair suggested he was costumed to look like security. Unabomber aviators hid his face. The loathsome steel-toed boots covered his feet.
Bronco joined Landmine. Words were exchanged.
A bugle sounded the “Riders up” call.
Without warning, a hand clamped my shoulder.
I spun as though hot-wired.
“Goddammit!” Heart thudding. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry.” Gus’s fingers were contritely raised and spread.
Kerr watched with her usual vapid expression.
“There.” I indicated Bronco and Landmine.
Gus appraised them from behind his Hang 10s. “What’s Hoebeek’s plan?”
“No idea.”
The bronze-tinted lenses swung to me. “Jesus Christ, Sunnie.”
“I left a message.” Defensive. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t go all Rambo. Bronco’s our target and the asshole just showed up.”
“Our target? Who put us in charge of priorities?”
I said nothing.
Down the track, horses were led to their gates.
Down the infield, Bronco and Landmine stood mute.
The starting bell trilled. The horses fired out, thundered past, leaving the scent of torn grass in their slipstream. The crowd noise congealed into a murmurous swell. One loop and a bit, then the winner trotted off for his flowers and photo ops, the losers for their rubdowns. The next race would be the big one.
Still, Bronco and Landmine stood.
“What the hell are they doing?” A single finger worrying Gus’s right temple.
“The devices were too far apart for a single detonation. I’m guessing they’ll use signals from three separate mobiles.”
“They’re waiting for other JJs.”
“That’s my guess.”
Counting the clock, minute by minute. Eventually, a woman sang the national anthem. Not bad, not great.
We watched and waited.
A man urged spectators to raise a glass of Mumm in the world’s largest champagne toast. Not a hit on the infield.
We watched some more.
Suddenly adrenaline began making the rounds.
A woman in a yellow pantsuit and yellow-banded bonnet was arrowing straight toward Landmine and Bronco. Her chin was down, the hat’s wide brim shadowing her features.
Following Pantsuit was a woman in an ankle-length gray skirt and a white tunic similar to the one Kerr had worn when chained to my sink. A pink floral scarf wrapped her head, hiding her hair and lower face. She kept her shoulders hunched, not making the most of her height. Which was unimpressive.
Tunic looked thinner than the girl in Opaline Drucker’s photo. Still, my heart beat faster. Was I finally laying eyes on Stella Bright?
Hearing a sharp intake of breath, I turned. Kerr’s eyes were saucers. One hand was pressed to her mouth.
“Who are those women?” I asked.
Kerr shook her head slowly, gaze riveted on Pantsuit.
“Is the woman in the tunic Stella Bright?”
Nothing but the terrified stare.
The heat. The inactivity. The all-night vigil. The familiar anger switch tripped in my brain.
“Who are they?” I yanked Kerr’s hand from her lips.
“You don’t know.” Mumbled.
&
nbsp; “No shit.” Fury was melting the world into a cumulous blur. “Who are they?”
Kerr thrust her chin to one side, desperate to escape my wrath. “Let me go.”
Through the white haze, I sensed eyes on my back. A man offering help. A woman asking if she should phone the police. Gus, chuckling, sisters, too much bourbon.
“Tell me!”
Kerr refused to engage.
My eyes cut to the women. Pantsuit had pivoted, and light now sculpted her features. They were gaunt, the hard roots of jaw and cheekbone evident, the nose spiky as vertebrae inside a desiccated corpse. Bronco, the target of her glare, seemed to shrink into himself.
“Who! Are! They!” Savage. Shaking Kerr hard.
“My mother.” Sobbing. “She’s my mother!”
Stunned, I released Kerr’s arms. She rocked a bit, steadied herself. I watched her intently, forgotten scraps exploding into my forebrain.
Bronco on the Rose Avenue couch. I don’t have the luxury to choose.
Kerr on the Garden Inn floor mattress. You don’t have a clue.
Bronco’s email offering Icard and Harkester. Were I at liberty to follow my own path.
Capps’s description of a missing widow. A recluse, warped by the terrorist murder of her husband.
Female voices down a hall.
The hidden clues that had been sending up flares from my id.
“Is the other woman Selena?”
Tearful nod.
A hint of breeze caught the edge of the floral scarf. A flash of copper sparked in the afternoon sun.
I swallowed. Inhaled. Inhaled again.
“Your mother runs the whole twisted mindfuck. That’s what you started to say back in D.C. There are others. Bronco’s not really in charge of Jihad for Jesus.”
Kerr nodded, face a death mask. “No. It’s”—maybe fear, maybe love, maybe hatred, she stumbled on the word—“Mama.”
All I saw was Stella. The pale skin. The intense eyes. The scarf I knew was hiding rowdy red hair.
Suddenly, the full horror struck. The stooped shoulders. The crossed arms. The shadows falling wrong among the folds of the tunic.
My heart accelerated so fast I thought I would vomit.
“Jesus Christ. She’s wearing an IED.”
“Sonofabitch.” Gus started thumbing keys on his phone.
Bronco checked his watch, a sharp, quick dip of the head, then said something to Scranton. She pivoted and pulled Stella into her arms.