Premeditated Murder (38 page)

And Pete was the closest cop anyone could raise.

He had called the staties for backup, but by the time he'd gotten through to somebody who had the authority to dispatch troopers on such a crazy-sounding call, Pete knew that there was no chance they'd make it before he did. It was on him. Either he was going to stop this madman, or there was going to be a major disaster.

Terry hadn't been able to get Carlos on the phone, and so he had told Pete everything. Pete was having a hard time believing it.

“Have you verified any of this with the FBI?”

“What am I supposed to do? Call the FBI and try to get them to believe this crazy shit? They don't know me from the next psycho. But if I'm right, and somebody doesn't stop this El Amin asshole, people are going to die today.”

The surviving member of the cell had been flying a small plane, registration number XD4437, out of a little airfield in Westborough. He had been under surveillance until Thompkins shot that apartment up. Apparently somebody had mistakenly thought he was one of the victims. It looked like this killer was off everybody's scope.

There was a little stretch of open road ahead. Pete pushed it up to 110.

WHEN ZACK HAD BEEN IN HIGH SCHOOL AND college, he was in pretty good shape. He worked out often and ran about three miles every other day. Back then, the run took him somewhere between twenty and twenty-five minutes.

Today, he had about fifteen minutes to run three and a half miles, which was impossible. And it wasn't exactly a clear track to Justin at the Esplanade. Throngs of people strolled along the sidewalks and walked right down Storrow Drive, which the cops had blocked off to traffic. There were bikers, and skaters, and baby strollers everywhere. Zack was running through holiday pedestrian traffic like it was a gigantic, organic slalom course.

He wasn't exactly dressed for the Olympics, either. Luckily, he was wearing sneakers, but he also had on jeans and a T-shirt, and a light red jacket and a blue Red Sox cap, more to keep him protected from the sun than for warmth. He was sweating freely after only minutes. As he turned onto a side street he started to notice his breathing. It was too hard and too fast. How was he going to keep this up for another thirteen—twelve—minutes?

Zack had thought about telling the cops about the attack, but he knew they wouldn't be able to do anything in time to protect Justin. By the time they checked out his story and decided whether they bought it or not, there would be absolutely no chance that they could evacuate the Esplanade. Zack would never see Justin again.

He dodged around a skater who was running his dog on a rainbow-colored leash.

No, if Zack were to have any chance of saving his son from this attack, he was going to have to do it himself.

And then he saw a cop running toward him from the right, already intending to intercept him. He looked quickly to his left. Another cop was closing in. Shit. Zack accelerated toward a space between two children and crashed right into their father, who at the last minute had lunged to avoid a bee.

By the time he'd gotten untangled from the father and a handful of balloons, the cops had him.

Zack lay in the street, gasping, his mind racing to a full panic.

In eleven minutes, some fanatic was going to launch a terrorist attack. And Justin was still two miles down the road.

EL AMIN PULLED INTO THE AIRPORT WITH NO problem and drove right to the hangar where his plane stood ready for him. He climbed aboard with his cargo of deadly grenades and placed them carefully, so that they would be easy to reach while flying. Then he climbed back down and opened the trunk of his van.

He'd had to rent a larger vehicle than usual this time, because he'd wanted to be certain that he loaded as much of the explosives as the plane could handle. He began moving the fertilizer over to the plane. He had pulled a muscle loading the van, so everything was going to take longer than he originally planned. He wasn't going to get to begin his attack at four o'clock, as he had hoped to do.

But as the cargo area of the plane began to fill up with the ingredients for a spectacular bomb, El Amin checked his watch and contented himself with the knowledge that he would take off right around four o'clock. He would be in a position to start dropping the grenades about ten minutes later.

God would understand his tardiness.

“IS THERE A PROBLEM, TROOPER?” ZACK STRUGGLED to catch his breath as one cop hauled him up from the ground by his right arm, while another gripped him by the left. Stay calm. Stay calm. If he lost it, they'd cuff him, and he'd never see Justin again.

“Tell you what,” right-arm cop said. “How 'bout you just cool off for a minute and come over here with me and let's talk about your big hurry.” He turned to the left-arm cop and said, “I got him, Fred.” He was about twenty-six years old but was trying to sound like he was as bored as a fifteen-year veteran. Great.
I've heard it all before, so don't even bother explaining what's going on. We'll take it from here
.

Trooper Fred drifted away as the other cop led Zack to the side of the road, where a couple of state police vehicles were parked and a handful of cops were standing around, talking and ignorantly watching the good people of Boston head to their deaths at the Esplanade. Zack had to get out of this, fast.

“Trooper, I'm an attorney,” Zack said, hoping that whatever this cop wanted, he could give it to him quick. “I'm sorry I ran into that guy back there, but he jumped right in front of me. I told my five-year-old son that I'd come get him—he's down at the Esplanade—and I'm late, and the poor kid gets freaked so—”

“So you're an attorney,” the cop said. Somehow, incredibly, he sounded more smug than before.

“Yes,” said Zack, reaching into his jeans pocket with his free hand and holding out his wallet to the cop. “I've got ID,” he offered.

This was a situation that the trooper was real comfortable with. “Take your license out of the wallet, please,” he said coldly. Zack pulled his driver's license and bar registration card out and handed them to the cop. The other troopers watched. “That's my bar card,” Zack said, hoping that overcooperation might free him. “I practice out in Northampton.”

