Trapping a Terrorist, page 6
“For sure. I guess you should finish dressing,” she said and gestured to his unbuttoned clothing, ignoring the rush of heat to her face and throughout her body as she looked at him again.
He coughed uncomfortably, slipped his smartphone into his pocket and immediately buttoned his shirt and pants, a stain of color on his cheeks as well. As he stuffed the shirt into his pants, he said, “There are to-go mugs in the middle cabinet.” Apologetically, he added, “Please. Light and lots of sugar.”
“No problem,” she said and prepped two coffees as he finished dressing, made the bed and eased it back into the wall.
* * *
MIGUEL IGNORED THE questioning glances as he walked into the BAU offices with Maisy in tow and introduced her to the team sitting around the table in front of their board.
“Maisy Oliver. Please meet my BAU Team. Special Agent Madeline Striker. Her specialty is kidnapping cases. Special Agent Nicholas James is our go-to guy for serial killers. Special Agent Dashiell West is our cybercrimes and tech hotshot.” He paused and gestured to the two younger men sitting off to the far side of the office, diligently working on their computers. “You’ll get to meet Liam McDare and David Dyson later. They’re our tech gurus.”
A slight cough interrupted him, and he glanced toward the door leading to his director’s private offices. “So sorry, Lorelai. How could I forget you? Lorelai Parker, the administrative assistant to Director Branson, who is in D.C. right now.”
“And who is on the phone with Caitlyn Yang about this morning’s bombing,” Lorelai said, walked over and handed Miguel some message slips. “Caitlyn is coordinating with Seattle PD, ATF and Mack at ABS. They should have more info for you shortly.”
Miguel nodded and at Maisy’s questioning gaze, he said, “Caitlyn is our liaison with local law enforcement. Thank you, Lorelai.”
As Lorelai walked out of the room, Liam’s head swiveled to watch her walk to her office and Miguel once again worried about whether their personal drama would interfere with the BAU’s efficiency. Which reminded him they had to get working on the latest bombing. Turning to Maisy, he said, “Please have a seat.” Then he glanced toward his team and added, “What have we got so far?”
“A demand, finally. There’s a new Twitter account for someone calling themselves the Seattle Crusader.” Madeline hit a button to turn on an overhead monitor that projected an image of the Crusader’s profile with its Twitter thread about the bombing. The first tweet said:
Shaking up Rat City until the politicians listen to our demands.
“‘Rat City...our demands.’ What’s that telling us?” Miguel tossed out for consideration.
Dash’s fingers flew across the keyboard and seconds later, he said, “Rat City is possibly a giveaway that he’s local. It’s a reference to the White Center. Used to be a dump there with lots of rats, and also a hangout for sailors. Water rats was slang at one time for sailors.”
Miguel went to the whiteboard and wrote down the word “local” under the grainy picture of the bomber tacked to the board.
Madeline added, “‘Our demands.’ It hints at the fact that the bomber is not working alone.”
“So we may be dealing with a terrorist cell and not just an individual bomber,” Miguel said and wrote that down on the board. “What else?”
Nicholas gestured to the second tweet in the thread and read it aloud. “No peace until the minimum wage is twenty dollars per hour.”
“‘No peace.’ He’s co-opting part of the call for social justice,” Madeline noted and continued. “It could mean he’s been involved with other groups using that phrase.”
Miguel nodded, added the language beneath the photo and glanced at Dash. “Can you get us a list of anyone arrested during the riots after the bombing yesterday? By the way, how are we doing on the footage from the bombing at the station?”
* * *
MAISY LISTENED INTENTLY as Dash reported on the progress they’d made with the images from the CCTV in and around the station, Maisy’s photos and the news crew videos. With a few strokes of his keyboard, he added a map to the image already being projected against the screen and as he spoke, he added pins to the map.
“We have the first bombing in the station and now this morning’s blast near the White Center. The feeds we were able to access helped us track the unsub as he passed Century Link and T-Mobile fields and entered the SoDo area. We lost him there but are now working on getting video feeds from the area around the latest bombing location.”
Miguel nodded, jotted down some notes on the board while Dash continued with his report. “As for the images, we’ve got a composite thanks to Maisy’s photo. It let us add more detail to the bomber’s face and we’re running that composite against various databases and hope to have something shortly.”
“Good work. Nicholas, what can you add now that we’ve got a serial bomber happening?” Miguel prompted.
“Two early-morning bombings, although I’m still bothered by the second bomb that exploded at King Street Station. It’s off, Miguel. Totally off. Can you run that video for us, Dash?”
Dash did as Nicholas asked, putting up the CCTV feed. As it ran, Nicholas said, “We all thought the bomber looked surprised when that second bomb went off. Now we have ‘our demands.’ Maybe the reason he’s surprised is that he wasn’t the one who set off that second bomb. Maybe his partner tripped it before the bomber expected.”
“Or maybe the bomber didn’t expect for any bomb to go off,” Madeline proposed. “We had no real demands despite that being the typical MO for the kind of collar bomb that was used. This morning we have another bombing, but I’ve done some digging and it turns out that the building that was blown up this morning was vacant and slated for destruction.”
