Chapter 39
CHAPTER 39
P at signaled for his team to move in. They fanned out, scanning every inch of the venue. Somewhere in this crowd, in this open space packed with potential victims, was a bomb.
Right now, their only mission was stopping mass slaughter.
Pat’s phone buzzed.
“Hey, Anna.”
“The Secretary of Homeland Security has authorized Special Forces support. They’re inbound. ETA ten minutes.”
Pat clenched his jaw. Finally.
“Also, Metro PD has units sweeping the park for Ameena Mousa. Her phone’s still pinging near the National Gallery.”
That meant she was still here. But was she carrying the device, or had she recruited someone else to do that? Somehow, he didn’t think the mother of four would risk it. She had too much to lose.
“Got it. Keep me posted.” He hung up and took off toward the stage.
Dropping to one knee, he lifted the black canvas skirting the platform and crawled under, using his phone light to cut through the shadows.
Nothing. Not even a candy wrapper.
Emerging into the glaring sunlight, he heard it—the unmistakable chop of rotor blades tearing through the air. He turned as the Special Forces helicopter banked low over the festival grounds, kicking up a storm of dust and debris.
The helo touched down in an open space in front of the stage—the very spot that, in an hour, would be packed with fans. Eight men disembarked, armed and ready.
Pat strode forward, shaking the hand of the lead operator.
“Burke, Blackthorn Security. Glad you could make it.”
The operator, Captain Chris Munro, was all business. “We’ll split up. My men will sweep for the device. Two of my guys are snipers. They’ll find high ground and cover the perimeter. Any sign of a bomber, we drop him.”
Pat nodded. “Do what you have to do.” He knew how these guys worked. Hell, he used to be one of them. No red tape, no hesitation.
The K-9 unit arrived next. The handlers fanned out, their dogs zigzagging through the venue, sniffing every crevice.
The came up empty.
The K-9 commander met Pat back at the entrance. “Not a whiff of an explosive inside the venue.”
Pat cursed under his breath. Where the hell was it?
Chris Munro came up to him at the gates. They were out of time. The opening act was setting up. Without a confirmed bomb, they couldn’t justify shutting down the concert.
Pat scanned the growing crowd. The Special Forces operators flanked the security gates, their eyes locked onto the incoming waves of festival-goers. They’d been briefed, and they knew the target profile.
Some of the security staff looked rattled. It was their first time working a gig like this, and now the added pressure of a potential bomber had added to the drama. The concertgoers, oblivious to the threat, were buzzing with excitement.
Pat’s team regrouped outside the gates. Blade and Viper were locked onto the flow of people still pushing in, their gazes flicking between faces, backpacks, gestures, looking for anything out of place.
“It’s in a rucksack,” Blade said flatly. “That’s the only way they’d get it inside.”
“Or the equipment cases,” Viper countered.
“Nah, we searched the band’s gear,” Munro said.
Phoenix’s voice cut through the comms. “Blue hoodie, three o’clock. About four yards from the front.”
Pat shifted his focus. A stocky man with a rucksack was waiting to gain entry. He had earphones in and was bobbing his head in tune with the music. He had a grizzly goatee and long, unwashed hair.
“Negative,” said Pat. “We’re looking for someone clean shaven. The bomber is about to meet his maker. He won’t be jamming to music.”
They kept scanning.
The crowd swelled, pressing closer. People jostled for space.
Then trouble broke out.
“Hey, do you mind?” A girl with a ponytail snapped as a man shoved in front of her. “Wait your turn.”
The guy said something back, but her boyfriend didn’t like it.
There was a shove, and then the first punch landed, and just like that, a fight broke out.
Pat moved forward. “Cole, break it up.”
Cole moved in, separating the two idiots like he was breaking up a bar fight. “Behave,” he bellowed, in a voice that would have made Pat grin under normal circumstances.
The young men nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Cole had that way about him. Given his six-feet-four height and broad frame, he was the kind of man nobody wanted to pick an argument with.
That’s when Pat saw him.
“Black hoodie, rucksack, front of the line.” He kept his voice low and steady, but his heart was slamming into his ribs.
The man had used the fight as a distraction. While security was focused on the scuffle, he’d slipped forward, just a step away from crossing into the venue.
Cole moved fast. “Excuse me, sir?”
The man didn’t react. Didn’t turn, didn’t flinch.
“Sir, come with me, please.”
Still nothing. Just eyes locked ahead, focused on the gap between the bouncers.
Cole put a hand on the man’s arm. He turned.
Clean-shaven. Sweating. Fear written all over his face.
This was him.
The man’s eyes widened. Then he bolted forwards into the venue.
“Stop him!” Pat bellowed into his comms.
Inside the gate, Special Forces operators reacted instantly, surging after the fleeing suspect. The man in the black hoodie sprinted toward the stage, weaving through the swelling crowd of fans already inside the festival grounds.
Pat and Cole took off, shoving past startled concertgoers. The suspect was fast. He never looked back, moving with the reckless determination of someone who knew this was his only mission.
Captain Munro’s voice cut through the comms. “Shooter in position. Taking the shot.”
A single suppressed crack split the air.
Time stretched.
Pat and Cole skidded to a halt as the suspect’s body jolted, his momentum snapping forward before he crashed to the ground.
Where the back of his head should have been was a gaping, bloody hole.
“He’s holding a trigger!” Munro’s second-in-command shouted.
Pat’s gut clenched. The suspect’s sleeve had slid up in the fall, revealing a detonation device taped to his wrist.
Shit.
“Everybody back!” Munro yelled, signaling his men.
Pat turned and roared at the crowd. “Move! Now!”
Some screamed. Others stood frozen, watching in horrified fascination.
“Move! Get the hell back!” Pat shoved at stunned onlookers, urgency clawing at his throat. If that thing was live, they were standing in a blast radius big enough to take out half the festival grounds.
Phoenix and Viper joined the effort, pushing the crowd away as security locked down the entrance. Bouncers stopped letting people in. The festival was over, whether the concertgoers realized it or not.
Pat’s phone rang.
Anna.
He answered. “Tell me you’ve got something.”
“We got her. Ameena Mousa’s in custody.” Anna’s voice was sharp, breathless. “She had an override. If the suicide bomber hadn’t detonated the device, she was going to.”
Pat exhaled, a long, hard breath of relief. “So, it’s safe?”
“It’s safe. The detonator’s secured.”
He relayed the message to Munro. The Special Forces captain gave a curt nod, then barked an order to his men.
“Stand down! Device is disarmed.”
A ripple of relieved tension moved through the team.
Pat shook Munro’s hand. “Hell of a shot.”
Munro grunted. “Damn right.”
The bomb disposal unit was already on the way. They’d handle the cleanup, dismantle the device, and secure any forensic evidence.
Pat took one last look at the motionless body of the bomber sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath his head. The CTD would bring in their forensics team, and the CIA would oversee the transport of Ameena Mousa to a classified facility.
Pat turned to his team. “It’s over.”