Cindy kept one eye on the route, which she knew just from the stores on Market Street. The man next to her got up at Van Ness.
The girl in the overalls squeezed into the seat beside her. Cindy smiled and turned the page. More articles on the G-8 thing. The girl in the overalls seemed to be reading over her shoulder.
Then she met Cindy's eyes. “They're not going to stop, you know.”
Cindy smiled halfheartedly; conversation wasn't some-thing she needed before eight A.M. This time the girl wouldn't let her gaze go.
“They're not going to stop, Miss Thomas. I did try. I did like you said, and tried.”
Cindy froze. Everything inside her seemed to come to a stop.
She looked into the girl's face. She was older than she had seemed - maybe mid-twenties. Cindy thought to ask how she knew her name, but then in that same instant, it all came clear.
This was the person she'd been talking to on the Internet. This was the girl who had a hand in killing Jill. Possibly, the au pair.
“Listen to me. I snuck out, they don't know I'm here. Something terrible is going to happen,” the girl said. “At the G-8 meeting. Another bomb. Or worse. I don't know exactly where, but it's gonna be big, the biggest one. A lot of people will die. Now you try to stop it.”
Every muscle in Cindy's body tensed. She didn't know what she should do. Grab her, shout, stop the bus? Every law-enforcement agent in town was looking for this girl. But something held Cindy back. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“I'm sorry, Miss Thomas.” The girl touched Cindy's arm. “I'm sorry about all of them, Eric, Caitlin. That lawyer, your friend. I know we've done some terrible things.... I wish I could undo them. I can't.”
“You've got to turn yourself in.” Cindy stared at her. She glanced around, petrified that one of the other passengers would hear. “It's over. They know who you are.”
“I have something for you.” The girl ignored her pleas. She pressed a folded-up piece of paper into Cindy's hand. “I don't know any way to stop it now. Except this. It's better if I stay with them. Just in case the plans change.”
The bus came to a stop at the Metro Civic Center. Cindy unfolded the paper the girl had given her.
She read: 722 Seventh Street Berkeley.
“Oh my God,” Cindy gasped. The girl was telling her where they were hiding.
Suddenly the girl was standing up, heading for the exit. The rear door hissed open.
“You can't go back there!” Cindy hollered.
The girl turned, but she kept walking.
“Wait!” she shouted. “Don't go back there.”
The girl seemed surprised, and lost. She hesitated for a second. “I'm sorry,” she mouthed. “I need to do it this way.” Then she hurried off the bus.
Cindy leaped up as the doors closed, yanking the cord, shouting to the driver to open them again. It was an emer-gency! By the time she jumped out onto the platform, Michelle Fontieul had disappeared into the early-morning crowd.
Cindy got on the phone to Lindsay. “I know where they are! I have an address.”
Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree
Part Five
Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree
Chapter 96
THE LARGEST ASSAULT TEAM in the city's history was building up around the run-down white house at 722 Sev-enth Street in Berkeley. San Francisco SWAT details, Berkeley and Oakland contingents, federal agents from the FBI and the DHS.
The area was completely blocked off from traffic. Neigh-boring houses were quietly cleared one by one. The Bomb Squad was readied. EMS vans were pulled into place.
A gray Chevy van had pulled into the driveway twenty minutes earlier. Somebody was home.
I was able to station myself close to Molinari, who was in phone contact with Washington. A Special Operations cap-tain, Joe Szerbiak, was in charge of the assault team.
“Here's what we do,” Molinari said, kneeling behind the barricade of a black patrol car maybe thirty yards away from the house. “We make one call. Give them a chance to surren-der. If they don't” - he nodded to Szerbiak - “it's yours.”
The plan was to shoot in tear gas canisters and force whoever was in the house out. If they came out cool, mean-ing voluntarily, we would force them to the ground, pick them up.
“And if they come out hot?” Joe Szerbiak asked, putting on his bulletproof vest.
Molinari shrugged. “If they come out shooting, we have to take them down.”
The wild card in the siege was the explosives. We knew they had bombs. What had taken place at the Rincon Center two days before was in the front of everybody's mind.
The assault team was readied. Several marksmen were in place. The team that was going in assembled inside an armored van, ready to swing into place. Cindy Thomas was with us. A girl inside seemed to trust her. Michelle. Who might be Wendy Raymore, the au pair.
I was nervous and agitated. I wanted this over. No more bloodshed, just over.
“You think they know we're out here?” Tracchio surveyed the house from behind the hood of a radio car.
“If they don't,” Molinari said, “they're about to.” He looked at Szerbiak. “Captain,” he said with a nod, “you can make that call.”
Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree
Chapter 97
INSIDE 722 SEVENTH STREET, everyone and everything was going crazy.
Robert, the vet, had grabbed an automatic rifle and was crouched below one of the front windows, sizing up the scene outside. “There's an army out there! Cops everywhere I look!”
Julia was screaming and acting like a crazy woman. “I told you to get out of my house! I told you to get out!” She looked toward Mal. “What are we going to do now? What are we going to do?”
Mal seemed calm. He went over to the window, peeked through the curtains. Then he headed into the other room and came back wheeling a black case. “Probably die,” he answered.
Michelle's heart seemed to be beating a thousand beats per second. Any moment, armed, uniformed men could burst in. Part of her was gripped with fear, part was ashamed. She knew she had let down her friends. Ended everything they had fought for. But she had helped murder women and chil-dren, and now maybe she could stop the killing.
Suddenly the phone rang. For a second everyone turned, eyes fixed on the phone. The rings were like alarm bells going off.
“Pick it up,” Robert said to Mal. “You want to be the leader. Pick it up.”
Mal walked over. Four, five rings. Finally he lifted the phone.
He listened for a second. His face didn't register fear or surprise. He even told them his name. “Stephen Hardaway,” he said proudly.
Then he listened for a long time. “I hear you,” he answered. He put down the receiver, swallowed, and looked around. “They say we have this one chance. Anyone who wants to leave, you'd better go now.”
The room was deathly quiet. Robert at the window. Julia, her back pressed up against the wall. Mal, finally seeming shocked and out of answers. Michelle wanted to cry that she had brought this upon them.
“Well, they ain't putting their hands on me,” Robert said. He picked up his automatic rifle, his back to the kitchen door, eyeing the van parked in the driveway.
He winked, a sort of silent farewell. Then he yanked open the door and ran out of the house.
About four feet from the van he raised the gun, squeezing off a long burst in the direction of the police. There were two loud cracks. Just two. Robert stopped in his tracks. He spun around, a surprised look on his face, crimson stains widen-ing on his chest.