Devil Wind (Sammy Greene Mysteries) (48 page)

Reed propelled Pappajohn over to a nearby bench. “Slow down or we’ll lose you too.”

“I’ve been all over the triage area, the lobby, the ER,” Pappajohn wheezed. “I can’t find them anywhere. Didn’t they get out yet?”

“If Sammy’s with them, I’m sure they’re fine.” Reed pointed to the hordes of people being herded to a more distant parking lot. “They’re probably there, looking for you. Sit and catch your breath. I’ll see if I can get away or send someone to find them.”

At precisely eleven thirty p.m., Fahim picked up his PDA and began typing in the code Miller had given him, setting the bomb’s timer controlling countdown to detonation. In less than thirty minutes, as Y2K crept over the horizon, the bomb, packed with nuclear residue, would explode, taking out much of the hospital’s central core along with every escape route for hundreds of patients and staff remaining in the floors above. Those who did avoid injury in the initial blast would later wish they’d perished instantly. The radiation released in the explosion would blanket at least an entire city block, poisoning thousands more in the next few weeks and months, and changing the landscape of the American empire.

A shame so many people would die, but not my problem. This was the doing of men like Miller and al-Salid. By midnight he’d be in the Bentley, hightailing it away from the disaster, toward San Diego and, if needed, the Mexico border. After a short snooze at that Oceanside motel, he would catch the seven a.m. flight to Montreal for his connection to Paris and points south.

Entering the last number, Fahim nodded to al-Salid who walked over and gave him warm goodbye kisses on both cheeks.

“Ma’ Alsalam.”

“And to you, my brother,” al-Salid said. “A safe journey.”

 Turning to leave, Fahim wondered where the terrorist leader’s next assignment would be. Asia perhaps? No matter, al-Salid knew how to reach him whenever he needed his next buy. Fahim didn’t really care to know this much about what his customers planned to do with their weapons ever again. In fact—

The flash lasted only a microsecond, searing over Fahim with the pain of a thousand knives. A millisecond later, all that was left to identify Fahim, al-Salid, and al-Salid’s cell were fragments of tissue and DNA. And several intentionally hardy counterfeit ID cards.

The resonator’s seismograph recorded the explosion at exactly 11:40 p.m. Miller swore that the ground waves even jostled his truck some distance from ground zero. Al-Salid, his men, and especially that fool Fahim, would not have known what hit them. Fahim was a vicious bastard, not worth one shed tear, and al-Salid had become a man who knew too much. Both men had outlived their usefulness. Safely dressed in his hazmat suit, Miller smiled at the thought that the last of his “loose ends” were out of the way.

He typed in the codes that would activate the resonator’s wave amplification, launching the program within seconds. Instead of dampening the quake-like vibrations caused by the bomb blast, the resonator’s wireless remote control of the top floor sensor and counterweights would enhance them. Minute by minute, the shaking and swaying of the building would grow stronger and stronger, and the ride would begin.

De’andray watched the FBI team supervisor don his hazmat suit.

“Radiation’s localized to the B3 level,” the technician said, studying his monitors. “There’s shielding that’s partitioned off the blast area.”

“Good,” his supervisor responded, “not everybody’s out of the building yet.”

The LAPD rookie ran over to De’andray. “We moved the triage area back three hundred yards,” he reported, peeking in the open door of the FBI van. “Great setup. Looks just like the L.A. Edison van I saw a couple of hours ago. Wish we could afford equipment like that.”

De’andray frowned. “When did you see an electric company van?”

The rookie scratched his chin. “Around ten, I think. In the parking lot south of the Falk Building. Repairman was trying to fix the power.”

De’andray looked at his FBI colleagues. “Any of you ever seen L.A. Edison get to a site within minutes of a power failure?” He didn’t wait for their answer.

The explosion extinguished even the dim lights and dissolved all sense of calm among the dozens of evacuees still struggling down the stairwell. Pandemonium. Cries of pain and terror filled the air. People tumbled over one another, first from the sudden violent shake, and then as they pushed and shoved to escape from the building.

Sammy, Teddy, Jeffrey, and Ana had just reached the mezzanine and now lay next to each other in a crumpled pile on the landing. Jeffrey writhed in pain after jamming his injured arm against the cement where he fell.

“Teddy!” Ana screamed, reaching out blindly for her son.

“I’m okay,” came a whimper from the darkness. “But I lost my crutches.”

