“A team will be there in five minutes. Keep me posted.”
“DeSantos and I are fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.” Uzi disconnected the call and shoved the Nokia into his pocket.
The two Secret Service agents guarding the door pulled their handguns as Uzi and DeSantos approached. “Get down. Get down now!”
Uzi glanced at his credentials case — but it was no longer attached to his jacket. “We’re on the job,” Uzi said, raising his hands above his head. “FBI. JTTF. SSA Uziel and DeSantos, DOD.” I hope these guys know their government acronyms.
“Creds?” the agent said, voice strong and urgent. Still amped up.
“Musta been knocked off during the explosion.”
“Got mine,” DeSantos said. He held up his right hand and said, “Gonna reach into my jacket pocket. Slowly, okay?” He pulled it out and tossed it to the man’s feet.
The agent examined it a moment, then pressed an index finger to his ear and read the information to the guy on the radio. A long moment later, he waved them through.
They took folded paper gowns and masks from an adjacent stainless steel cart, put them on, and pushed through the door.
Glendon Rusch was lying in bed, a phone pressed against his ear. “Yes, Mr. President. Thank you for the call. I appreciate that. I will.”
The agent by his side took the handset and hung it up.
Rusch turned his head toward Uzi and DeSantos.
“Hector DeSantos. DOD.” He started to extend a hand, then withdrew it, no doubt realizing that Rusch’s upper limbs were completely bandaged.
“Are you okay?” Uzi asked.
“I’m not sure how to answer that.”
Uzi had forgotten how raspy Rusch’s voice was. Between that and his muffled hearing, he had to concentrate to make out what the man was saying.
“If you mean the explosion, I’m fine. My window’s bulletproof glass. Woke me from a nightmare is all. Any casualties?”
“Don’t know yet, sir. We came to check on you first.”
“I’ve got several agents who are glued to my side. I don’t need another two on my case.”
Actually, you’ve got about five hundred on your case. “You asked to see me. Something you remembered about the helicopter.”
“Remembered?” Rusch asked. “What on earth are you talking about? I already told you everything I know.”
Uzi pulled his phone and checked the call history. It appeared to be a Bureau number, from the Washington Field Office.
“I’m sorry we bothered you,” Uzi said. He gave DeSantos a jerk of his head and they left Rusch’s room.
“What the hell was that about?” DeSantos asked.
“First thoughts… We were lured here.”
“Yeah, no shit. You think this — this attack was about us?”
After dumping their gowns and masks, Uzi led the way back down the littered staircase to the ground floor, all the while working it through his head. “I still think Rusch was the target — but whoever’s behind this wanted us to either witness it firsthand, or—”
“They figured they could take out three for the price of one.”
Uzi found his creds amongst the dusty rubble in the lobby, then force-yawned a couple of times. “I think my hearing’s coming back.”
“We were lucky. Close enough to have a blast but not too close to have gotten blasted into a million pieces.”
“If it was about us,” Uzi said, “who’d have motive? Only one I can think of.”
“ARM,” DeSantos said. “They either followed us here, or—”
“Made the phone call that brought us here.”
DeSantos shook his head. “I don’t know. What’s the number in your call history?”
“Someone from inside WFO. But caller IDs can be cloned if you know what you’re doing,” Uzi said as they stepped out into the parking lot.
The swirling red lights of emergency and law enforcement vehicles whipped across the remaining first-floor windows of Building 10. Uniformed workers rushed about, some gathering toolkits to begin documenting the scene, others already on hands and knees collecting evidence.
It was a sight Uzi was all too familiar with, having lived through the bloody, suicide-bomb-laden Palestinian uprisings in Israel. The scene brought back memories.
“You okay?” DeSantos asked. “You don’t look too good.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look all pale and clammy—”
“Really — I’m fine.”
They moved further into the carnage, taking care not to disturb the scene. Uzi knelt beside the first forensic technician they passed. “Any thoughts?”
The man glanced down at Uzi’s creds. “My experience with scenes like this, given the blast pattern, says a car bomb.”
A loud whistle came from an area closest to the building. “Over here.”
Uzi and DeSantos followed a contingent of agents to the area of interest. A twisted and hollowed-out black Hyundai sedan rested against the hospital’s façade.
Uzi contorted his torso to peer into the warped metal hulk. “This the source?”
“Looks like it,” the technician said. “But for the moment, that’s only a working theory. We’re just getting started here.”
“Anyone bite it?” DeSantos asked.
“Two on the first floor, I think. And someone in the lobby.”
Uzi gestured at the car. “Car bomb means you put the explosive where, trunk?”
The technician shrugged. “Could be multiple places, depending on what you want to accomplish. For this, trunk would be a good place to start.” They moved toward the back of the vehicle. He peered in and examined the damage to the surrounding metal, which sported sharp and angry flanges that curled outward. “If I had to guess, C-4. Packed right here, supplemented with some other type of explosive.” He swiveled, took in the immediate area. “Took out part of the street, some windows and part of the building, but…”
“But what?” Uzi asked.
“If their target was the vice president, either they didn’t know where he was, or they just plain used the wrong explosive.”
“Good point,” DeSantos said. “If they used AMFO— ammonium nitrate-fuel oil mixture— the ingredients are easy to get and it’d give them a large explosion capable of causing vertical damage to a building.”
“That’s what McVeigh used,” Uzi said.
“More importantly, C-4 is high order and does a good job of blowing things around. AMFO’s low order and brings things down.”
Uzi took another look at the extent of the damage. “So if Rusch was the target, they used the wrong tool for the job. Unless we were the job.”
“Could also be that this was related to Rusch and they used the C-4 because that’s what they had available and it’s what they’re familiar with. They may not be sophisticated bomb makers.”
“Or the people responsible are in big trouble because they didn’t get the job done the first time when they took down Marine Two.” The voice came from behind them.
Uzi turned. It was Leila.
“Leila. This is Hector DeSantos. Hector, Leila Harel.”
“Hector.” Leila tilted her head back. “You’re the wingman.”
“The— What?”
“Nothing,” Uzi said, shaking his head at Leila, fighting back a smile.
“I’ve gotta go check on… something,” DeSantos said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Meet up with me at the car.”
Uzi settled his gaze on the bombed-out vehicle twenty feet away. “I had a good time last night.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Uzi faced her. “Did you?”
She let a thin smile spread her lips. “Yes.”
“Good.” Uzi squared his shoulders. “What are you doing for lunch?”