"I don't like this," Cunningham said.
They were curbside in a white panel van with an orange-and-blue plumbing logo that looked authentic, but inside, three FBI techs tapped at keyboards and watched wall monitors that showed four different angles of the house in question. The cameras relaying those angles were attached to the helmets of SWAT members getting into place. A duplicate van was parked behind them. A public-utility van was a block away, waiting with a bomb squad.
Maggie readjusted a purple-flowered jacket she'd never own, but that fit perfectly over the bulletproof vest. She had found it in one of BSU's closets that housed an odd assortment of potential disguises. Unlike her copper-colored suit jacket that said, "Warning, FBI agent knocking at your door," the purple flowers hopefully would get a "welcome" nod. That is, if no one noticed the bulge of her gun.
She readjusted her shoulder harness and the Smith & Wesson in its holster. Other agents had updated years ago to Glocks, but Maggie stayed with her original service revolver. Situations like this she couldn't help thinking it didn't matter what kind of gun she used. The bulletproof vest wouldn't make much difference either, especially if they tripped an explosive device.Guys who sent invitations to law enforcement officers usually did so because they enjoyed blowing apart a few of them.
Cunningham had put in place as many precautions as he could. Unfortunately, a house-to-house evacuation was impossible. And they were running out of time.
Maggie glanced at her wristwatch: 9:46.Her eyes searched the neighborhood again—at least what she could see from the tinted back window.
He was probably here.
Watching. Waiting.
Maybe he had the detonator.
"What about the moving truck?" Maggie asked.
"Too obvious." Cunningham dismissed, without looking away from the monitors.
"Sometimes the ordinary becomes the invisible."
He glanced at her and for a second she thought it might be a mistake to quote his own words to him. His eyes darted back to the monitors but he fingered the miniature microphone clipped to his lapel and said into it, "Check the moving truck."
In a matter of seconds they watched an agent dressed in a tan jumpsuit with the same plumbing-company logo slip out the back of the van behind them. He approached the truck, checking the addresses on each house against a clipboard in his left hand. He was still talking to the truck's driver when Cunningham pointed to one of the other monitors, an impatient chess player anticipating the next move.
"Can we make out anything inside the house yet?" Cunningham asked the tech tapping the computer keys without a pause.
Maggie watched the moving truck, but glanced at the monitor that Cunningham was anxious to view. Somewhere behind the house in question, one of the SWAT-team members wore a helmet-mounted thermal imaging camera.The infrared-sensor technology could pick up body heat, distinguishing between a sofa and the person on the sofa. Hot objects appeared white, cool ones black. Anything above 392 degrees showed up in red.Firefighters used the cameras to find victims in smoked-filled buildings. Here they hoped to get a heads-up of how many people—whether victims, hostages or bombers—waited for them inside.
"Small heat source in the first room," the tech said, pointing at the screen as the first white mass glowed bright white. A few seconds later he was tapping the coordinates of the second heat source. "Maybe a bedroom. The person's lying down."
They waited, Cunningham leaned over the tech's shoulder, pushing up the bridge of his glasses. Maggie sat back where she could keep an eye on the other monitors and glance out at the moving truck. The agent waved a thank-you to the driver, but he walked around the open back of the truck, continuing his charade of checking addresses.
"Is that it?" Cunningham finally asked the tech. "Just two heat sources?"
"Looks that way."
Cunningham glanced out the window then looked to Maggie as he buttoned his jacket, a worn tweed borrowed from the same closet where Maggie found the purple-flowered one.
"Ready?" he asked as he grabbed a handful of campaign flyers and adjusted the Glock in his shoulder harness.
She nodded and scanned the neighborhood one last time.
"Ready," she said, then followed him out the back of the van.
CHAPTER
5
Washington, D.C.
Artie left the SUV in a public parking lot where the government-issued license plate would warrant little attention. He was a quick learner and he knew better than to get tripped up on a simple parking fine or traffic stop. Like Ted Bundy. The guy gets away with murder, escapes prison and then gets pulled over in a VW bug, driving after 1:00 a.m. on Davis Highway in Pensacola, Florida. An astute police officer thought the orange VW looked out of place and checked the license plate, discovering the car had been stolen in Tallahassee.
Artie knew stuff like that. Bits of trivia about killers. He also learned from it. He knew not to draw attention to himself. So he parked the SUV and walked. He didn't mind walking. He was in good shape, though he didn't work out. Practically lived on fast food, switching from one kind to another. The hotel was only a few blocks away. He arrived as the tour bus was boarding. Perfect timing.
He had taken this tour of the Washington monuments a couple of times before. It was a great way to add to his collection. He could get DNA samples from people all across the country just by riding the ten-mile tour. Last time he had been lucky enough to confiscate a long red hair from a woman wearing a Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt.
The driver collected Artie's pass and he took an aisle seat across from a middle-aged couple. They said hello to him and immediately he pegged them from the Northeast, maybe New Hampshire. It was a game he played with himself, matching dialects to places.
"Where are you folks from?" he asked, friendly enough for a response.
"Hanover, New Hampshire," both said in unison.
He smiled and nodded, satisfied.
"How about yourself?"
"Atlanta," he chose this time, always using a city too big for anyone to expect him to know their aunt or cousin. Then he opened his tour brochure and closed the conversation. That was all he had really wanted, after all, was to prove himself right.
They took the hint but he could tell they would have liked to have asked more. He could morph himself into different characters. And he could be quite charming when he wanted to be. As a result, everyone seemed to enjoy talking to him. Sometimes he allowed it. It was good practice. Sometimes he could make up the lies faster than they could ask the questions. But he wasn't in the mood today. He had other things that required his focus.
He glanced at his watch. In a few minutes the FBI would be storming suburbia, expecting a crash, and he would be miles away. Artie believed the plan ingenious even though he didn't get to participate. He could imagine the routine. They would bring a SWAT team and a bomb squad, only they wouldn't be anywhere near prepared for what they'd find. They were such linear thinkers. The fact that they couldn't see that seemed just deserts for what was about to happen.
He slid his bulging backpack on the empty seat beside him. Usually it discouraged the stragglers, the tourists who thought they'd go on the tour alone and chat up other losers traveling by themselves. Speaking of losers, one was coming down the aisle now. He recognized the wandering eyes, looking, searching for one of its kind yet scurrying to find a seat. She wore a purple sweatshirt with embroidered butterflies and faded blue jeans and carried a huge, black purse, practically a saddlebag. Artie avoided eye contact when she looked his way, pulling open the brochure and pretending, once again, to be interested though he knew the route by heart.