“We have another situation where the bomber chose a location that would do little collateral damage,” Miguel said.
Unlike my father, Maisy thought. Her father had picked his targets to cause damage, both to the locations and any innocent passersby. “He doesn’t want to hurt anyone,” she said aloud, drawing the attention of the team members. “Or he’s just been lucky. Even if the building was supposedly vacant, there could have been someone homeless there. Or one of the firefighters could be injured.”
“But he didn’t choose locations which would definitely cause injury like the Forest Conservation Bomber,” Madeline said and eyed Maisy intently. “It’s the eight-hundred-pound elephant in the room and I’m sorry to bring it up, Maisy. But it had to be said.”
“It does, but I want you all to understand that my mother and I knew nothing about what he was doing,” she pleaded, disheartened that she had to defend herself yet again after so many years.
To her surprise, Miguel walked over and laid a hand on her shoulder in reassurance. “We believe you, Maisy. And we get that you’ve been living in a prison much as your father has been, thanks to his actions.”
Every member of the team peered at his hand on her shoulder, but no one said a thing about it.
“You’re suffering every bit as much as one of his victims,” Nicholas said. Then he quickly added, “And you’re right that even if this bomber doesn’t intend harm, there’s no guarantee that no one will be injured or worse.”
The phone in the center of the table chirped and Miguel leaned over to answer the call. “SSA Peters here.”
“Miguel, it’s Mack. I’ve got some info for you.”
“You’re on speaker with the team and Maisy Oliver, the young woman from the station yesterday,” Miguel said.
“I wish I could say ‘Good morning’, but it isn’t. Another bombing without a doubt. Initial review of the bomb fragments by ATF and me lead us to believe it was constructed much like yesterday’s briefcase bomb. Tripped by a cell phone. The dynamite appears to be the same make as well. Blue wires again. We’re in the process of trying to locate DNA samples and fingerprints. We’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks, Mack. We’re working on a profile as we speak and will fill you in as soon as we have anything,” Miguel said and disconnected the call.
“A serial bomber, but again, a different MO between the collar bomb and the use of the dynamite. That’s unusual, but it could confirm that we have two or more people working together,” Nicholas said.
“And we have two very different locations. The very public and crowded King Street Station and now an apartment building that’s abandoned and soon to be destroyed,” Madeline tossed out for consideration.
“Not really, Madeline,” Nicholas interjected. “The second bomb in the station was in a little-used area. You might even say an abandoned area. Again, no harm intended.”
“Terror was intended and now it’s our job to trap this terrorist before he strikes again,” Miguel pointed out.
And creates even more psychological harm, Maisy thought.
“Let’s get to work on the building. Dash, can you find out who owns it? Why that might have made it the bomber’s target. Also, to the best of my knowledge blue wire is mostly used in commercial buildings. Let’s find suppliers in the area,” Miguel said.
“On it,” Dashiell confirmed, grabbed his laptop and headed to a desk near the two techies.
Miguel looked at Madeline and Nicholas. “The demand. Unreasonable. Nothing we can really do to fulfill it. Why? Does he really want those demands fulfilled or is it just a smoke screen for something else?”
Madeline nodded and glanced at her teammate. “Nicholas and I will work on it. I think we all agree something is very off about this bomber and hopefully we can work up a profile that gets us closer to understanding his motivation so we can prevent another bombing.”
“Great. I look forward to hearing anything you can put together,” Miguel said and looked at Maisy. “Would you mind joining me in my office?”
Chapter Seven
Maisy shook her head. “Not at all.”
She rose and he held his hand out in invitation. She slipped her hand into his and followed him to his office. Unlike his very sterile apartment just a few floors down, this room was filled with bits of his life. As she sat, she tried to piece all those bits together to get a better picture of the man who was intriguing her on too many levels.
A bookcase behind the desk held an assortment of subjects. History. Psychology. Forensics. Crime. Some literature. Propping up the books, knickknacks from all over the world. A replica Aztec sun stone in gleaming black obsidian. Well-handled maracas painted with an age-muted floral design and the word “Cuba.” A few different crystal beer steins that brightened the heavier objects on the shelves.
The walls were not as eclectic, more formal. Pictures of the BAU team with assorted politicians. Miguel shaking the hand of the President as he accepted an award. But the picture on his desk was purely personal. One of him with his father and a woman she assumed was his mother.
The desk was otherwise scrupulously neat and organized, like his apartment.
“Maisy?” he said, and she realized he had asked her something that she hadn’t heard because she was so lost in her thoughts.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you,” she said and leaned forward in her chair to make sure he knew that he had her complete attention.
He arched a brow. “I asked if you wanted some more coffee.”
“No, thanks. I’m already jumping out of my skin, trying to process everything that’s happening,” she said and clasped her hands in her lap to tame her nervousness.
* * *
MIGUEL UNDERSTOOD. HE was always like that during the course of an investigation, his mind racing with all the facts they had and searching for all the ones they didn’t.
“I get it. You feel like you’re on a knife-sharp edge, barely keeping your balance. Waiting for what’s coming next while hoping you can stop it,” he said.
