Veil of Civility: A Black Shuck Thriller (Declan McIver Series) (16 page)

They stood in silence for several moments as Declan allowed the information to sink in. The thought of a hostage crisis inside of a school was something that had kept American counterterrorism officials awake at night for nearly a decade.

Finally Harel spoke again. "If these men were who Mossad believed them to be, then they were waiting for Baktayev to join them here in the U.S. before they attacked. Once they found out he'd been captured and was in jail, they went into sleeper mode and have been waiting ever since."

"And you think whoever was responsible for getting Baktayev out of prison did so because they want him to finish what he started?"

"That was Abaddon's fear, yes. I'm not telling you any of this to scare you or because I expect you to do anything about it. I am telling you because I feel that if Abaddon were here now and he knew what we now know after last night's attack, he would tell you himself. He would tell you that he didn't like the way the investigation was unfolding or that his friends, yourself included, were being handled in such a disdainful way by law enforcement officials. He might even go so far as to say that it seemed like these officials didn't care about finding the truth."

"You're referring to the FBI agent in charge, Castellano," Declan said.

Harel nodded. "Osman and Nazari shared their experience with me and I share their concerns. If Abaddon was correct and there is someone else more powerful than Baktayev at work, well, the possibilities are frightening."

"Yesterday afternoon I'd have said that it was a stretch to even believe Baktayev could make it into the States, but now, now anything seems possible."

"If the events of last night are any indication, I'm afraid we'll be seeing Ruslan Baktayev again, and soon."

Declan nodded his agreement and extended his hand. The notion that Baktayev might not be done yet was one that he had thought of himself and had shared with Osman and Nazari. All around, everyone seemed to think that it was at least possible that there could be another attack, everyone except the lead investigator at the FBI who had seemed very ready to accept the idea that Baktayev was dead.

Harel took Declan's hand and gripped it firmly before walking away towards the other two suited men, who Declan now understood were bodyguards. As he stepped off the aircraft's ramp and onto the paved runway he looked around at the vehicles surrounding the plane. Inside each of them he could make out the faces of stern men. It was obvious that they were there to protect the former prime minister as he visited Kafni's family.

Shivering slightly as a cold wind blew over the runway from the south, Declan rejoined Osman and Nazari, who were standing with David and Zeva Kafni.

"I want you to come and visit us, Declan," Zeva said. "I want to meet your wife."

Declan nodded. "You will. Let us know when you're home again and we'll come."

She placed a hand on his arm and smiled. "Thank you for everything you've done over the years."

"Take care of yourself," Okan Osman said, as he slapped Declan on the shoulder and gave him a serious look. Altair Nazari gave a nod before he and Osman guided Kafni's family onto the plane for what would be a long journey back to Israel. Declan leaned against a fence bordering the airport property and watched.

The Lockheed C-130 Hercules bore Hebrew markings next to the blue Star of David. Moments later the engines came to life with a deafening whine and the plane rolled to the end of the furthest runway. Declan gripped the fence tightly and breathed heavily as a wave of anger rushed through him. Images of Ruslan Baktayev's knife cleaving the air towards Kafni's head raced through his mind, his own hollow attempt at a rescue cutting his consciousness like shards of glass. The plane's engines roared and drowned out the sounds around him as it sped down the runway. In seconds, the craft had faded to a small spot on the darkening horizon and with it, Declan knew that Abaddon Kafni was gone from his life forever; fading into the shadows of the night much like he had the first time they'd met.

6:56 p.m. Eastern Time – Saturday

Westbound on Route 460

Lynchburg, Virginia

Having been given a ride back to his truck by Asher Harel's security detail, Declan stepped into the vehicle and started the ignition. Backing out of the parking space and driving through the sparsely populated lot, he stopped at the front gate and paid the attendant. Driving around the perimeter of the property to get back to the interstate that would take him home, he watched as several planes took off and disappeared into the dark sky, engines roaring.

A few minutes later he passed the expansive campus of Liberty University. To his left he could see the remains of the C.H. Barton Center for International Relations and Politics, the entrance to its rectangular parking lot blocked by a row of Jersey barriers. In the low light provided by the street lamps he could see that the front of the building had been nearly torn off by the bomb blast. All that remained of the once magnificent architecture were two of the four front columns, which still stood erect but now held nothing, and the statue of Thomas Jefferson, which had somehow escaped any serious damage, the shrubbery around it burned away by a fire that was still smoldering despite the seasonal rainfall. In the grassy area on the left side of the building's entrance was an immense crater, roped off by orange cones and police warning tape. Two white sedans marked with police emblems were parked side by side in the lot, the drivers obviously having a conversation as they watched the area for anyone attempting to get close, whether for pictures or any other reason.

Looking at the two vehicles Declan thought about what he'd seen as he and Constance had left the building the previous night. He was certain it had been one of the security vehicles that had exploded and that the size of the blast meant a bomb too big to have been placed outside of the vehicle. Being familiar with similar devices he knew that for the explosion to have done the damage it did, the bomb had to have been located in the trunk and had probably been manufactured using several hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate fertilizer. He mulled over several questions as he drove west on the four lane highway, but decided it was best to focus on something else. The only thing he could do, though he wished he could do more, was tell the truth about what he'd seen and let the men and women who dealt with these kinds of things for a living handle the rest. Hopefully they would handle it in time to stop any more attacks.

A shrill ring jarred his thoughts back to the present as the LED on his company cell phone, which he'd placed on the dashboard, lit up. Reaching for the phone and touching the screen, he brought the device to his ear and said, "Hello?"

"Hey," a sweet southern accent on the other end said.

