Edison, New Jersey, overnight.”
In another video inset a male reporter on the scene intoned,
“. . . fanatical religious group determined to ‘return mankind to the Iron Age’ has struck again—this time destroying a start-up semiconductor lab in . . .”
Another video inset showing an old photo of Grady and a black-and-white photo of a younger Alcot:
“Among the dead: Chirality Labs cofounders Jonathan Grady and Bertrand Alcot as well as venture capitalists Albert Marrano and Sloan Johnson . . .”
Another video inset:
“. . . the Winnowers have carried out half a dozen deadly bombings over a decade—at times waiting years between attacks . . .”
Grady watched in horror as images of rescue workers accompanied the newscaster’s narration. Gurneys bearing body bags from the scene. Corpse-sniffing dogs searching through ruins.
Hedrick focused on Grady. “Growing teeth, bones, and body parts from DNA is trivial to us. Your remains in the explosion will leave no doubt that you and your whole team are dead. You see, even if you had accepted a role among us, Jon, you were never going back. You can never live among normal people again. Your mind is just too dangerous.”
CHAPTER 4
Modus Operandi
A white AS350 Eurocopter descended from a cloudy winter sky. It rotated windward before setting down near a vast array of flashing police and fire truck lights in the parking lot of an industrial zone in Edison, New Jersey. The vehicles were clustered around a massive blast crater centered on the smoking shell of an industrial building. Firefighters hosed down the periphery, while dozens of emergency responders stood by. FBI investigators in hazmat suits combed through the wreckage.
As the chopper rotors wound down, FBI Special Agent Denise Davis exited and at a crouch approached two waiting men wearing winter parkas marked “FBI,” front and back. She zipped her own parka against the frigid chopper wash as she cleared the rotors, glad (as always) that her hair was still in a military buzz cut.
She nodded to the two men—neither of whom looked particularly pleased to see her. This had to be handled carefully. And immediately.
“Wasn’t my idea, Thomas.”
Agent Thomas Falwell, a lean, balding man in his forties looked nonplussed. “Does it matter?”
“For the record, I think it was a shitty thing to do.”
He turned to look at the massive crime scene behind them.
“Are we good? Do you want reassignment?”
He shook his head. “I just wish you didn’t have the résumé you do. But I would have made the same decision if I were them.”
She met his stare and nodded. “That’s extremely decent of you.”
“Just don’t ask me again after a couple of beers.”
She nodded acceptance, then turned to the younger agent standing nearby. “Dwight, can you locate the ERT lead? I want a definitive body count as soon as possible.”
“On it, Denise.” Dwight Wortman, the younger agent, nodded and took off toward the emergency vehicles.
Davis started marching toward the smoldering blast site. She turned to Falwell, who had fallen in alongside her. “What do we have so far?”
“Definitely our boy. Cotton posted on YouTube minutes after the bombing. Shows his victims struggling right up till the last moment.” He passed Davis a tablet computer.
She tapped at the screen, and the video began to play. A familiar face—Richard Louis Cotton surrounded by his masked followers. Cotton pointed at some complex mechanical assembly with researchers lashed to it.
“. . . an outrage against creation! This—”
Davis paused it. “Does he say anything new?”
“No. Same old return-to-the-Iron-Age crap.”
She passed the tablet back to him. “What about the upload?”
“Cyber division says it was a stolen account. The file uploaded from an IP address in Kiev, Ukraine.”
“And the domain owner?”
“It’ll be a proxy, but they’re checking. The Ukrainian authorities are sometimes helpful.
In another video inset a male reporter on the scene intoned,
“. . . fanatical religious group determined to ‘return mankind to the Iron Age’ has struck again—this time destroying a start-up semiconductor lab in . . .”
Another video inset showing an old photo of Grady and a black-and-white photo of a younger Alcot:
“Among the dead: Chirality Labs cofounders Jonathan Grady and Bertrand Alcot as well as venture capitalists Albert Marrano and Sloan Johnson . . .”
Another video inset:
“. . . the Winnowers have carried out half a dozen deadly bombings over a decade—at times waiting years between attacks . . .”
Grady watched in horror as images of rescue workers accompanied the newscaster’s narration. Gurneys bearing body bags from the scene. Corpse-sniffing dogs searching through ruins.
Hedrick focused on Grady. “Growing teeth, bones, and body parts from DNA is trivial to us. Your remains in the explosion will leave no doubt that you and your whole team are dead. You see, even if you had accepted a role among us, Jon, you were never going back. You can never live among normal people again. Your mind is just too dangerous.”
CHAPTER 4
Modus Operandi
A white AS350 Eurocopter descended from a cloudy winter sky. It rotated windward before setting down near a vast array of flashing police and fire truck lights in the parking lot of an industrial zone in Edison, New Jersey. The vehicles were clustered around a massive blast crater centered on the smoking shell of an industrial building. Firefighters hosed down the periphery, while dozens of emergency responders stood by. FBI investigators in hazmat suits combed through the wreckage.
As the chopper rotors wound down, FBI Special Agent Denise Davis exited and at a crouch approached two waiting men wearing winter parkas marked “FBI,” front and back. She zipped her own parka against the frigid chopper wash as she cleared the rotors, glad (as always) that her hair was still in a military buzz cut.
She nodded to the two men—neither of whom looked particularly pleased to see her. This had to be handled carefully. And immediately.
“Wasn’t my idea, Thomas.”
Agent Thomas Falwell, a lean, balding man in his forties looked nonplussed. “Does it matter?”
“For the record, I think it was a shitty thing to do.”
He turned to look at the massive crime scene behind them.
“Are we good? Do you want reassignment?”
He shook his head. “I just wish you didn’t have the résumé you do. But I would have made the same decision if I were them.”
She met his stare and nodded. “That’s extremely decent of you.”
“Just don’t ask me again after a couple of beers.”
She nodded acceptance, then turned to the younger agent standing nearby. “Dwight, can you locate the ERT lead? I want a definitive body count as soon as possible.”
“On it, Denise.” Dwight Wortman, the younger agent, nodded and took off toward the emergency vehicles.
Davis started marching toward the smoldering blast site. She turned to Falwell, who had fallen in alongside her. “What do we have so far?”
“Definitely our boy. Cotton posted on YouTube minutes after the bombing. Shows his victims struggling right up till the last moment.” He passed Davis a tablet computer.
She tapped at the screen, and the video began to play. A familiar face—Richard Louis Cotton surrounded by his masked followers. Cotton pointed at some complex mechanical assembly with researchers lashed to it.
“. . . an outrage against creation! This—”
Davis paused it. “Does he say anything new?”
“No. Same old return-to-the-Iron-Age crap.”
She passed the tablet back to him. “What about the upload?”
“Cyber division says it was a stolen account. The file uploaded from an IP address in Kiev, Ukraine.”
“And the domain owner?”
“It’ll be a proxy, but they’re checking. The Ukrainian authorities are sometimes helpful.
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