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Three flagpoles risefrom a small grassy park in front of the entrance to Union Station in Washington, DC. FBI agent Ned Mahoney shoulders his way through the police lines, holding his shield up, taking in the situation. Police and National Guard officers are holding back the news media and the crowds of onlookers streaming in from nearby streets.
Ned nods to DC Metro Police captain Susan Jones, who is in charge of the scene. She’s wearing a bullet-resistant vest over her uniform, and Ned wishes now he’d brought his own vest, which is still secure back in his government-issue black Impala, along with a spare.
Ned says, “Word I’ve got is that there’s a suicide bomber in there.”
“That’s right,” she replies, eyes flickering around the line of police officers and National Guardsmen, evaluating their positions and placements. “Happened entirely by accident about thirty minutes ago, during the morning rush. Some clown from Bethesda who works in the Agriculture Department came through, bumped into her—”
“A woman?” Ned interrupts. “For real? That’s damn rare.”
In a glum voice, Susan says, “Yeah, that’s what all the training says, right? Anyway, a guy bumps into her, dumps his Starbucks Venti Caramel Apple Frappuccino or whatever on her coat, apologizes, and tries to mop up the mess. Her coat opens up, and there it is, a vest with ball bearings and wires, and he shits himself and starts screaming.”
“It didn’t go off?”
“Nope,” the captain says. “Right now, the concourse is empty except for a couple of my guys with shields, and we’re waiting for the hostage negotiator to show up. At the moment, the would-be suicide bomber is standing under the barrel-vaulted arches, sobbing.”
“Any demands?”
“Not a one,” she says.
Ned looks over at the crowds, tries to remember the last time he had a good night’s sleep or a good scrap of information that might help him find out just what in hell’s been going on during the last few months. “I’m going in,” he says. “Let your people know so they don’t freak when a new face shows up.”
“Ned,” the captain says, “there’s no way I’m letting you in there. Wait for the hostage negotiator to get here.”
“Not enough time, and you know it, Susan,” he says. “And there’s also not enough time to do the turf dance. This is a terrorist incident and it belongs to me. I’m going in.”
“If she pulls the trigger, you and everyone in there will get a bellyful of steel ball bearings.”
Ned says, “So if she pulls the trigger, I better duck, right?”
Susan swears, starts undoing the Velcro straps of her bullet-resistant vest. “All right, take this,” she says, then yells to one of the officers, “You! Give this man your shield.”
Ned puts on the police captain’s bullet-resistant vest and takes the heavy Plexiglas shield,POLICEcentered on a black strip across the middle of it, from an officer.
Susan says, “Good luck, if that means anything.”
“I’ll take it,” Ned says.
In the main hall of Union Station, his footsteps clatter loudly in the nearly empty space littered with dropped newspapers, briefcases, purses, and spilled coffee. A disheveled-looking woman is standing in the center of the large hall; pretty arched columns swoop overhead, and hexagon-shaped lights glow softly. One of the five DC police officers taking cover behind ticket counters loudly whispers something unintelligible into the silence, but Ned ignores him.
He slowly walks toward the woman, his empty left hand raised, holding the riot shield in his right hand. “Ma’am,” Ned says, “I’d like to help you, honest. What’s your name? Where are you from?”
She’s a well-dressed, well-made-up blond woman in her mid- to late fifties wearing black slacks and a light yellow down jacket. The jacket is open, revealing a vest with wired and tubular charges and clear plastic bags filled with small metal ball bearings.
She looks like she’s been crying.
“Ma’am,” Ned says, “can I help?”
In a frustrated voice, she says, “It didn’t work, it didn’t work!”
She moves her arm, and Ned freezes, seeing the triggering device in her right hand. “Hey, ma’am, drop what you’re holding,” Ned calls out. “Please!”
Her thumb presses down. “It still doesn’t work!”
Ned yells louder, “Lady, drop it!”
Another press of the thumb. “It was supposed to work!”