Declan smiled at the sound of his wife. "Hi," he answered.

"I'm just calling to tell you that I made it home safely," she said, sounding tired. "It took a while. There was a wreck on interstate eighty-one."

"Eighty-one," he said. "Why did you take eighty-one? You should have used route eleven."

"I did," she said intently. "The wreck on the interstate caused eleven to back up, too. I had to sit through every stoplight like, three times. It took forever."

"Okay, okay," he said in submission, although he was confident that, had he been there, he could've found a side street that would have gotten them through and had them home in half the time. "You sound tired. You should get some sleep."

"What time are you going to be home?"

"I'm on my way now. I should be there in forty-five minutes, an hour at the most. Get some rest."

"Declan, it's just—I don't know, never mind."

He knew what she was getting at. She had never seen or experienced anything like this before. Raised in the mountains of western North Carolina, she had never seen the aftermath of car bombs and sectarian murders. He felt bad, as though it was his fault she had to witness it at all. It was his past that had brought her into contact with such things. Where he'd grown up, bombings had been an almost daily occurrence and a lot of times there just weren't words to express the associated feelings.

"I know," he said softly. "You've never seen anything like this before. I'm sorry you had to see it at all, but the best thing we can do is get on with our lives and put some distance between us and what happened last night. I know it sounds cold, but that's all we can do."

He listened as she sniffed away tears.
"
But what about his family, how do they move on? What do they do now?"

"The Kafnis have lived with events like this for a long time. Zeva is a strong woman, and she will lead her family on," he said tentatively, as he searched for the right words to comfort her. "Get some rest. I'll be home soon. I'm passing Bedford so I'm about halfway."

He glanced into the rearview mirror as he passed an exit that led to the one horse town of Bedford, Virginia. The two lanes of road behind him were empty of cars, the afternoon commute to Lynchburg's outer areas having ended nearly two hours earlier. As he rounded a sharp left turn he saw a vehicle in the parking lot of a long-closed restaurant on the right hand side of the road near a rundown garage. Instinctively, he moved his foot to the brake and held his breath. The triangular-shaped area full of tall shrubbery where the road went from a widely-divided four lane highway to four lanes separated only by a narrow median strip was a well-known speed trap often used by state and local police. He clicked his tongue as the white SUV's headlights came on as he passed, briefly bathing the interior of his truck in an incandescent light. Passing a large speed limit sign reading
forty-five
, he looked down at the speedometer. He was traveling at just over sixty miles an hour and knew that he was as good as caught if the vehicle in the lot had been a police officer.

"Are you alright?" Constance asked.

"Yeah," he said, distracted as he watched the rearview mirror for any signs of lights or of the vehicle leaving the lot. He breathed a little easier as he saw nothing behind him. Maybe it had just been a stopped motorist. "Yeah, I'm here. I thought maybe I'd passed a cop, sorry."

"Be careful," she said. "You've already had to pay two tickets for Regan in the last three months since he's been traveling to Lynchburg."

"I know. Maybe they have a three for two deal going on," he said flatly.

"Funny."

Declan glanced upwards again into the rearview mirror and caught sight of a vehicle behind him. Looking again, he realized it was the white SUV and that it was approaching fast without its headlights on. "Let me call you back," he said. "I'm about to lose service as the towers switch over."

He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the dashboard as he looked down at the speedometer again. He was traveling at fifty miles an hour and the vehicle behind him was gaining fast. Was it a police officer? If so why weren't there any lights on? A bad feeling crept up his spine as he watched the black grille guard on the front of the vehicle growing closer in the darkness behind him.

Placing both his hands on the steering wheel, he pressed the accelerator and the work truck's diesel engine rumbled as it dispelled a thick plume of black smoke from the tailpipe. "Fifty-five," he said to himself as he glanced between the speedometer and the rearview mirror, "sixty, sixty-five." Still the white SUV was gaining on him at an incredible pace. Suddenly the vehicle's driver turned the headlights on high and flooded Declan's mirrors with a blinding light. Squinting, he braced himself for what he knew was about to happen.

The impact with the rear bumper of his truck jerked him forwards and then quickly backwards again. He pressed the accelerator to the floor and watched as the needle climbed on the speedometer. From behind him he could hear a high growl from the white SUV as its driver revved the engine and again shot forward.

He braced himself against the back of the seat for the impact this time and kept a tight hold on the wheel as the truck was pushed forward. The engine of the SUV behind him whined as its driver kept the accelerator pressed to the floor, pushing the black grille guard against the back of Declan's truck. Sparks from the metal on metal impact shot into the dark night above the vehicles and a metallic screech filled the air. Suddenly the other driver backed off and Declan felt the truck lurch again as the pressure from behind ceased. What was going on here? Who was in the SUV and why were they attacking him? The image of Baktayev or one of his men behind the wheel flashed through his mind. Was this Ruslan Baktayev's revenge for the death of his brother in ninety-seven? With Abaddon Kafni dead, was Declan next on the Chechen's hit list?

The white SUV revved its engine again and shot forward, this time pulling to the left into the fast lane. Quickly changing lanes, Declan blocked the vehicle's attempt to side swipe him and took the impact in the rear. More sparks flew as the vehicles ground against each other.

Antiquated two story homes flew by along either side of the two lane highway as he reached the ninety-four mile per hour limit on the diesel engine. The needle on the speedometer bumped against the small dash mark just before the bold number
ninety-five
on the speedometer and refused to go higher. The SUV backed off again and changed lanes as the engine revved up, propelling the vehicle forward and onto the right side of Declan's truck. The driver swerved towards the utility bed.