Sabotage (7 page)

“What does that mean?” Her attitude and swagger were completely gone.

All of that White Diesel he smoked a few minutes ago fucking left him in an instant. He had a plan. No bitch could control him.

Becky snatched at the phone, but Joey held it tight.

He kept his voice calm. “Baby. Stop. You may be in danger. I may be in danger. If you give me a headache, I’ll just kick your ass out and my driver and I’ll get my own damn self to safety.”

Becky looked up at him. This shit was serious. She recognized he meant every word. She recoiled and sulked.

That was fine with Joey. He preferred silence at the moment. He buried his eyes with his hand.

Becky used his moment of inattention to steal her phone back.

Damn bitch wasn’t gonna get away with that. He held his hand out and kept his gaze on her, until she finally gave him her phone.

Joey rolled down the privacy screen to speak to the driver, who just became his new best friend.

“Got any more info?”

“Nothing, boss. Just what you’ve heard on the radio.”

“That’s some bullshit. Drive north to the 405. How long should that take?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“That’s it. Do that. And don’t tell no one who you got.”

“I turned off all our little devices. We rollin’ silent.”

Joey scratched his chin. “What yo name?”

“Marvin. Marvin Ellis.”

“Marvin, I’m glad you my driver. You straight.”

Marvin knew compliments didn’t come often from this man. He had driven for Joey’s posse for two years and transported Joey himself on half a dozen different occasions. Yet the rapper had no idea who he was. Marvin was pretty sure this duty would stick. Marvin didn’t mind too much. That was part of his job.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know when I’m getting close.” He put back up the privacy screen and looked for the HOV lane.

“Let me know. We fixin’ to find a mothafucka.”

G
rant Miller fielded a multitude of questions since the world started coming down around them all that day. What did it feel like being in the middle of something like this? They all knew the protocol, but, when it happened, was it different? What did he remember about it all?

After two solid years of being shunned, the attention felt good, but he answered their questions grudgingly. They hadn’t wanted to talk to him much before this.

They were all supposed to be manning the phones and Internet, looking for leads, fielding the mind-numbing amount of unsolicited information that came into the FBI on a day like this. But they all wanted to know what it was like to be Grant Miller, the superstar who shone on September 11 and saved lives as a young agent, only to move higher and become a notable laughingstock. The questions he answered prior to that day had been mainly about the laughingstock part, so, if the situation hadn’t been so tragic, he might not have minded this change in focus.

At one time, he was impressive physically—tall and thin with a southern frat boy haircut. His sandy brown hair was cut shorter now, and he was still good-looking, but anyone could tell he quit trying, at least for the time being. He gained twenty-five pounds over his peak shape, mostly around his waist. He didn’t want to think of himself that way, but it got harder by the minute to ignore, and he finally faced reality and bought bigger pants. He found he didn’t get noticed as often by women when he was out, and that cut both ways; it meant fewer questions about his past, but it also meant he was not the All-Star level closer he once was. In the moments when he let himself consider these things fully, he knew his drop in luck was more about confidence than his weight; he had lost his swagger.

That afternoon, when someone attacked Lake of the Ozarks—of all places—everyone assumed that St. Louis would be assigned to handle the investigation. It was, after all, the closest office geographically and generally considered better all-around than Kansas City. But KC drew the assignment, and Grant, now the king of all conspiracy theorists, thought it felt like one more shot at him. God, he hoped not, but he had reason to feel this way.

St. Louis, of course, was a conspiracy theory unto itself, when he was moved there to look into organized crime in the seedy east side of St. Louis, just over the river in Illinois. All the jokes that could be made about such a thing were made, and Grant endured it, ever-so-lucky to still have a job.

But those prying questions were gone now, replaced by the somewhat wistful questions of those who felt left out of the operation, desk jockeying while their rivals across the state were rushing to the lake to piece together what happened. Likely, many of the agents who weren’t called immediately to help would blame him, as if he controlled everything but the weather. He knew he would just have to deal with it. Even in the worst case, in a day or two, some of the agents would be called to help. It would probably be mop-up duty, but, at least, they could brag to other offices they had been involved. Unfortunately, with today’s well-lit map of tragedy, many offices were being called to duty.

He was at his desk, a cubicle under fluorescent light and a far cry from the corner office in midtown Manhattan he inhabited before the fall. His assignment was to try and put together a map of all locations the terrorists hit, between fielding calls from know-it-alls and crackpots. The whole thing didn’t make sense. The attacks were all over the map, literally—east and west coast, north and south. More in cities, of course, but even a couple of attacks in the country. They did not have a fixed number of casualties, but they got the psyche right. Unlike past attacks, focusing as much on icons and people, these attacks happened anywhere. Hundreds were dead, and that number would surely rise.

