“Federal agents,” Jackson bellowed, “you must surrender, sir. Throw down your weapon.”
As Craig approached as quietly as he could, a ricochet from one of Jackson’s shots spanged close to his own foot. Craig froze, feeling a wash of cold sweat, but he did not dare shout for his partners to be careful. The militia man did not seem aware of his approach.
“Hey, you heard the man!” Goldfarb shouted. “Throw down your weapon — now.” He continued more quietly. “We’ve all got a good look at your face, you idiot. Why don’t you just give up and save us all a lot of time? You wouldn’t believe my list of things to do today.”
The militia man popped out from behind his large rock and fired two shots toward Goldfarb. He and Jackson scrambled out of the way from the ricochets — and then Craig leaped down the last few feet, his Beretta drawn. He landed firmly, handgun aimed squarely at the man’s body core as the terrorist swiveled around.
The world slowed, and Craig tensed, ready to shoot — but the militia man thought just as quickly, recognized the weapon in Craig’s hand, saw the FBI agent’s readiness to fire.
“If you’re a smart guy, you’ll know you don’t have a chance in hell,” Craig said quietly.
The militia man poised for a moment, half turned toward Craig, his own gun pointing toward the opposite canyon wall. He became a statue. Craig saw a young man, short sandy blond hair, freckled cheeks, pale blue eyes. His demeanor bespoke feral meanness, an utterly solid conviction — but Craig did not think the man was willing to die at the moment. The suicidal bomber at the Hoover Dam had risked everything to keep his explosives from being discovered, but this terrorist had no such hope. His plan had already been foiled.
“It would be a good idea for you to drop your weapon,” Craig said, keeping his Beretta steady, his eyes locked. “A very good idea.”
Craig saw the gun wavering in the militia man’s hands, saw his arm drop slightly, his fingers loosen around the trigger guard. The handgun dropped to the dirt, a military-issue sidearm… but Craig saw absolutely no surrender in the man’s eyes. As the weapon dropped, clanking on the rocky ground, the militia man moved his other hand — and suddenly Craig noticed the small box he held.
A detonator box.
The man pushed the button just as Craig launched himself forward. “No!”
Explosives planted beneath the support girders of the bridge detonated, blasting rock and steel. A plume of fire and debris erupted into the sky.
Craig ducked, covering his head and protecting his eyes as metal shrapnel flew all around him. Sand, then gravel pelted him. Rocks struck around him, tumbling toward the distant water in a building avalanche. Boulders sloughed down the canyon wall, picking up speed and bouncing. The reverberating echoes deafened him as the thunder continued.
Groaning and grinding, the bridge began to fall, heavy steel girders shrieking, twisting, dragged down by gravity.
As the boulders began to slide and Craig clung desperately to his own precarious balance, the blond militia man dove away, recklessly tumbling down the terraced wall of the gorge, skidding away toward the river as part of the avalanche.
Craig scrabbled for cover and balance, trying to keep his head clear. He dropped his pistol but didn’t bother to grab for it as the ground shifted beneath his feet. More rocks fell. A chunk of granite the size of a Volkswagen careened beside him and hurtled into the roiling, muddy water with a huge splash as if a depth charge had gone off in the river.
The militia man disappeared in the debris as the bridge continued to fall, one section after another torn from its moorings. Rivets and tie-downs ripped from their sockets; steel girders twisted. Railroad pilings tumbled like spent firecrackers down into the canyon.
Craig found a sturdy shelf of rock, grabbed it, and held on. Dust sprayed into the air. He coughed, unable to see.
The bridge finally ceased its chain reaction of destruction, hanging limp in the middle of the canyon, dangling with torn stumps of girders. Thunderheads of smoke boiled all around.
His pulse pounding, his vision ragged, his sunglasses scored and scratched, Craig gradually came back to his senses. Shaking himself, he toiled upward to reach the top of the canyon wall. He glanced frantically from side to side, searching for his two partners. “Ben!” he croaked. “Jackson!”
Up above, the Amtrak engineer and the helicopter pilot stood at the rim, awestruck, amazed to see Craig emerging from the debris. The pilot reached down to help him up, while the engineer stood with his mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish.
“Where are… the other two?” Craig panted, brushing himself off. The dust clung to his clothes, his skin. He flicked blood from his cheek where a sharp rock fragment had scratched him.
“They’re on their way up,” the helicopter pilot said. “There! I see them.”
The engineer shook his head as if to clear cobwebs from his brain. “Didn’t see where that other guy went,” he said. “I think he’s down in the river.”
Jackson came up, supporting Goldfarb by the elbow. The curly-haired agent held out his left hand, which dripped blood. “Injury in the line of duty. My little finger’s broken in two places, I think.” He winced, then sighed. “Suspect blows up a railroad bridge, and I get my pinkie broken. Imagine how that’s going to look on our report!”
Craig stood, trying to keep himself from degenerating into shakes after the disaster. At least he had managed to keep the train and its passengers from being destroyed. For what it was worth.
He thought of the bombs planted at the Hoover Dam, and now this explosion — and it wasn’t even the deadline given by the Eagle’s Claw! He swallowed hard and looked down to the churning Colorado River as the remnants of smoke and debris continued to settle.
“What are they going to do for an encore tomorrow?” he said, panting.
CHAPTER 29
Feeling as if he had been run over by a truck, Craig climbed stiffly out of the FBI helicopter as it bumped to a landing at the pad two miles from the DAF. After barely surviving an avalanche, even looking at piles of Nevsky’s papers sounded enjoyable.
Pushing his scratched sunglasses back into place, more out of habit than because they did any good, Craig carried his jacket over his arm. His shoulder holster slapped against his side as he jogged painfully away from the helicopter. Though he’d cleaned himself off, he hadn’t the luxury of a shower, or a change of clothes, or a decent lunch. Three aspirins and a cup of lukewarm tapwater had been all he could manage, and now it was time to get back to work.
He spotted Paige standing by her white pickup, waving to him. He called out, but the FBI helicopter took off behind him, slowly rotated, and tipped its nose as the pilot streaked back for Las Vegas.
Paige had already contacted him about the coroner’s report on Jorgenson, and he had told her about the bridge explosion. He wondered if all potential couples had such charming conversations.… Now Craig had another murder to investigate, one day left to wrap up the Nevsky case before the Russian delegation went critical, and a ticking clock on the Eagle’s Claw threat for the following day.
However, the scenario had changed dramatically because of one little detail — since Jorgenson had been murdered with the same obscure drug that had killed Bill Maguire, Craig knew for certain Nevsky’s death was connected with the Eagle’s Claw. Somehow.