No response.
He spoke in Arabic. “Allah is a peace lover and will look upon you with forgiveness. Show yourselves, and he will be merciful.”
Nothing.
Farino put his radio to his ear and then turned to Riley. “Something strange is happening in there. The north G-ray officer is still reporting two suspects. One is reacting and the other is in a prone position with no movement at all. We may have a victim.”
A face appeared in the window.
Riley reached for the bullhorn. “This is Jack Riley, United States Homeland Security. Step outside with your hands up, and you will not be harmed.”
Incredibly, the window slid open. A hand drew the curtains back.
A few seconds later, a small, black object slowly fluttered through the window toward the staging area.
Barely visible, Riley followed the drone with binoculars. His stomach sank as it circled with pinpoint precision and disappeared under Farino’s SUV.
Griffin opened the SUV’s side door and focused her binoculars. “I can see Jack. It looks like he’s on the phone. Do you think it’s over?”
Ross cleared his throat. “Neela, before this comes to an end, I just wanted to say that I had hoped… um, if there was a way that we could work something out and still see each other even if you relocated to New York. I really enjoy being with you.”
Something chirped once, then twice, then a third time.
She reached for his hand and smiled. “Are you going to get that?”
Ross finally realized the chirping was his phone and thought not to answer, but then he did.
“A drone!” Riley’s voice screamed. “Underneath you!”
Ross didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He snatched Shaitan from the front seat, swept Griffin into his arms, and, sprinter-like, propelled himself through the door. He scrambled a few precious yards before stumbling to ground. His body weight slammed onto Griffin’s abdomen, forcing the air from her lungs like a hit from an NFL linebacker.
The detonation easily ruptured the SUV’s plastic fuel tank, shredding the vehicle’s undercarriage. A millisecond later, the vapor from thirty gallons of fuel unleashed a horrific secondary explosion that sent hardened chunks of debris and shrapnel spraying laterally.
The last thing Ross remembered was shielding Griffin’s head with Shaitan, to the peril of his own.
Hurtling airborne end-over-end like a child’s toy, the Ford Expedition landed on its roof, spinning and engulfed in flames. Black smoke mushroomed skyward. A few seconds later, fiery droplets pelted down like some spring rainstorm from hell.
There was momentary quiet, and then a barrage of tear gas and stun grenades launched from the middle of 81st Street, shattering the flat’s windows. Seconds later, smoke illuminated by muffled explosions billowed through the interior.
The assault lasted just thirty seconds and then stopped.
The front door opened.
Two arms appeared first, then the head of a youthful-looking adult male. Barefoot, he wore blue jeans and a Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap. A Boston College sweatshirt hung below his waist. He raised his arms and stepped off the concrete stoop.
A chorus of metallic assault weapon breeches clicked in unison.
“Do not shoot; it is over,” he coughed in broken English. “Allah is our judge.”
“Get down on the ground!” a bullhorn voice echoed.
The man dropped to his knees and placed his hands behind his head.
No one went near him.
From forty feet, one of the G-ray officers initiated a scanning sequence. A black-and-white video screen showed the outline of a spaghetti-like mass of wires and four gray rectangular lumps strapped to the suspect’s torso.
“Wired!”
Riley had wandered too close.
The suspect stood, arms outstretched like Frankenstein’s monster, his legs repeatedly kicking at the cyclone fence gate in the front yard. He stopped and zeroed in on Riley, the closest enemy, and made eye contact. The moment froze in time. The man’s stare was lifeless and cold. Then he smiled. A split second later, he detonated.
The Semtex blast wave rocked the vehicle skirmish line, shattering windows in a five-hundred-foot radius and sending a swath of collateral and human debris as far as the airport’s noise abatement wall across the street.
Riley’s forehead felt as though it had been split by an ax, and his pummeled eardrums translated only muffled sounds. His face and his eyelids were painfully singed, and when he opened them, he realized he was lying on his back on a stretcher. He vaguely remembered the detonation and the sensation of his body somehow being lifted off the ground. He remembered nothing about slamming back to the pavement, apparently knees and head first. When he gently turned his neck, the blurred images of three emergency medical technicians cleared. They were lifting a motionless body into an ambulance. Griffin was seated inside, sobbing.
“Oh no!” Riley wailed, trying to rise from the stretcher.
“Sir, he still has a pulse, but we need to go now,” a technician said, pushing Riley back down. “They’re waiting in the ER.”
The ambulance pulled away.
Riley lay on the stretcher, holding his hands to his head.
Farino appeared and bent to one knee. “Are you all right, Jack? You should lay still.”
“I take it we lost our suspect?”
“Yeah. He’s all over the place — literally. And there were no other perpetrators. The second body inside that flat was Mary Timmons, the landlord who lived next door. She was blindfolded and tied up in the bathtub. She’s on her way to a hospital in Queens. They think she’ll be okay.” Farino winced as he put his hand on Riley’s shoulder. “We found something else.”
“Will this ever stop?” Riley asked bitterly. “Please tell me it’s the missing drones.”
“A Barrett .50-caliber sniper rifle. Fully loaded with explosive-tip rounds. Jack, it was for another aircraft.”
Where did he find that? Riley wondered, gently fingering his ear. “How do you know?”
“There was a note inside the case. He wrote the tactics down on paper. He planned to hop a freight train and shoot at the cockpit of another runway depart—”
“Don’t,” Riley choked, nearly breaking down. Farino helped him to his feet. Riley filled his chest with air and exhaled deeply. “I’m tired, and I’ve had enough. I’ll call you. Get me some ice and some Tylenol. I need to speak to that landlord.”
Chapter 46
Waiting area patients and staff crowded around television screens that showed breaking news of an FBI drug siege.
Griffin was sitting on a sofa, holding hands with a beleaguered young mother whose four-year-old daughter had accidentally fallen on the sharp end of a pencil.
Derek Feldman, one of seven board-certified trauma center physicians on staff, surveyed the room briefly and made his way toward the two women.
“Chandra? Your daughter is very lucky, ma’am,” Feldman announced. “The pencil missed her eyeball and punctured the area next to the bridge of her nose. She’ll need a patch bandage, but she’s going to be fine.”
He turned to Griffin and sat down, flipping a page on his clipboard. “Ma’am, is your name Neela?”
“Tom Ross,” she choked. Her eyes welled up instantly. “Is he…?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Feldman smiled. “He’s got a nasty wound just above the left temple, but he’s stable. He’s going to be okay. It’s a good night for near misses. We’d like to keep him for a while. He’s mildly sedated, but he’s been asking for you. He’s in Number 3 South. Follow me.”