The crazy callers blamed everyone from Islamic jihadists, to the Tea Party, and even one theory involved PBS. It was quite boring and demeaning, but it was all he had at the moment to do.

Grant heard a buzz in his earpiece. “Call for you. Line 7.”

That was unusual. Line 7 was not one of the public lines. Almost all of his calls were routed from his direct line. But he was probably the most famous—infamous, really—employee of the entire federal agency, so some crank that followed his career might have figured out where to call.

“This is Agent Miller. How can I help you?”

The connection was good, but the caller was clearly driving. He could hear the background noise. Sounded like highway driving.

“Grant Miller? Agent Grant Miller?” He waited for an answer.

Grant felt like he was playing a game of chess. He finally responded. “Yes, Grant Miller. How can I help you?”

“Okay, I’m pulling over. I’m on my way to see you.”

“How can I help you?” More stern this time.

“Give me a number where I can reach you in ten minutes. Do this now. A cell line.”

Grant thought about protesting, but there was something about this caller that felt completely different from the numskulls he spent the morning with. The man spoke with precision and purpose—and maybe a little fear. He broke protocol and gave him his work cell number.

“Thank you. I know that prefix. That is the correct prefix for your division.”

Grant rolled his eyes. “I know that. Look, I’m not going to ask again. How can I help you?”

“In approximately seven minutes, your office will be destroyed by a bomb. I know, because I planted it. Please evacuate everyone, and I will call you after you are safely away. Do not tarry. You must leave at once.”

Grant started to ask a question but could hear that that the phone disconnected.

He walked by Mandy, a once-junior officer who was now his boss, and stuck his head in her office.

“Bomb threat. Call it in. Sounds legit.”

Mandy almost protested this direct demand from Grant, now her underling, but she saw his look and remembered who he used to be—an egotistical mess but one of the best agents she ever saw. She saw a hint of that in his eyes. She made the call and started the protocol. Grant was at the front of the line as they left the office.

Some of the people were griping as they filed past him out into Kiener Plaza.

Grant tried to herd some of the people with him further away, afraid of the shrapnel reported in the other attacks. He used his badge and his voice to move people back, across the street, into the alleys, and away from the face of the building. “Get back! Get around the corner!” He waved and gestured as he moved himself.

He looked at his watch. Almost exactly two hours had passed since the original attack. He took a defensive position as his cell phone showed the clock turn to three.

Even braced and prepared, the blast rocked and surprised all of them. Then he heard the shrill whistle of the shrapnel and the urgent, bleating screams of those who didn’t heed his warning.

D
espite the similarity of their hometown’s name, the seventh grade boys of West Memphis, Arkansas didn’t regularly make it into the big city of Memphis, Tennessee. There was a river and much financially between them. Their lives were normally running the streets and seeing what they could make off of the largesse of the winners at the dog track. But today seemed different.

Today, they were coming to visit the Civil Rights Museum, and they were going to get to see the sights on Beale Street, which was more interesting on a Thursday afternoon than most places were on the brightest Saturday night. There were twelve of them, all promising students who hoped to one day rise out of their surroundings and make something of themselves. Seven were black, and five were white. All were poor. All were smart.

Jatrelle and Thomas were in front. They were talking about a certain girl back at school, tugging at their pockets, and wondering if she liked Thomas or if he was kidding himself. They were split on the answer to that question.

They would be lionized in the press as some of the youngest victims, their promise documented in several maudlin and lengthy
USA Today
articles. The articles were written by teary-eyed young Samantha Janitz, who dreamed of one day having children of her own. But how could you have children when this sort of thing could happen? Were you just sending your children into the world to be mowed down like Jatrelle and Thomas?

* * * * *

Gladys Diley puttered on her way to an Eastern Star event in Texarkana, Texas. The Eastern Star was the female version of the Masons. It had a lot less to do with secret cabals and a lot more to do with pot luck dinners and sewing circles.

She didn’t like to drive her husband’s pickup, but her car was in the shop. Needed alignment, he said. His old truck drove like it needed alignment, too. She laughed and thought it drove worse than her car did even when it needed work.

A week earlier, a man placed two boxes under the bridge up ahead. They were magnetically affixed to the structure. They were wholly unnoticed during their time there, by person or animal. Now, for a brief second, they started to “whee” loudly, before they exploded and ruined the watery tranquility of that spot. They caught Mrs. Diley just as she was overhead.

Friends remembered her as a loyal member of the Eastern Star and the Texarkana First Methodist Church. It would be several days before her death would be officially linked to the others.’