Lone Wolf Page 4

  Deuce. Her first heart dog. Her K-9 partner on the Richmond, Virginia, police force. Fallen in the line of duty, cut down by a bullet during a suspect’s desperate bid for escape. Even fatally wounded, Deuce had brought down his man. And then never risen again. She’d known the agony of other officers’ deaths while on the job, but losing Deuce had just about killed her. It had certainly driven her off the force and in search of a new career.

  Regular people simply didn’t understand the bond between a dog and their K-9 handler. She hadn’t really even understood it fully herself, thinking that bond could never be repeated. Until Hawk came into her life and set her on her new path. Into search and rescue, into the FBI. And now to think about sending Hawk possibly down to his death? “I don’t know. . . .” She trailed off, uncertain.

  “He’d probably do her some good. Right now, she’s panicking, elevating her heart rate, and increasing the bleed rate. If he could get in there and calm her down, it might just buy us enough time to get her out alive. We have other dogs on site now. Can you spare the time away from the search to have him concentrate on just one victim?”

  “We were supposed to be done an hour ago, so my replacement’s already here.” Her gaze flicked to Brian and Lacey to her right. “We just kept working anyway. You really think it will make a difference?”

  “I think it might save her life.”

  Meg flipped on the flashlight again, analyzing the narrow path between the metal supports into the gap. She was too big to fit through, but Hawk could make it. She turned to find Hawk’s gaze locked on hers, his desire obvious to her in their depths. He needed to be down there. It really wasn’t her decision.

  “Let’s see if he can make it through.” She shone the flashlight down into the hole, steadying the hand that wanted to shake with nervous tension at the risk Hawk was taking. She pointed down at the girl with her free hand so there was no mistaking her command. “Hawk, beside.”

  He didn’t need to be told twice. Picking his way into the gap, he snaked his body through the metal trusses and over tumbled piles of brick and concrete.

  “Jill? Hawk’s coming down to keep you company while we work to get you out.”

  For the first time, the pale face raised in something akin to hope, a slender shaking hand reaching out to touch fur gray with dust and grit. Hawk settled beside her, tucking his body gently against her uninjured side. Jill wrapped one bloody arm around him and buried her face against his neck.

  Meg turned back to Webb. Beyond him, three other firefighters climbed the rubble toward them.

  Webb leaned into the hole. “Jill, we’re going to have to cut some of the metal to get to you. Keep your face down, okay?” He gave Meg a gentle backward push. “You need to step back now. Let us work.”

  With a roar, one of the firefighters started a circular saw and began cutting through the metal trusses.

  It was slow work as they systematically cut trusses and removed sections from the pile, careful to not weaken the structure around them and further endanger the girl and dog below. Every minute or so, they’d stop and Webb called down into the hole. “Jill, honey, how you holding up?” The first few times, the girl replied, her voice getting weaker and weaker. By the fourth time, only Hawk’s whine greeted them.

  “Can’t you go faster?” Meg asked, sotto voce.

  “We’re going as fast as we can.” Webb’s words ground through gritted teeth as he lifted a section of metal beam and heaved it down the pile. “If we rush and cut through one of the support beams, the pile will collapse and they’ll both die. And maybe take one of us with them.” His face was grim as the saw roared to life again.

  Nevertheless, the men worked with an added level of urgency. Time was running out and they all knew it.

  “That should do it.” A large, African-American firefighter pulled the last section of truss that blocked the way out of the gap. “You’ll have to get in there to see what else you’ll need.”

  “Going in.” Webb set his helmet off to the side. He threw a last glance at Meg and went head first into the hole, army-crawling down into the pit, flashlight clutched in one hand to light his way. Up above, the other men shone their lights down, watching his progress. Finally at the bottom, he squeezed past Hawk with a murmured, “Good boy. Jill? Jill!” He tossed off his gloves, fingers sliding over her throat, searching for a pulse. “Pulse is weak and thready, but she’s still with us. I need Hawk out of here before I move her; we’re too short on space otherwise. Can you call him?”

