make positive identification a negative. Using the belt-and-suspenders approach, he would now add the final touch.
“Is this one 10 or 12?” he asked Gianny.
“12.”
He dialed the number as they drove away and let it sit in the phone. As they pulled out, he waited until they were halfway down the block and then pushed send. Five seconds later, while he fully turned around to watch, the building took flight. It looked like it lifted from the ground. Gianny picked up the pace, knowing what came next: those whistling nails. He couldn’t hear them in this instance, but he knew exactly what they did. He could see it all over the news.
“Let’s go find my dear Caitlin and then head somewhere tropical.” Britt said it as if he were planning a family vacation.
Sixteen
G rant made his way into the office building down the block, showed his badge, and barricaded himself in a conference room. He recoiled from what the man on the other line asked. Killing was a minuscule part of a federal agent’s job. He was forced to do it once and sought counseling afterwards. Some hero he was. Most agents never had to kill. It was different than the tough-guy antics people saw on TV, but that mattered little. It just wasn’t a major part of the job, and it certainly wasn’t done on request.
“I didn’t think that would be much of a problem,” said Naseem, sensing Grant’s hesitation. “If it is, I assure you that you will save many more lives. We can do this in the next thirty minutes or so.”
“I will promise to abide by your stipulations,” Grant said, feeling the bile settle in his stomach. Oh, how his superiors would crow if they heard him agree to this. He would worry about that later. “What do we need to do?”
“I’ve been listening to the radio, and I’m trying to piece all of this together. Many of the targets that were hit I knew about or planned. I know of some more that are planned for the next several hours. But some of the spots I was unaware of. I didn’t know about Orlando or Nashville. This plan was bigger than what even I believed.”
“What can we do now?” Grant put his head in his hands.
“I think the attacks will come on the hour. This is for psychological effect as much as anything.”
“Is this a religious attack?”
“No. That’s what I believed. That’s what I signed up for. But this is all about him.”
“Who’s ‘him’?”
“I doubt that I had his real name.”
“What did he call himself?”
“He just called himself Yankee.”
“Did he …”
“Let’s talk attacks. We can profile him later.”
Naseem was right.
“Write this down.”
“I’m ready.”
“He hasn’t hit Charleston, South Carolina, and he hasn’t hit Denver. In Charleston, the target is Fort Sumter. In Denver, it’s the restaurant district just outside of Coors Field.
“Here’s the tough part: the attacks need to seem like they’ve still gone on. I think you need to get major players—like network journalists—on Twitter to cooperate with you. You’re going to have to pull people out of those areas, but let the explosions happen and have people talk about them.”
“Why don’t we want to show him we’re stopping him?”
“Because he’ll know something major’s wrong.”
“How do I know you’re not just playing me?”
“You don’t. But you’re alive, so you’ve got that going for you.”
Grant couldn’t find a reply.
“I’m an hour away. We can meet wherever you want to, and I’ll tell you what I know. I thought this was a holy war until a few hours ago. I was losing my taste for it then. But now, I don’t know anything …” He caught himself; he did know one thing, “except that I want Yankee, more than I want anything else in this world.”
All of the words seemed hollow to Grant. An hour ago, this kook had been ready to die. The motive seemed very unimportant and lame to Grant at this point. He wanted to end the conversation. “I
“Is this one 10 or 12?” he asked Gianny.
“12.”
He dialed the number as they drove away and let it sit in the phone. As they pulled out, he waited until they were halfway down the block and then pushed send. Five seconds later, while he fully turned around to watch, the building took flight. It looked like it lifted from the ground. Gianny picked up the pace, knowing what came next: those whistling nails. He couldn’t hear them in this instance, but he knew exactly what they did. He could see it all over the news.
“Let’s go find my dear Caitlin and then head somewhere tropical.” Britt said it as if he were planning a family vacation.
Sixteen
G rant made his way into the office building down the block, showed his badge, and barricaded himself in a conference room. He recoiled from what the man on the other line asked. Killing was a minuscule part of a federal agent’s job. He was forced to do it once and sought counseling afterwards. Some hero he was. Most agents never had to kill. It was different than the tough-guy antics people saw on TV, but that mattered little. It just wasn’t a major part of the job, and it certainly wasn’t done on request.
“I didn’t think that would be much of a problem,” said Naseem, sensing Grant’s hesitation. “If it is, I assure you that you will save many more lives. We can do this in the next thirty minutes or so.”
“I will promise to abide by your stipulations,” Grant said, feeling the bile settle in his stomach. Oh, how his superiors would crow if they heard him agree to this. He would worry about that later. “What do we need to do?”
“I’ve been listening to the radio, and I’m trying to piece all of this together. Many of the targets that were hit I knew about or planned. I know of some more that are planned for the next several hours. But some of the spots I was unaware of. I didn’t know about Orlando or Nashville. This plan was bigger than what even I believed.”
“What can we do now?” Grant put his head in his hands.
“I think the attacks will come on the hour. This is for psychological effect as much as anything.”
“Is this a religious attack?”
“No. That’s what I believed. That’s what I signed up for. But this is all about him.”
“Who’s ‘him’?”
“I doubt that I had his real name.”
“What did he call himself?”
“He just called himself Yankee.”
“Did he …”
“Let’s talk attacks. We can profile him later.”
Naseem was right.
“Write this down.”
“I’m ready.”
“He hasn’t hit Charleston, South Carolina, and he hasn’t hit Denver. In Charleston, the target is Fort Sumter. In Denver, it’s the restaurant district just outside of Coors Field.
“Here’s the tough part: the attacks need to seem like they’ve still gone on. I think you need to get major players—like network journalists—on Twitter to cooperate with you. You’re going to have to pull people out of those areas, but let the explosions happen and have people talk about them.”
“Why don’t we want to show him we’re stopping him?”
“Because he’ll know something major’s wrong.”
“How do I know you’re not just playing me?”
“You don’t. But you’re alive, so you’ve got that going for you.”
Grant couldn’t find a reply.
“I’m an hour away. We can meet wherever you want to, and I’ll tell you what I know. I thought this was a holy war until a few hours ago. I was losing my taste for it then. But now, I don’t know anything …” He caught himself; he did know one thing, “except that I want Yankee, more than I want anything else in this world.”
All of the words seemed hollow to Grant. An hour ago, this kook had been ready to die. The motive seemed very unimportant and lame to Grant at this point. He wanted to end the conversation. “I
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