The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [645]
Savich introduced Detective Millbray to Agent James Quinlan. “Quinlan isn’t just an FBI agent. He performs here one night a week on his saxophone.”
“That’s some combination, Agent Quinlan.”
Savich said immediately, “Please send a few of your guys over to guard that redheaded woman standing against the Porsche at the curb. It’s critical. I’ll explain later.”
Quinlan and Savich watched Detective Millbray quickly assemble four cops and dispatch them to surround Sherlock.
“Thank you, Detective. What have you got?”
Detective Millbray handed Savich the device. “Would you take a gander at this harmless-looking little gadget. It’s a piece of a cell phone, used as a homemade detonator. It’s a pretty popular item in the Middle East, as you probably know. Turns out the blast didn’t cause all that much damage, but it created enough of a rumble and spewed out enough thick black smoke to scare the crap out of everybody. Whoever went to the trouble and tossed the bomb could have put a much bigger charge on it. It was just enough to set off the mad stampede. It almost looks like some kind of sick stunt, like someone wanted to close the place down.”
“It wasn’t about closing this business, Detective,” Savich said. “When Agent Quinlan called me, I knew it could have been Moses Grace. He knows I perform here on occasion and am friends with Ms. Lilly. That’s why I asked for protection for Agent Sherlock. She’s my wife.”
Detective Millbray grew very still. “You mean that crazy old guy every cop in the city is looking for? And that teenage girl?”
Savich nodded.
Detective Millbray shouted for his sergeant and stepped away for a moment. When he returned, he said, “I’ve told him to tell everyone the perpetrators might still be here. And I’ve told him who it might be. If he knew this place, knew the owner was important to you, then why did he just flirt with this pissant little bomb and not make it a full-bore disaster?”
Another plainclothes detective stepped up. “I’m Detective Jim Fortnoy. I’ve called for more police. We’re going to do a sweep for those two.”
Savich nodded, then turned back to Detective Millbray. “You asked me—”
He heard Sherlock yell. She was swinging her SIG upward, to a point beyond his right shoulder. She yelled, “Dillon, get down!”
She fired off two shots as she ran toward him, the four cops running behind her, their guns out, firing up at the two-story building.
But Savich wasn’t looking over his shoulder, he was looking at his Porsche. He thought of the bomb Moses had left at Hooter’s Motel. There were a dozen people milling around the Porsche, and he knew as surely as he knew his name what Moses had planned. He cupped his hands around his mouth, yelled as loud as he could, “Run! Get away from the Porsche! There’s a bomb! Run!”
Fortnoy and Millbray shouted with him even though they didn’t understand. Wasn’t Moses Grace in the building behind them? But there was no return gunfire.
No one hesitated. Nerves on hair triggers from the terror in the club made them scatter fast.
Detective Millbray grabbed Savich’s arm. “Why do you think there’s a bomb there? Your wife and the police have been shooting up at that building. What’s happening, Savich?”
Savich heard the roar as his Porsche exploded into a ball of flame. There was an incredible concussion and a wave of heat that sucked up all the air. The power of the blast flung the dozen people closest outward, forcing them to the pavement or hurling them into one another. Savich heard screams, and a policeman yelling for everyone to stay down and remain calm. Savich, flanked by half a dozen cops, ran toward them. He fell to his knees in front of a young woman lying motionless