Trapping a Terrorist, page 2
Maisy nodded, held out a hand, palm up in pleading, and in a soft voice said, “Right. You need to stay calm. I know you don’t want to hurt anybody.”
The bomber laughed, a laugh that bordered on unhinged, and Miguel did as he asked. He slowly backed away until he was close to one of the police officers who had raced into the station. In low tones, he said, “I’m FBI. Supervisory Special Agent Miguel Peters.”
The officer nodded to confirm he’d heard, and in a whisper, asked, “What do you want us to do?”
“Nothing right now. I’m sure my team will be arriving shortly,” Miguel said, trying to process as much as he could about what was happening because something was off. The more typical MO for collar bombs involved a demand for money, whether it was blackmail, a kidnapping or a bank robbery. So far, the bomber hadn’t asked for a thing.
“Talk to us, man. What do you want?” he called out, trying to glean as much as he could not only from the man’s actions, but from his speech. Was he a local? Level of education? Tattoos or other distinguishing features? Anything that could help in the situation or after...
He tried not to think about the after because that might mean his father was dead. Maybe the young woman as well as any of the people still trapped in the station, depending on where the second bomb was situated. He had to get those people out as soon as he could.
“What do you want?” he repeated because up until now the man hadn’t said much.
“What do I want? Where do I start?” He gestured to the officers standing nearby, guns still drawn. “I want them out. All of them or I’ll blow the place and kill everyone here.”
The officer closest to Miguel peered in his direction, waiting for his instructions.
“How about you let the cops take all those people out of here so we can talk?” Miguel said, and motioned to the people huddled behind plastic chairs for protection.
“And why would I want to talk to you, Mr. Hero?” the bomber said.
Miguel pointed in the direction of his father and the young woman he’d only just met. “I’m FBI and you’ve got my dad and girlfriend right there. We’re worth lots more to you as hostages than a bunch of scared tourists and some beat cops.”
The man narrowed unhinged eyes, obviously considering what Miguel had said. Then his gaze bounced around the station, almost as if doing a body count to determine if Miguel, his father and the young woman were a good trade for the people and cops in the station.
But as the bomber did so, the sound of a television intruded from a nearby kiosk, drawing the bomber’s attention.
* * *
THE BOMBER’S GAZE turned toward the television and Maisy thought, This is my chance.
But if she moved, the man might do as he said and blow the bombs in the station and she didn’t want to be responsible for that. Too many people might be hurt, including the gentle professor she’d met on the tour bus earlier that morning.
They’d been chatting up a storm on the bus and after, as they’d arrived in the station. He’d been so kind, so friendly. Probably because he’d been trying to matchmake for his stoic son, who might be handsome if he ever smiled.
She couldn’t leave the old man. She wouldn’t be responsible for any more murder and mayhem like her father had done. Her father, a monster who even now controlled her life.
She had to focus and find a way to get out of this. Get the professor away from the madman.
Focus, she told herself as the bomber’s attention was fixated on the television.
* * *
THE SITUATION HAD already hit the airwaves and various reporters and news crews had gathered around King Street Station, broadcasting coverage.
Behind the on-scene reporter advising on the hostage situation, Miguel noticed Lorelai standing nearby. He hoped that she had alerted his team to what was happening so that they would be on their way to the station.
“Good afternoon, this is Drew Anderson reporting for Seattle One News. We’re here at King Street Station, where a bomber has taken an older man hostage with the use of what authorities are calling a collar bomb. The suspect also claims to have a second bomb that he will detonate if his demands are not met, but no demands have been forthcoming so far. Authorities estimate that there are still about two hundred people trapped in the station. At this time, all trains coming and going from the station have been locked down while authorities deal with the situation.”
The reporter paused and looked off camera and a second later another familiar face came on air.
“We have with us Caitlyn Yang, the Seattle Behavioral Analysis Unit’s police liaison. Can you give us a report on what the FBI is doing about this hostage crisis, Caitlyn?”
“Thank you, Drew,” she said with a nod to the reporter before facing the camera. “At the request of the local police, the FBI team is coordinating with them on the case. One of our agents is inside with the bomber—”
Before she could finish, Richard Rothwell, a candidate for state senator, pushed his way into camera range. As the reporter turned his attention to him, Rothwell looked directly into the camera and said, “We don’t negotiate with terrorists—we outsmart them. I have a plan on my website and never fear, Seattle, I’m here for you because I’m not afraid of the sociopath inside our beloved King Street Station. But please stay home for your safety because I care about you.” He emphasized the latter by imitating Uncle Sam pointing into the camera.
Miguel gritted his teeth and tried his best not to roll his eyes at the candidate’s grandstanding, which would do nothing to help the situation. It might even make things worse with the unstable unsub.
“Listen to him, will ya? Sociopath,” the bomber said with a wild laugh. “The Feds, boys in blue and some pompous politician won’t stop me.” He waved the cell phone around in the air again and said, “If I don’t get what I want, I’ll blow this place.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you want,” Miguel said.
“What I want? Let’s start off by taking down our inept government and judicial systems. How about prison reform? No bail requirements. Free housing and medical insurance for all.”
