She was missing something. Somewhere in the notes she’d taken this morning was the identity of the bus or the train or whatever Slater planned on blowing, if indeed they were right about the riddle referring to public transportation.
The target wasn’t Kevin, and Jennifer found relief in the realization. For the moment it wasn’t hislife at risk. For now Slater was more interested in playing. Play the game, Kevin. Lead him on. She snatched up the phone and dialed his number.
He picked up on the fifth ring.
“Any thoughts?”
“Just going to call you. It could be a bus or something identified with a three,” Kevin said.
That was it! Had to be. “Three. I’ll have them put a priority on anything with a three in the identifier.”
“How are they doing?”
“Looks good. We should know something in ten minutes.”
“That’s cutting it pretty close, isn’t it?”
“It’s the best they can do.”
Sam snapped her cell phone closed and grabbed her purse. “That’s it, let’s go!” She ran for the door. “I’ll drive.”
Kevin ran after her. “How many?”
“Long Beach proper has twenty-five buses, each identified with several letters and a number. We want number twenty-three. It runs down Alamitos and then back up Atlantic. That’s not far. With any luck we’ll run into it.”
“What about three or thirteen?”
“They started the numbering at five and skipped thirteen.”
The tires on Sam’s car squealed. She was certain Slater had a bus in mind. The planes were less likely targets for the simple reason that security was far tighter than it once had been. She had checked the trams—no threes. Trains were a possibility, but again, high security. It had to be a bus. The fact that there was only one with three in its designator offered at least a sliver of hope.
Twenty-nine minutes.
They flew across Willow toward Alamitos but were stopped by a red light at Walnut. Sam glanced both directions and sped through.
“Now is one time I wouldn’t mind a cop on my tail,” she said. “We could use their help.”
“No cops,” Kevin said.
She looked at him. Two more minutes passed before they hit Alamitos.
“You see a bus, it’s probably number twenty-three. You yell.”
But they passed no buses. They crossed Third Street through a red. Still no bus.
Ocean Boulevard, right; Atlantic, north. No bus. Horns honked at them on several occasions.
“Time?” she asked.
“Nine thirty-seven.”
“Come on! Come on!”
Sam backtracked. When they hit Third again, the light was red and cars blocked the intersection. A bus numbered “6453–17” rumbled by, headed west on Third Street. Wrong bus. The car was stuffy. Sweat beaded their foreheads. The intersection cleared and Sam shoved the accelerator down. “Come on, baby. Where are you?”
She’d cleared the intersection by fifty feet when she slammed on the brakes.
“What?”
She jerked her head around and stared back toward Third Street. She frantically grabbed her cell phone, hit the redial button.
“Yes, could you tell me which bus runs down Third Street?”
Kevin heard the deep male voice from his seat. “The Third Street bus. You need—”
Sam slammed the phone shut, yanked the wheel around, and pulled directly into traffic. She pulled through a screaming U-turn, cutting off a white Volvo and a blue sedan. Horns blared.
“They call the buses by their street names, not their numbers!” Sam said.
“But you don’t know if Slater—”
“We know where the Third Street bus is. Let’s clear it first and then go for twenty-three.” She squealed onto Third Street and honed in on the bus, not a hundred yards ahead. Obviously dispatch hadn’t reached the driver yet.
Nineteen minutes.
Sam pulled directly in front of the bus and braked. The bus blasted its horn and ground to a halt behind them.
“Tell the driver to evacuate and stay clear for at least half an hour. Tell them to spread the word to the other cars on the street. Tell them there’s a bomb—it works every time. I’m calling Agent Peters.”
Kevin ran to the bus. He hammered on the door, but the driver, an older man who must have been three times his recommended weight, refused to open.
“There’s a bomb on board!” he yelled, flinging his hands out like an explosion. “A bomb!” He wondered if any of them recognized him from the television. The kid-killer is now downtown pulling old women off of buses.
A young man who looked like Tom Hanks stuck his head out an open window. “A what?”
“A bomb! Get out! Clear the bus. Clear the street.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the door hissed open, and the same young man stumbled out. He yelled back into the bus.
“Get them out, you idiot! He said there’s a bomb on this bus!”
A dozen passengers—half by what Kevin could see—bolted from their seats. The driver seemed to catch the fever. “Okay, everyone out! Watch your step. Just a precaution, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t shove!”
Kevin grabbed the Tom Hanks look-alike. “Clear this street and stay clear for at least thirty minutes, you hear? Get them all out of here!”
“What is it? How do you know?”
Kevin ran for Sam’s car. “Trust me. Just get them clear. The police are on their way.” The passengers didn’t need any encouragement. Cars stopped and then sped past the bus or backed away.
He slid into the car.
“Hold on,” Sam said. She sped off, took an immediate right on the next street, and headed back toward Atlantic.
“One down. Fifteen minutes left.”
“This is nuts,” Kevin said. “We don’t even know if Slater’s—”
The cell phone went berserk in his pocket. Kevin froze and stared at his right thigh.
“What?” Sam asked.
“He . . . he’s calling.”
The phone vibrated again and this time he grabbed it. Samantha slowed.
“Hello?”
“I said no cops, Kevin,” Slater’s soft voice said. “No cops means no cops.”
Kevin’s fingers began to shake. “You mean the FBI?”
“Policemen. From now on it’s you and Sam and Jennifer and me and no one else.”
End call.
Sam had slowed way down. She looked at him with wide eyes. “What did he say?”
“He said no cops.”
The ground suddenly shook. An explosion thundered. They both ducked.
“Turn around! Turn around!”
“That was the bus,” Sam whispered. She spun the car around and sped back the way they’d come.
Kevin stared as they rolled onto Third. Boiling flames and thick black smoke engulfed the surreal scene. Three blackened cars parked next to the bus smoldered. God only knew if anyone was hurt, but the immediate area looked vacant. Books lay scattered among the shattered glass of a used bookstore’s windows. Its “Read It Again” sign dangled over the sidewalk dangerously. The shop owner stumbled out, stunned.
Sam shoved the gearshift into park and stared at the unearthly scene.
Her cell phone screeched and Kevin started. She lifted it slowly. “Sheer.”
She blinked and immediately refocused. “How long ago?” She looked at Kevin and then the bus. A siren wailed. A car Kevin immediately recognized as Jennifer’s squealed around the corner and headed toward them.
“Can Rodriguez question him?” Sam asked into her phone. “I’m in a bit of a pinch here.” She turned away and lowered her voice. “He just blew up a bus. I’m parked in a car, fifty feet away from it. Yes, I am pretty sure.” She listened.
Jennifer roared up and stuck her head out of her car’s window. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Kevin said. His fingers were numb and his mind dazed, but he was okay.
Samantha acknowledged Jennifer with a nod, turned to the side, and covered her exposed ear. “Yes, sir. Right away. I understand . . .” She glanced at her watch. “The ten-thirty flight?”