The cop looked suspiciously at the second card, compared it with the license, and then looked back at Zack. “Wait here,” he ordered, walking over to the other cops with Zack's ID.

Foot traffic had been steadily growing, and a huge throng of pedestrians was coming down the street—maybe the former passengers of another trolley. It was five minutes to four. Zack looked over at the cops. The one who had stopped him was in one of the cruisers, probably checking to see if Zack had any warrants out for his arrest. The others' attention had been diverted by a tan young woman wearing cutoffs and a bright pink bikini top.

Zack peeled off his jacket, dropped it with his hat by the curb, then dove right into the middle of the crowd. The cops would be mad, but if they tried to chase him, they'd be looking for the red jacket and the baseball cap. It wasn't likely they'd find him.

Time was running out.

IT WAS ONE MINUTE BEFORE FOUR O'CLOCK when El Amin finally finished loading the plane, started the engine, and taxied out toward the small runway. The added weight of the ammonia and fertilizer was going to slow him down a little, but the plane was easily able to handle it.

About fifty meters from the runway, he thought he heard a strange whining sound from the engine until he realized that it was a siren. A police vehicle was speeding toward him, emergency lights flashing. He had been discovered. He increased his speed. He had to get the plane to the runway and into the air immediately.

WHEN ZACK RACED AROUND THE FINAL CORNER to the last stretch of road to the Esplanade, he was soaked with sweat and gasping for air. He pulled his cell phone out and tried his sister's number again.

No answer.

His heart sank. It was already a minute after four. He was going to have to fight his way through thousands of people to get to Justin. And in the very unlikely event that he actually found him quickly, there was virtually no way he'd get him out of here in time.

Terry had said he'd call as soon as he had good news. He hadn't called. The terrorist was on the way. If Zack failed, Justin was going to die.

His chest was burning and his legs felt like rubbery lead, yet still he started to try to run around and over the picnic blankets that people had spread on the grass. But the partiers were so dense that he could barely move faster than a walk. And then a giant fist grabbed him by the shirt.

“Hey, Jer, look, it's that lawyer!” bellowed an oversized teenage thug who smelled like he'd been drinking since dawn. “Break any scumbags out of jail today, Counselor?”

Zack, desperate for breath, bent at the waist, put his hands on his knees, and looked back for Jer, but saw only four stupid-looking young men, haphazardly lying around in a variety of athletic jerseys, shorts, and sunglasses, getting sunburned. He turned back to the idiot who was clutching the shoulder of his T-shirt.

Zack had to do something, but there was no way he could overpower this guy. “What do you want?” he wheezed.

“Want?” The kid snickered. “I want your autograph, dude. You're my fuckin' hero.”

Zack was out of time. He gathered the last of his strength, yanked himself free of the drunk's grip, and staggered toward where Justin had to be.

Then he heard the sound of an airplane engine.

PETE WAS GOING SO FAST WHEN HE HIT THE exit off the turnpike that he almost rolled his cruiser. And the best he could do between the exit and the entrance to the airfield itself was 55. It was 4:02.

He was sure that he was too late, but he raced the cruiser through the entrance anyway.

Where he saw a small plane taxiing to the runway.

As Pete closed the gap between his car and the plane, he saw two things. First, the registration number was XD4437. And second, the pilot knew he was being chased. Either Pete stopped this guy from taking off, or there was going to be a catastrophe.

The moment that the wheels of Pete's cruiser touched the runway, the plane was a hundred yards away. Pete turned to the left to try to cut it off.

He was fifty yards away now, and getting closer. Suddenly the pilot bent down and threw something out of the plane. It bounced on the tarmac as Pete sped directly toward and over it. Then Pete heard an explosion behind him. Jesus
Christ.
He had just driven over a grenade. If the pilot had timed it better, Pete would have been dead.

He was twenty yards from the plane now, and here came another grenade. Steering clear of it threw Pete another ten yards out of his way. The grenade exploded harmlessly to his left and behind him. But it had been much nearer than the first.

Now Pete was directly behind the airplane. He had only a few seconds before the plane would be in the air. He lowered his window, drew his service revolver, and pulled alongside the plane, hoping to take out a tire. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he shot, but just as he did, his tires bumped over a crack in the tarmac and the car lurched slightly to the right. His shots missed.

The plane was going too fast. He was out of time. There was only one sure way.

He turned his cruiser toward the rear wheels of the plane just as he saw them lose contact with the tarmac. With one last surge, he rammed the front of the car into the plane's wheels. They skidded up over the hood of the cruiser, punching a big hole through the windshield and cracking the rest of it into a gigantic spiderweb. As they dragged and banged across the roof, Pete swung hard to the left, slammed on the brakes, and watched as the plane wobbled forward into the air. If it straightened itself out, there was no telling how many innocent people would die today.

But then, without warning, the aircraft abruptly tipped forward and dove into the runway. It skidded onto its nose with a horrible scream of metal on concrete, and then it cartwheeled. A wing snapped off as it flipped, landing on the fuselage, and then exploded into a tremendous ball of flame. A half second later all the windows in Pete's car shattered into a million pieces, and he actually felt the car lift off the ground and bounce down again, as if it were a giant toy. Even though the plane was dozens of yards from the car, the heat from the blast was intense. Pete's face and neck were instantly covered with a slick layer of sweat. He pushed himself out of the cruiser and ran.