Page 1 of Fatal Mistake
Chapter 1
Spotsylvania County, Virginia
Thursday, April 28
7:50 p.m.
He was coming for her, and he was close.
He’d parked on the driveway and would soon head for the pump house, taking long strides. Spaced evenly, methodical, as she knew Mr. Perfectionist would take, his footsteps rustling over dead grass, bringing him closer.
At the door, he would twist the rusty knob. Step inside. Spot her. She could almost hear his thoughts when he did.
I was sloppy. Now she knows. Do I let her live? Kill her? How can I dispose of the body?
The body. Ha! Her. He was going to kill her. She’d grown up with him. Lived next door for years, but he had no choice now. He had to know she wouldn’t keep quiet about this…this what? She didn’t even know what to call it.
She swept her gaze over the rough-hewn table, pausing at neat piles of white blocks covered in green cellophane. Explosives—military grade, like she’d seen in briefings in her job as a government translator. The blocks sat solidly among triggers, wires, pipes, and items she couldn’t identify. Items for a bomb. Maybe several bombs. Pages and pages of diagrams, maps, and other papers were scattered beside the equipment.
Recent television news stories raced through her brain. Explosions on the first of every month. The destruction. Chaos and confusion. Nothing more than burned-out shells left behind. Death. Muslim women. Always women.
Oh my gosh! Oren. Her childhood best friend was a killer. A terrorist. The Lone Wolf Bomber. No…no. Couldn’t be, right? But the evidence…
His car door slammed in the distance, the echo reverberating through the quiet.
He’s coming.
She had to escape, but how? The only door and window in the tiny building led to the path he’d take.
Think, Tara, think. Hurry! Hurry!
She reached for her phone. The smooth case slipped through her fingers and tumbled to the floor.
Father, please. Help me!
She dropped to her knees, her fingers crawling over the dirt floor until they curled around the cool metal. She woke it up and lifted a finger to tap in 911.
No. She should call the FBI’s hotline. The bright red letters, 1-800-THE-BOMB, had scrolled across the television screen nearly every newscast for the last few months. They were better prepared than local police to deal with a lunatic bomber. She punched in the number and the phone rang.
“Hotline, this is Special Agent Cal Riggins,” the deep male voice said.
Good. She’d gotten an actual agent.
“My aunt’s tenant, Oren Keeler.” Her words tumbled out, rushing over each other. “He has…oh my gosh…this can’t be happening. I’m…I’m in the pump house. Behind my aunt’s home. There are bomb-making materials here.”
“Calm down,” Agent Riggins said. “What’s your name?”
Calm down? Is he nuts? “I can’t calm down. Oren just drove up. Once he finds me here, he’ll kill me.”
“It would help if I had your name,” Agent Riggins said evenly when her body revved on high octane.
He was so infuriatingly composed, Tara wanted to shout at him to take her seriously, but Oren would hear her. “My name’s Tara. Tara Parrish.”
“Hello, Tara.”
She didn’t have time for pleasantries. “I need you to get someone over here now. Before he comes inside and discovers me.”
“What’s your address?”
