Chapter 38
CHAPTER 38
P at gunned the SUV down Connecticut Avenue, heading toward Anacostia. Ameera Mousa wasn’t a name he recognized, but if Jasmine had seen her at the Columbia Heights Metro station with Al-Jabiri, then she was connected somehow.
Blade rode shotgun, his fingers tapping impatiently on his thigh. Viper sat in the back, focused, checking his Glock’s magazine. Phoenix, Cole, and two other operatives followed in a second vehicle.
Ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of a dilapidated rowhouse.
“Nobody home,” Blade reported after hammering on the door.
Damn it.
Pat checked his phone. 4:57 PM. The Independence Summer Festival gates would open in less than an hour. If they were right, and the concert was the real target, then time was running out.
Should he call CTD Director Carmichael?
And say what?
That they suspected an attack at the festival, based on a vague memory Jasmine wasn’t even certain of?
No. They needed proof.
“Can we search the place?” he asked Anna over comms.
“I’ll need a warrant,” she said.
“Get it. Now.”
Ten minutes later, she was back. “Cleared. Limited to terrorism-related evidence. No fishing expeditions.”
“Copy that.”
Pat gave the go-ahead. They breached the front door in seconds, weapons raised.
Inside, the house was eerily still. Too clean. Not what he expected for a woman with four kids.
“Upstairs is clear,” Viper called from the second floor.
Pat swept the living room. Bills stacked neatly on the coffee table. Cabinets filled with books, magazines, and children’s storybooks.
Did they have the wrong person?
No. Al-Jabiri said it was too late. The attack was already set in motion.
Pat moved to the kitchen. The fridge was full of normal stuff. Juice, cheese, leftovers. The counter was spotless. He turned to leave, then stopped as something caught his eye.
A calendar.
It was pinned to the fridge with cheap magnets and scribbled with notes. His gaze sought out today’s date. There were several entries.
M&M to Aisha.
S&A with Sylvie. And in brackets, a phone number.
An exclamation mark.
Pat stared at it for a long moment. “Blade! Take a look at this.”
Blade frowned. “That’s a big damn exclamation mark.”
“Looks like she had something planned.” Pat noticed the phone number.
“Sylvie. Could be a contact.”
Blade nodded.
Pat called the number. The line rang twice before a frazzled-sounding woman answered, kids yelling in the background.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Ameera Mousa. I tried the number she gave me, but it’s not working.”
A pause. Suspicious.
“Who is this?”
“Mike from the daycare center,” he lied smoothly.
“Oh. Uh, hang on.”
A moment later, she rattled off a new phone number.
Pat hung up and immediately called Anna.
“Trace this number. Now.”
They searched the rest of the house but didn’t find anything. By the time Anna called back, they were outside in the sunshine, pacing up and down in frustration.
“Pat, you’re not gonna believe this.”
Pat tensed. “Tell me.”
“She’s in the National Mall. Near the Smithsonian Gardens.”
Son of a?—
He turned to the others. “She’s at the festival. Move.”
They drove like hell, sirens screaming as they weaved through rush-hour traffic. Every second counted.
By the time they reached the National Mall, it was a sea of people. Families, tourists, fans flooding toward the Independence Summer Festival.
A perfect target.
They ditched the vehicles and ran, dodging cars, weaving through the packed sidewalks.
Anna had already alerted Director Carmichael, who was rerouting CTD units. But they were spread thin, still stationed at Capital One Arena.
Al-Jabiri had played them.
It was fucking genius. Send every counterterrorism asset to the stadium, then detonate in the heart of D.C.
Pat’s radio crackled. It was Brett Farrow. “We’re shifting teams, but our ETA is at least fifteen minutes.”
They didn’t have fifteen minutes.
Pat pushed harder, sprinting ahead. “Come on!”
They reached the festival gates. Pat flashed his credentials, but the security staff barely reacted. People kept flooding in.
“Shut it down,” Pat ordered.
Blade, Viper, and Phoenix formed a line, blocking the entrance.
A pissed-off concertgoer shoved forward. “Hey! What the hell, man?”
“Move!” another shouted.
Pat ignored them. A mounted Park Police officer approached.
“What’s going on?”
Pat’s voice was sharp. “I need the head of security. Now.”
The officer frowned. “Who are you?”
“Patrick Burke, Counterterrorism consultant. We have credible intelligence that this event is a target.”
A burly man in a security polo—head of festival security—stomped over.
“What’s this about?”
Pat’s comms buzzed—Anna again.
“The Secretary of Homeland Security authorized Special Forces support. Helicopter inbound, ETA ten minutes.”
Pat exhaled. Thank God.
He turned to the head of security. “Search every rucksack. No exceptions.”
The man hesitated.
Pat’s jaw tightened. “I have the Secretary of Homeland Security on the line if you need convincing.”
That did it.
Security locked down the gates.
Pat turned to the mounted officer. “Call in the K-9 units. The bomb could already be inside.”
The officer radioed it in.
Pat forced down the panic rising in his gut. Al-Jabiri would wait. He’d want maximum casualties. That meant detonating mid-show.
They had time.
Barely.