“You don’t think he’s done,” she said and wrung her hands.
He shook his head. “Sadly, I think he’s just getting started. And it is a he. Most serial bombers are men, like the Unabomber and Eric Rudolph, the Olympic Park Bomber. Your father.”
“You mean the Forest Conservation Bomber. My father died the day that killer was born,” she said, her voice alive with pain.
He nodded, in sync with her emotions, especially considering how Richard Green had terrorized Maisy in addition to the residents of Washington State. “In some ways, you’re not wrong. With a bomber like your...like Green, they become consumed with what they’re doing. With the building of the bombs and placing them. With the justification of what they’re doing, whether it’s protecting the environment or railing against technology.”
“And this bomber. What do you think is his justification?” Maisy asked.
Miguel frowned and leaned back in his chair. Jammed his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his hands in front of him for a long moment. “That’s what’s bothering me about this bomber. The demands so far are unrealistic. Is that because he really doesn’t want to stop bombing? Or is it for some other reason, especially since the locations of the bombs suggest an intent not to harm anyone?”
Maisy was likewise silent for a moment. “Unlike the Forest Conservation Bomber. He wanted to hurt people.”
“Maybe as revenge for what he saw as damage to the environment. Revenge is often a motivation as well,” Miguel said, but a second later his phone rang, snagging his attention as he saw the call was from his team in the conference room.
He picked it up, scowled and opened his desk drawer to remove a remote control for the television on one wall of his office. As he flipped on the television, he said, “I got it. Putting you on speakerphone.”
Maisy swiveled in her seat and they watched the television, where the reporter was breaking news about another bombing at a construction site in the SoDo section, almost halfway between the original bombing site in King Street Station and that morning’s blast near the White Center.
“He’s already claiming this one,” Madeline said.
Nicholas chimed in, “The Seattle Crusader just tweeted that he’ll stop once the city council sets up a permanent homeless encampment on the grounds of the Seattle Japanese Garden. In the second tweet in the thread, he warns that next time people will feel the wrath of his bombs. Maybe even Angel Eyes.”
Fear ripped through his gut at the mention of Maisy. If the bomber was still fixated on her like that, she was in even greater danger. “Dash, do you have anything yet on the account?” Miguel said.
Dash immediately replied, “We’re still trying to get Twitter to give us info. Subpoena has been served on them so we’re hoping to have it soon.”
“But not soon enough,” Nicholas said, concern ringing in his tone. “He’s escalating. One bombing yesterday. Two today, just hours apart, and now he’s threatening harm.”
To Maisy, Miguel thought, and glanced her way. Her face had gone chalk white at the bomber’s mention of her. His gut clenched again at the thought that the bomber’s threats were possibly no longer empty ones.
“And we still don’t have demands that anyone can really meet,” he tossed out, hoping to hear what his team would think about those requests.
“Not a one,” Madeline said. “That’s not typical of an extortion-type bomber. And the foul-up on the detonator at the station makes me wonder just how mission oriented he is.”
“Still no one hurt and I’m not sure he will go through with that threat,” Nicholas said, but that only partially relieved some of Miguel’s worry.
“Any info on the first construction site? Owner? Other info?” he said.
“We have an owner, but it appears to be a shell company. Trying to track the real owner,” Dashiell said.
“Good job. Let’s get info on the second construction site. Reach out to ATF, Mack and Seattle PD for anything they might have. It’s too soon for TEDAC, but let’s push them. Let them know we’ve got two more explosions.”
As his team confirmed his orders, Miguel snapped off the speakerphone and glanced at Maisy, who had barely regained some pink to her cheeks. “He won’t hurt you, Maisy.”
She shook her head and clenched and unclenched her hands. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”
He acknowledged that with a slow nod and chastised himself. Even in the short time he’d known her, he should have recognized her worry would have been for others. Much like her worry the day before had been for his father and not herself.
“You’re a brave woman, Maisy Oliver.” The sort of woman who could handle the kind of life he led. If he wanted a woman, which he didn’t.
She shook her head and a harsh laugh escaped her. “Not by choice. Sometimes I wish...” She looked away, but it was impossible for him not to see the shimmer of tears in her eyes.
He rose and walked over. Cupped her cheek and gently urged her to face him. “You wish for a normal life. One untouched by violence, but sadly, that’s not the kind of life the two of us have been forced to live. It’s how we handle it that defines us.”
As a tear escaped, she swiped it away and said, “I want my life, Miguel. The life I dreamed of before my father stole it. I won’t let this bomber steal it again.”
He wanted to say, “That’s my girl,” only she wasn’t and never would be. Much as Maisy had chosen what she wanted to do with her life, so had he and it didn’t include a woman like Maisy. Or any woman for that matter.
“I won’t either. Believe me. You’re safe with me,” he said and motioned to his desk. “I have to get to work.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
* * *
WHILE MIGUEL WORKED at his desk, presumably reviewing a variety of reports and information on what they had so far, Maisy slipped in earbuds and turned her attention to various news reports, both written and televised.
