CHAPTER 64 Sampson
Sampson
I PARK ABOUT TWO blocks away from the Cross house, still thinking about my meeting with the two CIA spooks. I’m looking forward to another classic Nana Mama breakfast and, even more than that, to seeing Willow. I miss my daughter’s sweet little face.
I turn the corner and get a signal on my police radio.
Shit. What now? Can’t I get one minute of peace?
I pull the radio up from my waistband. “Sampson, D-five, go.”
“Dispatch, D-five, respond to fourteen forty Montgomery Northeast.”
“Dispatch, Sampson, D-five, what’s the situation?”
“Another bombing.”
I turn around, run back to my car, and start driving—in the opposite direction from the Cross house. Away from Willow and my second family.
When I get a half a block from the site, patrol cars are blocking the street. I climb out of my car and hang the lanyard with my badge around my neck. I see broken glass and chunks of brick on the pavement. A whitish-gray cloud still hangs in the air.
This is a quiet DC neighborhood with mixed-use zoning, mostly three- and four-story brick apartment buildings and small offices.
But there’s something different here.
I don’t see any bodies in the street. No amputated limbs in the trees. No victims screaming on the curb.
The action is centered on a corner building just ahead. Two fire engines are already on scene, with firefighters hooking up hoses to hydrants. I see a team with axes and Halligan tools rushing into the entrance.
It looks like the whole side of the second floor facing the street has been blown out. Window frames are twisted; flames are licking around the edges. The brick siding is broken and blackened. On the street below, parked cars have huge dents and gashes from blast debris.
But there’s no crater in the street. No burning cars.
The bomber has changed tactics.
This time, the blast came from the inside.