The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [646]
It was a nightmare landscape—the screams, the moans, the weeping, the roaring orange flames that gushed into the night air, the struggle to control panic and fear.
Savich whirled around, yelling Sherlock’s name. He’d seen her for only an instant when she ran toward him, looking up, firing her SIG. He saw her then. Her wool cap was gone, her hair streaming about her shoulders looking like it was on fire in the surreal glow of the orange flames.
Then she was there, right in front of him, her face black, her heavy coat ripped. “I thought I saw him up in a window on the second floor. He was aiming down at you. Some of the cops went up there to look.” She hugged him close, her hands patting him all over. “You all right?”
He nodded against her hair.
She pulled back, studied his face. “He blew up your Porsche. He wanted me to go out with it. Do you think he could have detonated it from that window up there?”
“We’ll find out soon.” For a moment, he couldn’t speak. It had been so very close. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you saw someone up there. It saved your life.” That actually sounded calm, he thought, as he stared down at the most important person in the world.
Then she grinned up at him, filthy and beautiful. “You were the psychic about the car bomb. Where do you think Moses went?”
“Millbray and Fortnoy have half the cops in Washington on it.”
After fifteen minutes of chaos, people began to sort themselves out, growing calmer once their loved ones were close and safe. Many simply left, grateful to be alive, afraid of more explosions. Paramedics went from group to group, leading the injured to waiting ambulances. Television cameras were everywhere, the spectacular footage of the explosion’s aftermath already on the airwaves.
“Savich!”
Savich looked up to see Ben Raven running toward them, Callie Markham behind him, her coat flapping around her boots. “I’m here with Sherlock. We’re okay.”
Ben was panting, sweat running down his face. “All right. Good. What an unholy mess. I just put a man, probably with internal injuries, into an ambulance. A kid, here to check out the scene, got hit in the head with a piece of metal. I think he’ll be okay. Damn, Savich, your Porsche. Your beautiful Porsche.”
“You sound like you’ve just lost your best friend,” Callie said and punched him in the arm. “Get a grip here, Ben, it’s only a car. What’s important is that Dillon and Sherlock are okay. I’ve never seen anything like this, but the cops are dealing. It’s amazing how well they’re dealing.”
“But I never got to drive it.”
Savich said, “Moses Grace and Claudia might still be close by, but I doubt it. Too risky. He had to be close enough to set up the Porsche, and Sherlock spotted him up in that window. He must have picked the moment to drop the bomb in the car and walked away, not that difficult with all the people milling about. He must have been waiting for me to walk back to it. Until Sherlock spotted him.” It hit him again, a cold shot to the gut. He looked at Sherlock, pulled her so tight against him she couldn’t breathe. Her coat was still warm, and her hair smelled like dirty smoke.
“I’m all right,” she whispered. “Really, I’m okay.” She relaxed against him, stroked her hands up and down his back.
“I’m an idiot. We shouldn’t ever have come here. You were right, it was a setup. If you hadn’t seen Moses and run toward me, you would have been killed, you and those cops with you.”
Ben and Callie looked at each other. Slowly, Callie pulled out her tape recorder and began speaking into it quietly.
“Please, Callie, off the record,” Dillon said.
He watched her until she nodded and turned off the recorder.
Savich turned to look at the smoldering ruins of his Porsche, his pride and joy since his dad had given it