With the night alternating pops of the Glock and resonant reports from the rifle, Reeder headed over to where the service road curved around behind the buildings, the line of trees ending where that curve began. As the shooter exchanged shots with Rogers, the rifle’s scope would not be swung way the hell over here. Or so Reeder told himself as he kept very low on the asphalt, as low as possible and still run.
Any other Tuesday night, this industrial park would be all but silent. An occasional car would thrum by, the odd owl might hoot, tree leaves might rustle with wind; but tonight was a cacophony of howling flames, screaming sirens, crunching snow, all punctuated by the bellows of his own labored breathing.
Reeder wanted to surprise the shooter, and if he made it to that stand of trees, he just might do that. One small detail, though: he was unarmed. He rarely carried a gun and his extending baton was back in his car at Constitution Hall, where he’d left the weapon before passing through metal detectors and security.
And in the midst of his unarmed pursuit of a man with a rifle, it came to him: the would-be assassin had gotten a .45 into the event! How the hell had he managed that?
That thought he filed away for later use, should he survive this lopsided encounter.
But as he reached the row of trees lining the service road, he tucked himself behind the nearest one, peeking around to see what his options were...
... and the guy, all in black, including a stocking cap (blond under there, he’d bet), was leaving his position between trees to jog to the parked Nissan. With sirens growing ever louder, the guy was bailing, just getting the hell out.
That was a kind of break, because the unarmed Reeder could pursue the shooter, since a rifle was a poor weapon to try to use on the move. With some luck he could come up behind him and take the man down; but the black-clad figure heard Reeder’s running steps in back of him, glanced over his shoulder, and kept going, even faster.
Reeder summoned more speed somehow and was closing the distance when the shooter reached the car, spun and raised the rifle to his shoulder like a hunter who just spotted a very stupid deer.
The night-shattering report was in his ears as Reeder dove for the asphalt, then rolled onto snowy ground and scrambled into the trees, ducking behind the nearest one, which took a shot meant for him, spewing fragmented bark and splintered wood.
When Reeder eased out for a look, red brake lights signaled the Nissan’s hesitation just before the vehicle turned onto the road, and was gone.
For perhaps thirty seconds, Reeder — his shoulder screaming louder than the sirens — leaned forward with his hands on the knees of legs whose muscles were burning with an intensity to rival the buildings, and he breathed slowly, slowly, slowly, trying not to die.
Rogers came trotting up through the trees. “And you gave me shit for trying to save somebody in a burning building?”
“You can’t... can’t... save... a... corpse.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know it was a corpse. And you knew that was a guy with a rifle. You aren’t armed, are you?”
He stood erect. Shook his head.
She came over and took his arm and squeezed. “You okay?”
“Let me ask you something,” Reeder said.
“What?”
“Metal detectors, security people, how did our ex — Ohio state trooper get into Constitution Hall?”
“This came to you now?”
“Just now.”
Her eyebrows lifted as her breath smoked. “Well, I imagine Bohannon and Wade are all over that. We can check with them. But let’s deal with this first.”
Walking between trees, Rogers supported Reeder by the arm, and back across the snowy ground and then snowy cement to where fire trucks and police cars were parading into the lot.
Rogers had her cell out. “I’ll make sure Bohannon and Wade are as smart as you are, and then I’ll let Miggie know what happened here.”
While she did that, Reeder went over to speak to the first uniformed policeman on site. He still had the FBI consultant’s ID in his billfold from last year, and he hoped that would suffice.
The cop climbing from the first squad car was well scrubbed and wore a navy-blue winter jacket with a Charlottesville badge on the left and “CHANEY” on a patch on the right.
As Reeder approached, the young cop’s eyes grew wide and his steamy breath came more quickly.
“You’re Joe Reeder!” he said, amazed, extending his hand.
As gloved hands shook, Reeder thought, About damn time this hero crap paid off.
“It’s an honor, Mr. Reeder.”
Reeder nodded. “Officer Chaney. First name?”
“Tim, sir.”
“Tim,” Reeder said, jerking a thumb toward the destruction around him. “You’ve arrived in the middle of an incident relating to a federal investigation. It’s going to be a very long night for all of us. But first we need a BOLO out on a Nissan Altima. And I have plates for you.”
As he continued to fill Chaney in, firefighters were hard at it, spraying down the twin blazes. The fiftyish chief — an obvious veteran, cool and in command — supervised and quickly called for reinforcements. EMTs were putting the corpse on a stretcher, with no pretense of trying to save an obviously dead body. Rogers was with them, getting pictures of the deceased with her cell.
“You need your detectives out here, Tim,” Reeder advised the young uniform. “The FBI will be handling the investigation, but your people will be in on it. This is arson and murder, for starters.”
The kid was doing a good job tamping down the celebrity worship. He said, “Yes, sir,” and called dispatch on his shoulder radio.
Her pictures taken, and seeing Reeder was no longer talking to the cop, Rogers headed back over, shaking her head.
“What?” he asked.
“Bohannon and Wade had the same thought you did, only about four hours ago. They’ve been watching security video.”
“Lucky them.”
“Not a single damn frame of Stanton coming through the metal detectors.”
Reeder thought about that, briefly. “If he didn’t come in the front, then he came in the back.”
She nodded. “Inside job, then.”
“Was the security a mix of Constitution Hall’s own people and Benjamin’s?”
“Yes, but mostly Benjamin’s.” She frowned. “Did one of them let somebody in to take out their own boss?”
“That’s a good solid maybe,” Reeder said. “Nasty as that is, at least we have somewhere to start.”
Rogers’s cell phone vibrated in her hand. She looked at the caller ID and put it on speaker so Reeder could hear.
She said, “What do you have, Miggie?”
“Like to know why those two buildings blew?”
“We’re on the scene, standing in the glow of two fires, and you know why the buildings blew?”
“I do,” he said with a smile in his voice. “We got lab results on Bryson’s clothes. Either of you ever hear of something called Senkstone?”
She gave Reeder a raised eyebrow look.
He said, “That’s s-e-n-k Senkstone?”
“Surely is,” Miggie said. His voice was crisp and confident coming from the tiny cell speaker. “Five years ago, Senkstone was a failed plastic explosive — real next-gen stuff, but unstable as hell. So the company responsible shut down. Well, there were traces of the stuff on Bryson’s clothes.”
“Judging by the fires around us,” Rogers said, “it may still be unstable.”
“More likely,” Reeder said, leaning in for Miggie to hear, “someone figured out how to stabilize it, and for some as yet unknown reason, decided to cover up that discovery.”
Rogers said, “I’m sending you some pictures, Miggie. See if you can ID the guy before we get back.”