When Jamal reached the top platform and turned to face the street, his pulse settled. All of the terrifying onlookers from a moment ago continued with their former preoccupations. Not a single eye was turned his way. Perhaps they never were. Like every other day of his miserable existence in this cursed country, no one paid him any notice.
That was about to change.
Jamal lifted his head for one last look at the winter sky and snowflakes lighted on his cheeks — the kisses of angels. The blanket of white clouds above glowed with a rosy hue. Paradise was opening to welcome him. A blissful smile spread across his face. He lifted the remote trigger from his pocket, spread out his arms, and shouted the final words the Qaim had commanded him to say.
Then he pressed the button.
CHAPTER 3
As Nick pointed out the National Air and Space Museum to his dad, he heard his wife quietly giggling to herself.
He never got the chance to ask her why.
Katy’s laughter became a shriek as an immense blast rocked the Jeep up onto two wheels. The driver-side windows blew completely inward, showering the interior with glass. As the vehicle came crashing down onto four wheels again, it veered left into oncoming traffic. Nick fought the wheel to regain control, swerving back across his own lane and skidding into the curb with his foot jammed on the brakes.
The bomb had exploded ahead and to his left, next to Health and Human Services. The fireball that first flashed in his vision had become a black cloud. Debris rained down around them. Something landed on the roof with a heavy thump.
“Are you okay?” he asked Katy, but she was busy reaching for her son.
“Luke!” she cried.
Nick turned with her and found that the toddler had escaped unscathed. Nick’s dad had acted as a shield, taking the brunt of the flying glass.
“Dad, you’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good, then take the wheel.”
Kurt Baron furrowed his brow. “What? Where’re you going?”
Nick didn’t answer. He looked to his wife. She had several small cuts on the left side of her face, but nothing serious. Katy met his gaze and nodded sharply. “I’ll be all right. Go.”
He popped the rear hatch and climbed out of the Jeep, noting as he stepped around to his father’s door that the object that had landed on his Jeep was a severed hand. He brushed it off the roof and into the gray-brown slush beneath the curb. “Dad, get up there and take the wheel. Get them to the hospital in Chapel Point. The closer facilities will be too busy.”
“You get back in the car and get us out of here yourself.”
Nick didn’t have time for father-son competition. The Mall was about to fill with first responders and rubberneckers, and soon there would be no exit. Even more pressing, the reaper’s relentless clock had started ticking the minute the bomb went off. As the ringing in his ears diminished, Nick was beginning to hear the wails of the dying.
“I can’t, Dad. I have a duty to stay and help.” He pulled the professor out of the car. “No more argument. Get up there and take the wheel.”
Nick continued to the back and uncovered his Beretta Nano micro-compact. He shoved a clip home and slid the weapon into his waistband. Then he grabbed his first aid kit and some blankets. By the time he slammed the hatch closed, his father was in the driver’s seat. Nick pounded the side of the jeep with the flat of his hand. “Go!”
As he raced toward the epicenter, the smoke began to clear, revealing a grim scene. In nearly twelve years of special operations, he had seen plenty of blood, but no amount of experience could ever compensate for the shock of a mass-casualty attack. He could swear that he had seen the source, just one man standing atop the puzzle steps outside Health and Human Services, but the casualties looked too widespread for a single suicide vest. It was hard to tell. Maybe the blood stood out more because of the newly fallen snow.
As he reached the outer ring of the carnage, Nick faced the most excruciating question of a first responder: who to treat first? All the wounded were suffering. Some were too far gone to save. He would have to listen to the pleas of the dying while he dedicated himself to saving those who had a chance.
The first of the walking wounded he encountered was a man about his age, dressed in a business suit and still clinging to a briefcase. His other hand covered one of his eyes. Blood seeped through his fingers. He saw Nick and his first aid kit and stumbled toward him.
“Help me! My eye!”
A woman lay mumbling in the snow a few meters beyond the businessman, her abdomen a bloody mess. Nick kept moving toward her, pointing the man toward a nearby bench as he passed. “Sit down over there. Cover both eyes with your scarf and wait for a paramedic to assist you.”
The businessman ignored the command. Instead, he dropped his briefcase and turned to follow. He grabbed Nick’s arm and jerked him back. “You have to help me!”
“Sir, let go. I need to help this woman.”
The wounded man grew more desperate and committed both hands to yanking Nick’s first aid kit away. In the instant he let go of his eye, Nick saw that it could not be saved, but he would suffer no other damage either, if only he would be still.
Nick gave into the man’s pull for a split second, multiplying his force. Then he struck him full in the chest with an open palm and the businessman fell back on his rear, stunned. Nick quickly turned and continued to the dying woman’s side. Amid the dark blood at her midsection, he could see the white of her intestines.
“Jerry,” she mumbled, staring with unfocused pupils at the blank sky. “Help Jerry, my husband.”
A few feet away, Nick saw a man lying motionless in the street, his head tilted to one side, his eyes open, lifeless. “Someone else is taking care of Jerry,” he said. “I’m going to take care of you.”
As he opened the first aid kit, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Nick jerked his head around, expecting to see the frenzied businessman. Instead, he found a young man with dark, penetrating eyes. The face was youthful but the expression grave.
“Do you need help?” the young man asked in a commanding tone.
The newcomer had a green duffel marked with a white cross slung under his arm. Despite his obvious youth, he showed no signs of shock or dismay. Nick had to assume from his calm that he had seen combat, or at least worked in a trauma center.
“No,” Nick replied. “I’ve got this one.” He pointed toward the epicenter, deeper into the carnage. “Keep moving that way, there are more, lots more.”
An hour later, Nick sat on the tailgate of an FBI Emergency Response Vehicle, cold, exhausted, and covered in blood. His first aid kit was spent, the bag lying somewhere in the snow. He had laid all of his blankets over victims or folded them under their heads, along with his leather jacket and sweatshirt. Now he wore nothing to guard against the deepening cold but his undershirt and blue jeans.
Washington’s army of professional responders had taken over. The severely wounded had been evacuated, and the rest of the living were being treated on site. The dead lay where they had fallen, surrounded by agents poking them with gloved hands and taking pictures. Dignity always took a backseat to investigation. The businessman who had tried to take Nick’s first aid kit sat on the back bumper of a police car, berating the paramedic who was trying to wrap his head.