  Meg leaned over the gap. “Hawk, come.”

  Hawk gently pulled away from the girl. The upward footing was precarious, but he scrambled back up toward Meg and then out onto the pile, carefully avoiding the razor-sharp metal ends left by the saw.

  “Here she comes.” It was difficult maneuvering in tight quarters, but Webb managed to lift Jill’s limp body and pass it up to the ready arms above. Two firefighters hurried as fast as possible to the courtyard floor and then ran for the ambulance waiting at the back door.

  Webb hauled himself out, his face coated with grime.

  “What do you think?” Meg asked. “Is she going to make it?”

  “She’s lost a lot of blood, but she’s young and strong. They’ll be running fluids already. I think she’s got a chance as long as she hasn’t lacerated her spleen or liver.” Turning away, he spat out a mouthful of the stone dust he’d breathed in the pile. “God damn whoever did this. Little kids shouldn’t have to live through something like this.” He spoke quietly, but every syllable was filled with rage. He gave her a tight-lipped nod, then shouldered his equipment and trudged back down the pile to help the next victim.

  Meg’s tenuous hold on the emotion that bubbled just below the surface wavered at the vehemence in Webb’s tone. Unspeakable fury filled her as her control slipped, fury at the person or persons who did this, fury at a God who would put children and adults in the path of such madmen. Fury that because of someone’s selfish actions, once again her own dog was in jeopardy. Red hazed the edges of her vision and her hands balled into fists, short nails biting into her palms. She wanted to hurt the person who had done this. No, hurt was too gentle, too mild for the type of person who would harm the young and kill the inconsequential. She wanted to rip him limb from limb, and watch him suffer like his victims.

  Hawk’s low whine brought her back to the present. Back to sanity. Back to the world of those who helped, and who saved when they could. That was her world. Retribution and punishment were not her job. She was about life. True, part of life was death. There were always those they couldn’t save, but knowing that, experiencing it time and again, never made it any easier.

  There was more to do. Time was ticking since the blast, and the longer victims were lost, the less chance there was of saving them. Craig had told her more than an hour ago to go home, but she needed to be here. Needed to find the missing.

  Focus on the ones you haven’t found yet. They’re depending on you.

  Meg pushed purposefully to her feet. “Hawk, find them.”

  He immediately put his nose down, searching for a scent trail.

  Wednesday, April 12, 2:41 AM

  Washington, DC

  Meg and Hawk stepped out of the building and into the chilly night. After the heat and closeness of the disaster scene, the early spring night air was so clear and sharp it almost hurt to breathe. She stopped, taking a few steadying breaths. Out with the smoke and haze, in with the fresh and clean.

  They started across the parking lot. It was ablaze with spotlights, but the number of emergency vehicles had scaled down. The rescue efforts continued, but the estimated head count indicated there were only a dozen or so people still missing and they had mostly been in close proximity to the blast epicenter. No one was sure how many of them would be left to rescue.

  “Meg!”

  Meg looked up to see a tall, rangy blonde in coveralls accompanied by a border collie in an FBI vest speed-walking toward them.

&n
bsp; “Lauren.” Meg halted in surprise, Hawk automatically stopping at her side. “I thought you were in New York City.”

  “We were.” Lauren looked up at the Whitten Building. For a moment, anguish sketched across her lovely face; too many years of facing this kind of scene had taught her what to expect before she even set foot inside. Then the mask was back in place, determination squaring her shoulders. “We were done there, so I caught the first train back as soon as I heard, knowing Rocco would be needed.” Lauren reached down and stroked a hand over her dog’s silky black and white fur. “Fucking bastards who did this. I hear we’ve lost nine so far, with more still missing. And Craig said kids were caught in the blast.”

  “Only adult fatalities so far. But twenty-one kids injured, some critically.” Meg swallowed harshly. “Three are still missing. I wanted to keep going, but Craig finally ordered me out.”