Miguel couldn’t really consider them demands because there was little anyone could do to satisfy them in order to defuse the situation. But he had to try.
“I get it, man. Government isn’t really there to help us, right? But I’ll try to help you. Just tell me one thing you want right now.”
For a second the bomber lowered the hand with the cell phone and in a steadier voice he said, “I want a ham sandwich.”
“I can do that,” Miguel said, but a breath later a powerful explosion took out the balcony above them, raining down bits of concrete, marble and other debris. He was knocked off his feet with the force of the blast.
Stunned, ears ringing, Miguel sluggishly got to his knees. His father, the bomber and the young woman were all lying flat on the floor.
Fear knotted his gut. Did the collar bomb go off as well? he thought and tried to process whether there had been more than one explosion. Whether there had been a second one that he hadn’t heard over the force, concussion and confusion from the first blast.
But then the bomber slowly sat up, the detonator still in his hand. He looked dazed, confused. Possibly surprised by the blast.
Did the second bomb go off accidentally? Miguel considered, but then another thought hit him.
This is my chance.
Chapter Three
Miguel shot toward the trio, but his wounded leg gave out beneath him. Frustrated, he pushed on, scrambling, almost crawling to get to the bomber. To get to the detonator before the unsub blew the collar bomb.
To his surprise, the bomber dropped the detonator, struggled to his feet and rushed away.
Miguel went to give chase, but his wounded leg tripped him up again and he knew it was useless. He grabbed his cell phone and called Madeline Striker, the most senior of his agents. She answered, but his ears were still ringing so badly he could barely hear her, and his father was starting to move, propelling fear through his gut again.
“Don’t move, Dad. Don’t move,” he shouted as his father rose to a sitting position and fear ripped through him. I can’t lose him. Not like this. Not like Mami, he thought, angry with himself that he couldn’t do more.
“Miguel. Are you okay?” Madeline said, her voice garbled and indistinct beneath the ringing in his ears.
“Unsub is heading out of the northwest corner of the building. About five foot eight. White. Brown eyes. Wearing blue jeans, black T-shirt, stained gray sweatshirt, black leather gloves and a black ski mask. Copy?” he asked, and at her affirmative reply, he rushed to kneel beside his father.
“Are you okay, Dad?” he asked, but even as he did that, he kept his head and used his jacket sleeve to secure the detonator without touching it to preserve any fingerprints.
Maisy slipped to their side, but he held his hand up to stop her. “Don’t come any closer. Not until we can defuse the bomb.”
She nodded and knelt there, smudges of dirt on her face. Bits of debris in her hair and on her clothing. There was an angry abrasion above one eye where she might have been struck by shrapnel from the blast. “Are you okay?” she asked his dad, concern ringing in her tone.
His father nodded and Miguel again admonished, “Please don’t move, Dad. We’ve got to get this off you.”
“Please stay still, Robert. It will be okay,” Maisy said and took hold of his father’s hand.
Miguel crouched beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder. It felt fragile beneath his hand, but he sensed there was steel in her core as she said, “I’m not leaving him, whoever you are.”
“FBI. Supervisory Special Agent Miguel Peters,” he replied.
She looked at him with those amazing blue eyes the bomber had fixated on and with a nod, she said, “You’d best get to work, then.”
He knew she wouldn’t relent and leave his father’s side.
“Are you feeling all right, Dad?” he said, worried about his father’s heart condition.
“I am,” his father said without moving a muscle. “Don’t worry about me and do your job. It’s what your mother would have done.”
Even with the gamut of emotions roiling through him, Miguel knew his father was right and didn’t waste any more time arguing with them.
He rose and peered around the station, taking in the destruction. A large chunk of the balcony several yards from them had been blown away and pieces of it were scattered all about the main floor of the station. The force of the blast had overturned chairs in the area and shattered nearby windows. Luckily, the explosion hadn’t ignited a fire.
The people who had been trapped in the station had rushed out when they realized the bomber had fled, and there was now an eerie silence inside the space, interrupted only by the continued ringing in his ears.
There were a great deal of police and his team had to get to work, Miguel thought as he limped to get his cane, picked it up and then slowly moved toward the door, the wound in his leg sending shards of pain through him with each step.
Almost as if they’d heard him, his team members walked in together with an officer from the Seattle Arson Bomb Squad. They waited for him by the entrance to the station, not wanting to contaminate the scene.
He walked over, careful not to disturb any evidence. When he reached them, he slipped into his role as the SSA, pushing back his personal fear for his father. His frustration at not being one hundred percent, which had let the bomber escape. He looked at Madeline and said, “The unsub?”
Madeline shook her head. “No sign of him, Miguel. But the news crews were filming all around the area and we’re hoping they might have caught something. We’ve also asked SPD to get the names of everyone who just left the station so we can interview them.”
“Good work, Madeline,” he said.
The Seattle ABS officer, Mack Gonzalez, was a friend he’d worked with before. The officer said, “We need to keep the area clear until I defuse that collar bomb. Don’t worry, Miguel. I’ll take care of your dad.”
