Chapter One #2
“Oh no,” she exhaled. “No. No. No-no-no,” she said as she started weaving her way through the galloping horses, her eyes fixed on the man standing a few feet away from the governor.
“Hastings.” She raised a hand to hail the tall man as she approached.
He looked up with a smirky smile, but it quickly melted away. He straightened and closed the gap between them in two strides. “What is it?”
Not wanting to cause any panic, she thrust her phone out for him to see. The moment he digested the gist of the threat, he barked, “Stop the ride,” and turned in the direction of the governor.
“No!” Digging her heels in, she pulled him back. “We can’t stop. Look.”
Do not stop the ride.
Do not get off the ride.
“Yeah, well, no,” he said. “My duty is to my principal, and we’re getting off this thing.”
“But what if it’s on here?”
“I have to get him out of the area,” he said, grinding out each word. “We’ll slow it down and jump off.”
“They told us not to get off,” she argued, following as he strode in the opposite direction of the ride’s movement.
He stopped in his tracks, his expression softening apologetically but his jaw taut with determination. “Whoever this is told you not to get off the ride,” he pointed out quietly.
Cassidy gaped at his back. She stared in disbelief as the operator leaped onto the deck with practiced ease, talked to Special Agent Hastings, then jumped off a moment later. Within seconds, the carousel slowed.
By the time it wound down to a creep, full-blown panic crawled up her throat. The only word she could force past the lump lodged there was, “No!”
Hastings held on to Governor Beauford’s arm as he shot a glance at her. “We’re having a mechanical issue,” the governor announced, raising his voice to be heard over the incessant music. “We can’t stop the ride, so we’re going to have to hop off.”
Hastings must have radioed for backup, because two state troopers in uniform appeared as if conjured.
They steadied the governor as he jumped from the platform, his politician’s smile never slipping.
“This is why we test run these things.” He waved encouragingly to the gaggle of press.
“Hey, kids, you want to go check out the cows?”
The small crowd around the carousel quickly fell into step behind the jovial politician. Cassidy pulled her phone from her pocket again and typed out a reply.
Who are you? Why are you doing this?
The three dots danced at the bottom of her screen. A response came through with periods emphasizing each word.
Do. Not. Stop. The. Ride.
She looked up, a grim frown tugging at her lips. She caught sight of the skinny young man at the operator’s controls. The next time she passed him, she said, “Can you kill the music?”
He tugged his ball cap lower on his forehead. “Are we done here?”
“I’m not, but you are. Don’t stop the ride, but cut the calliope, and grab one of the officers for me.”
Firing off the first questions that came to mind, she typed furiously.
Who are you? What do you want?
She waited, her throat dry, praying she’d get something, anything, more out of whoever was doing this.
Another number popped up seconds later, but the message read simply, Twelve.
“Twelve? Twelve what? Twelve o’clock? Twelve bombs?”
Cassidy typed frantically, copying and pasting her queries into each of the text threads in a desperate attempt to maintain contact.
But no one replied.
Pulling the radio from her waistband, she held it to her mouth. “All available security personnel to the…” She paused as she tried to catch sight of a good spot for an outpost nearby but not too close. “Report to the central midway—Manny’s corn dog stand,” she ordered. “Quickly.”
She was struggling to clip it to her belt with trembling hands when a man in turnout pants came trotting up to the operator’s station.
“Ma’am?”
“If you want to talk to me, you have to come aboard.” She closed her eyes against a rising wave of nausea.
She heard the thud of heavy boots hitting the metal platform and forced herself to look in their direction. The firefighter approached. His expression of grim determination spoke volumes.
“You know what’s happening?”
“Sergeant Evan Furst, Little Rock Fire Department Tactical Response Squad.” He introduced himself. “Special Agent Hastings gave me the gist.”
Cassidy’s years in military, security and law-enforcement-adjacent careers helped her recognize the double speak used for “bomb squad” when she heard it.
“We’ve got a real situation here, Sarge,” she said with a wan smile.
Gesturing to something behind her, he looked worried. “There’s a bench seat, ma’am. Why don’t you sit down? Try to focus on something stationary.”
“Do I look bad?” She gave a shaky laugh.
“I’m only saying we’ve got a real situation here, ma’am,” he said, tossing her words back at her in a deceptively light tone. “Special Agent Hastings has alerted Arkansas State Police Headquarters. They’re sending specialists. There’s a bomb threat?”
“Yes. They replied with the number twelve, but I don’t know if means twelve o’clock or twelve bombs,” she confirmed. “The initial message said ‘devices’ plural, though, so let’s assume more than one.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve asked my security team to assemble at the corn dog stand.” She gestured vaguely at the asphalt midway.
“We’re on it, ma’am. Are you in radio communication with your team?”
“Yes,” she said, fighting down the bile rising in her throat.
“Good. I will liaise with them and with the other tactical teams as they assemble. If you’d relay all the messages sent via radio once I get with your team, I’d appreciate it. We want to keep the suspect’s line of communication as uncluttered as possible.”
“Will do.” A knot of dread tightened in her stomach as she watched him hop down from the ride. Before he made it more than three strides, she called out to him. “I could use some water.”
Sergeant Furst raised a hand to let her know he’d heard her, moved two of the metal crowd-control panels to close off access to the operator’s station, then trotted off in the direction of the food stands in the center of the carnival.
Cassidy forced herself to put her phone in her blazer pocket, then, swinging from pole to pole, made her way to a gaudily painted bench bookended by sparkly green seahorses. She kept her eyes trained on her feet, trying to block out the motion by focusing on the tips of her lug-soled boots.
Sliding into the double bench, she dropped down heavily on the wooden seat, wondering idly who would ever choose to ride a merry-go-round seated backward.
A soft shuffling sound to her right made her freeze. Tearing her gaze from the tips of her shoes, she turned to find the small, skinny kid with the enormous backpack staring up at her wide-eyed.
“Did you say there’s a bomb?”