“Earthquake!” someone yelled as bits of plaster from the ceiling above began raining down.

Sammy hadn’t experienced an L.A. quake yet, but somehow she doubted this was one.

“It’s not a bomb is it?” Teddy whispered.

“No, no,” Sammy said gently. The luminescent dial on her Timex read 11:45 as she felt the building shake again, more violently than before. Wasn’t it early for the worst-case scenario Pappajohn and Bishop had discussed—the resonator that would make buildings sway and collapse like the Canyon City tower? The groaning sound of joints between the stairs twisting and the walls cracking made her wonder if this hospital would become their tomb.

Her face slick with sweat, Sammy inhaled a deep breath, forcing herself not to panic. Still one floor to go if they were to make it out to safety. “Get up,” she ordered the others. “We’ve got to keep moving. Dad, come on. Ana, let’s each take an arm with Teddy and help carry him down. Time’s running out.”

Miller observed his camera feed, knowing that in minutes the glass-and-steel hospital tower would reach its breaking point and crumble to the ground like unstable Pick-Up Sticks. His plan was unfolding before his eyes like the well-orchestrated drama he’d envisioned. So far everyone had played their part. Fahim, al-Salid, and his men. Now it was time for the rest of the cast.

He typed in the keyboard commands to ramp up the resonation and pressed Enter. At this highest level, the resonator would make the weights amplify the vibrations and sway of the building, causing its steel beams to snap at their joints. All the signals were go. The monitors scanning from his truck showed the resonator operating flawlessly. As soon as the hospital itself collapsed in a ball of steel, concrete, and dust, the Santa Ana winds jostling his van would spread the radiation from the dirty bomb over the entire West side.

Panicked residents would be calling for drastic security measures to protect the health and safety of the country. Plans already drafted and ready to be implemented by his party as a new administration dawned. Happy New Year, Los Angeles! Happy New Century, America!

In the dark, Ana tripped and tumbled down to the next landing, grabbing the railing to avoid banging her head. Her sharp cry of pain and a new limp made Sammy fear she’d twisted her ankle. Teddy clung to Sammy as hard as he could. The shaking and swaying of the building made every step treacherous—even for the able-bodied.

“Can you walk?” Sammy shouted.

Several people dashed past them, unwilling to stop and lend a hand.

“It hurts, but I have to.” Ana’s voice became higher pitched as the swaying threw her against the stairwell wall. “We’re not going to make it!”

“We’ll make it,” Sammy said. “Dad, can you keep going on your own?”

Jeffrey’s reply was weak, but audible. “Yeah. I’ll go down and bring help.”

Sammy waved him on and turned to Teddy. “Okay, hang on to me.” One more set of stairs. They were so close.

The building pitched to the other side and Teddy’s inertia pulled Sammy off balance. Stumbling over a step, they were both flying. She threw out an arm to catch Teddy and braced for a hard landing.

After circling the perimeter a third time, Bishop realized that the L.A. Edison van he’d seen parked near the Eye Institute hadn’t moved, despite the fact that the hospital had been dark for more than an hour. Driving closer, he noticed the small dome on its rooftop—a camera and an antenna. Damn, how had he missed it? If Keith was right and the resonator was being operated remotely, this would be the perfect location.

Hopping out of the golf cart, Bishop grabbed his gun and raced over to the back of the van. He tried the door handle, but it was locked. “Open up, Miller, I know you’re in there,” he shouted, banging on the door.

No response. Angry, Bishop fired his Beretta into the lock, blasting it open. He stuck his fingers in the joint, pulled the door wide, and climbed into the back of the truck with his gun ready.

Seated at his console dressed in his hazmat suit, Miller didn’t turn his helmeted head to acknowledge Bishop. “Thought I might never see you again, Frank,” he said with icy calm.

“So this is it.” Bishop waved his gun at the large box at the end of the cargo bay that resembled a mainframe computer. “Your resonator.”

“Took a long time to get it right, but we finally did it,” Miller acknowledged, eyes focused on his keyboard “Tonight is the gala performance.”

“Shut that thing off now!” Bishop ordered.

“Or?” Now Miller turned his head and nodded dismissively at the gun in Bishop’s hand. “You’ll shoot me? Really, Frank, you don’t have the guts. Besides, you’re too late. The die’s been cast. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

“You always were a liar. Telling me what I’d heard from that soldier in Desert Storm was all in my head.” Bishop released the safety on his pistol. “Not this time. I won’t let you do to my hospital what you did to me and my army career.”