“Is the perimeter secure? Have you checked for any other secondary devices? Car bombs to take out the first responders?”
“Perimeter is secure and we’re checking all vehicles in the area. HAZMAT team detectors haven’t picked up anything toxic. Same with radiation detection, so for now, we’re good,” Mack confirmed.
“Got it, Mack. We’ll stay out of your way while you work on my dad, and thank you,” Miguel said and clapped the other man on the back of the padded uniform.
He glanced at his team, knowing that they would be itching to move on this case, but there were a number of things they could work on back at the BAU offices. The local ABS and police would collect the evidence and forward them the information they needed to develop their profile and round up additional information to help the locals with their investigation.
“Lorelai, you were here earlier, correct?” he asked.
At that, Liam McDare, their tech guru, went to slip an arm around his ex-fiancée, but she scuttled away from him.
“I was waiting for a friend. I called the team as soon as I saw what was happening. Director Branson as well,” she said, always the efficient administrative assistant.
“Excellent. I was on the phone with Olivia so I’m glad you’ve told her what’s occurred. Now I need all of you to get going. Nicholas and Madeline, start interviewing those in the station and get to work on a profile. FYI, no real demands were made before the explosion. Except for a ham sandwich.”
“A ham sandwich?” Nicholas asked. As his top serial killer profiler, Miguel relied on Nicholas’s expertise in that area and others.
“That’s the only real request. The rest weren’t realistic demands,” Miguel said with a nod and turned his attention to Madeline, who had both personal and professional experience with kidnappers. “Collar bombs like this one are often used in kidnapping or blackmail scenarios. Run those ideas up the flagpole with Nicholas.”
He looked at the other agents gathered there. “Liam and Dash. Please round up any video feeds you can from the reporters, CCTV, ATMs, surveillance cameras. Get any images available and run them through facial recognition. Do background checks. You can get David to help you as needed. You know the drill.”
“Got it, boss,” Dash said with a dip of his head and his team sprang into action, rushing out the door to handle the tasks Miguel had assigned.
Miguel returned his attention to where the ABS officer was kneeling beside his father and the young woman. The officer was in the large, padded suit worn by bomb squad specialists, making him appear gargantuan compared to his father and the woman.
As carefully as he had walked over, Miguel returned, cautiously picking his way past any possible evidence. He scanned the area for any details that might clue them in to the identity of the bomber and his MO. He picked out small bits of paper that looked like dynamite stick wrappers, as well as pieces of black leather and blue wire, but that didn’t make sense. The dynamite and leather pointed toward a briefcase bomb, which was at odds with the box secured around his father’s neck. That looked like it contained pipe bombs.
Two different MOs? he thought as he neared the trio.
“You really should leave,” Mack said to the young woman as he worked on the collar of the bomb.
“I’m not going to leave Robert alone,” Maisy said and vehemently shook her head.
“He’s not alone. Mack and I are here,” Miguel said, his heart pounding in his chest as the ABS officer fiddled with the hinged collar around his father’s neck, trying to unlock the device. The officer muttered something under his breath, but a second later he snapped the collar open and eased the bomb away.
“Something wrong?” Miguel asked, hands jammed on his hips as he watched the officer slowly rise with the bomb and take a few steps back.
Mack shook his head. “I don’t think this detonator is connected, but I need to take this somewhere safer to finish defusing it.”
Miguel nodded. “You’ll give me your full report when you have it?”
“You got it, Miguel,” Mack said and walked off, cradling the device as delicately as if it was fragile crystal.
Relief slammed through Miguel that his father was safe, and he stepped closer to him and the young woman. “Let’s get you both outside and have the EMTs check you out.” He lent his father a hand so he could stand and so did Maisy. Together they helped him to his feet.
As she rose, she looked down and said, “You’re bleeding.”
Miguel risked a quick glance at his leg where blood had leaked through his khaki pants, probably because he’d torn open the stitches in his leg. “I’m okay. Let’s get out of here,” he said, and it occurred to him then that he didn’t really know who she was.
He held out his hand. “And you are Maisy...?”
She shook his hand. “Oliver. Maisy Oliver,” she said, providing him the last name he’d wanted.
Outside, the EMTs quickly got to work, checking all of them for signs of injuries from the blast as well as his dad’s heart and Miguel’s leg. Luckily, he’d only torn open a couple of stitches. It was easy enough to repair the minor damage.
As the EMT worked on him, his father stood nearby, worry etched onto his features. “Your mother would have been so proud of you today. So proud of the way you handled that situation.”
“Thank you, Dad,” he said, but braced himself for what he was sure would follow.
“But you risked your life today. Again. It’s why I’d hoped you’d choose a safer kind of work. I don’t want to lose you too.”
Miguel bit his lip and looked away, fighting back an angry retort. His father only wanted the best for him, and he understood his pain. He’d lost the love of his life to the FBI and a terrorist’s bullet. But nothing his father said would change his mind about his choice of career. He did it for his mother and for people like Maisy and his father, who didn’t deserve to be in harm’s way.