  “How long have you been at it?”

  “I lost track of time. We started around four-thirty.”

  “Over ten hours. You know very well Craig was right to get you out of there before you got so exhausted you made a mistake, or you or Hawk got hurt.”

  “There are still people trapped in there.” Meg could hear the frustration and banked grief in her own voice and tried to bear down to steady herself. “And family members waiting to hear about the fates of their loved ones. Some of who did nothing more terrible than go to work this morning to earn money to put food on the family table. And now they won’t ever be coming home.” She closed her eyes, but dull, staring eyes, charred flesh, and blood-splattered marble soldiers followed her into the dark, so she opened them again, and forced herself to focus on light. On life.

  Lauren laid a hand on her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You’ve done your part for today. It’s time for fresh teams to take over. Go home. Rest. Come back later today to help again if they still need us.” She stepped back, Rocco moving as one with her when she turned and headed into the bomb site.

  Meg and Hawk trudged down Jefferson toward the Freer Gallery. Every passing step seemed harder than the last as the adrenaline that had kept her going all night trickled away, leaving her wrung out and empty. Passing one of the deserted park benches at the corner of 12th Street, she finally admitted defeat. “Hawk, wait. I need a minute.”

  Meg made it to the bench where she collapsed, burying her head in her hands and letting her hard hat clatter to the ground. She clenched her eyes closed, but she couldn’t shut out the images of what she’d seen today. Dismembered bodies. Blood smears on concrete and steel. Desperate reaching fingers. A child’s charred and torn backpack, ripped from her body by the force of the blast. She shuddered while horrific images played through her mind in a never-ending loop.

  The nudge of Hawk’s damp nose against her fingers reminded her she wasn’t alone, not during the search, not now, not ever, so long as Hawk was with her. Looking up, she found him at her feet, squeezing his sturdy chest between her knees. She wrapped her arms around him, taking comfort in his warmth and solid strength. Ignoring the grit covering them both, she buried her face in the fur of his neck.

  And there, finally away from the death and destruction, she wept out her despair.

  Chapter 4

  Initial Planning Point: The starting point from which any search is planned; often it is the “axle of the wheel” and the search spreads outward from that point.

  Wednesday, April 12, 8:01 AM

  Outside Moorefield, Hardy County, West Virginia

  The man hunched over the crude wooden table, bent low over the pieces methodically placed on the scarred surface—electronics, bundles of rainbow-hued wires, zip ties, rotor blades, and a soldering gun.

  The muffled boom of a recorded explosion drew his gaze and he looked up, his fingers still holding the unmounted camera against the body of the frame. Across the small, dim room, a flickering tube television showed the image of fiery clouds of crimson and orange blooming over the white marble columns and roof of the Jamie L. Whitten Building. The explosion of color fading into inky black smoke brought a satisfied smile to his thin lips.

  Can’t help themselves. Gotta keep playing it over and over. Now all the news agencies’ll ramp up people’s fears by saying Islamic terrorists did it. Because surely no American would do something like that. He shook his head at their tunnel vision. Oklahoma City didn’t teach them anything.

  He picked up several zip ties with his free hand and deftly bound the camera to the frame and then set the drone down in the middle of the table on its short legs. He scanned the parts, finally selecting a small, squat motor. He bolted it onto one of the eight spidery legs of the contraption, before reaching for the next. Head down, he single-mindedly worked his way around the device, attaching the motors.

  He loosed a low, guttural curse when an unsanded piece of razor sharp metal on the frame sliced his thumb. Dropping the screwdriver, he sucked the blood from his thumb while tamping down the urge to throw something at the nearest wall.

  Cool it. Save your fury for the people that deserve it.

  He wiped his thumb off on ripped, faded denim and looked back toward the TV, allowing the imagery of the blast, the rubble left in the aftermath, and the babble of the talking heads to cool his temper.