Miller looked as though he might laugh. “Don’t be pathetic,” he said, turning back to his monitors. “You did it all to yourself.”

Bishop aimed the gun at Miller. “I’m serious, shut it off. Now!”

Ignoring the warning, Miller typed in a few more instructions.

Bishop pulled the trigger, at the last second redirecting the gun barrel from Miller and emptying the magazine into the resonator instead. All nine bullets struck the equipment, setting off a cascade of electrical shorts that sparked and flamed like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Frank,” Miller’s voice was low, but full of rage.

Bishop glanced from the resonator to see that Miller had pulled out his own gun, now aimed squarely at Bishop’s heart.

The sound of the shot resonated throughout the Eye Institute’s parking lot.

Sammy and Teddy rolled as they hit the concrete. The ten-year-old was almost her size, so she’d been unable to carry him alone, but leaning on each other, they’d made it to the ground-floor landing. Fortunately, this time they’d only fallen a few steps, and somehow managed to escape serious injury.

Ana, at Sammy’s instruction, had already hopped to the bottom of the stairwell and shouted up anxiously, “Are you okay?”

“We’re good.” Sammy replied, wondering if it was her imagination or had the violent shaking begun to slow. She looked over at Teddy who was starting to slide down the last part of the stairs on his rear.

“Follow me,” he said as if it were a game.

Sammy nodded and bump by bump, they slid to the lobby level into Pappajohn’s waiting arms.

The bullet had found its mark. Miller fell back against his chair, blood spurting like a rose-colored fountain from the middle of the pierced hazmat suit.

De’andray stood in the doorway of the L.A. Edison van, his .38 aimed at Miller, ready for a second shot. The FBI agent who appeared right behind him also had his gun raised.

Gasping, Miller tried to speak.

Bishop laid down his weapon and, ever the doctor, rushed to examine the dying man. De’andray’s bullet had been a clean hit. Miller would be gone in seconds. Bishop pulled off the helmet and leaned in close to Miller’s lips, straining to hear his last whispered words, “It’s not over—”

Standing tall, Bishop gazed at the destroyed resonator, then back at the now-lifeless body slumped in the chair, and shook his head. His voice was firm, but with a weary edge. “This time,” he said, “it’s over.”

Despite his wheezing, Pappajohn refused to rest. By sheer force of will, he’d managed to carry his grandson most of the way from the lobby to the parking lot in his arms. Sammy followed close behind, with Jeffrey leaning on one side and Ana hobbling on the other to avoid putting full weight on her twisted ankle. Only when he’d reached the triage area did Pappajohn step out of his policeman’s role. Overcome with emotion, he encircled Teddy and Ana in an embrace, whispering hoarsely, “Dear God, I thought I’d lost you again.”

“We’re okay, now, Baba,” Ana sniffled.

Teddy pulled himself up to his full four-and-a-half-foot height, balancing on his braces. “See, Pappou, I don’t even need my crutches.”

Taking a seat on an empty stretcher, Pappajohn drew them both to his side. His breathing easier, he glanced over at Sammy and Jeffrey as they approached. “Efharisto, Sammy.”

Wincing in obvious pain from his reinjured shoulder, Jeffrey nodded. “If that means thank you, ditto.”

Reed rolled up with a wheelchair for Jeffrey, then swept Sammy in his arms, holding her close. “I almost thought I lost you too,” he whispered.

“That’ll never happen again. Don’t you know?” she whispered back. “You and me? It’s beshert.” She tightened her embrace. “Our destiny.”

The sounds of a synthesizer version of Kenny G’s “Miracles” floated around them before Sammy realized it was her phone.

Pappajohn reached into his pocket for the cell and flipped it open. “Keith? Yes, it stopped. We’re all safe.” He hit the speaker button just as Sammy added, “Thanks, friend. We couldn’t have made it without you.”

“I guess I can officially wish you all a Happy New Year.”

Sammy looked at her watch. Keith was right. It was exactly twelve a.m.

By one a.m., Bishop along with Reed and the disaster response team had evacuated the last acute patient to Cedars-Sinai hospital in Beverly Hills. Dick Eccles, manning the ICCC, had suffered multiple fractures in the close-by bomb blast, but his prognosis was hopeful. The massive firewalls had done their job and contained the radiation from the dirty bomb within the core—and away from the rest of the hospital and the ICCC.