  Pride slid over him like a cool balm. He was the most important thing in their universe right now.

  But then the picture on screen shifted. It was clearly a shot taken during the blackest part of the night and without the knowledge of the participants. In it, a young woman sat on a park bench, a yellow hard hat tipped on its side beside a dark backpack at her feet. Between her knees stood a black dog wearing a dark vest that clearly spelled out “FBI” even in the dim light of the streetlamps. The woman’s face was hidden from view, buried in the side of the dog’s neck, her hands clenched in the thick fur.

  There was no audio to accompany the visual, but none was needed—the pair radiated exhaustion, grief, and heartbreak. The talking head was expounding on the long shifts the FBI search and rescue dogs were working, the tragedy of finding the dead, and the waning hope of finding anyone else still alive trapped in the rubble.

  He rose from the table to stalk across the room, his narrowed gaze fixed on the image of the woman and her dog, anger burning anew. The heartbreaking pain of the rescuer drew viewers’ attention away from the point he was trying to make. That wouldn’t do.

  Wouldn’t do at all.

  This journey was just beginning. And it was time to bring attention back to his cause.

  Chapter 5

  Firedamp: An old coal-mining term for pockets of flammable gas that can explode when mixed with air.

  Wednesday, April 12, 10:16 AM

  Washington Post

  Washington, DC

  Clay McCord swore under his breath as the chime of yet another incoming message sounded from his computer. Damn alerts. If I could take the time to figure out how to turn you off, you’d be gone gone gone. He ran his fingers through hair going gray more rapidly than he’d like for someone in his midthirties, taking an extra moment to curl his fingers in the strands and tug in frustration before letting go. The sharp dart of pain brought him back to the present and to the story staring at him from his computer screen with frustrating brevity.

  He’d just come back from the Whitten Building. Again. He and every other investigative reporter on the eastern seaboard had tried to get on-site yesterday, but the DC cops had been vicious in their determination to keep the press out. He’d even found a few officers he was on good terms with and attempted to sweeten the deal for them turning a blind eye as he slipped in close to the blast site. For once, not even tickets to Saturday’s Nationals season opener could get him through. Real regret shone in their eyes at turning down such a tempting offer before they shut him down. No exceptions.

  So he had stood on Constitution Avenue, on the far side of the Mall, one man in a crowd of onlookers, eyes fixed on the inky smoke still billowing skyward, feeling helpless. Yes, th
ere was a story to be had, and everyone wanted it. But for him, beyond that lay the grinding desire to help. He didn’t just want to report the story. He wanted to be in it. Because to report it was to be part of the inevitable media circus. To be in it was to make a difference.

  It took him back to his days as an intern. Back to his second day on the job when his world had exploded and Americans learned the meaning of terror. Every able-bodied reporter had been sent out to get the story that day. There he’d been, wet behind the ears, disbelieving and shell-shocked, his heart in his throat, standing shoulder to shoulder with the veteran journalist he was shadowing in a similar crowd barricaded outside the Pentagon. They stood looking at the smoking wreck of the building that represented the military might of the United States, knowing three other planes had gone down that day, taking too many innocents and the security of America with them.

  That day the crowd was stunned silent.

  Yesterday, the crowd had been a living thing surrounding him, a many-headed monster with whispering mouths. Terrorism. Islamic extremists. Al-Qaeda. ISIL. Retribution. . .

  He dropped his head into his hands. It wasn’t even clear at this point who was responsible for yesterday’s attack, but already hotheads were pointing fingers and wanting to strike back with all available force.

  The whole thing made him sick.

  He looked back up at the screen, at the faces of the men and women who had died in the blast. At the faces of the children in critical condition. And all he could do was print their names and repeat the same scant recycled details as every other reporter because no one knew anything more. The FBI had the scene locked down tight and were saying almost nothing. None of his contacts inside the Hoover Building would return his calls. And his story, whatever he could cobble together, was due in fifteen minutes.