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  Then Rossi pulled over, jumped out of her car, and ran toward the scene. She could hear sirens and knew help was coming, but took out her weapon just in case. The agent held her badge up for people to see, and yelled “FBI! Move away from the car!”

  It was a dramatic moment—and one that Americo Lopa managed to capture on tape from the edge of the steadily growing crowd. He wore his ball cap backwards so it wouldn’t interfere with the viewfinder, and the lower part of his face was obscured by a scarf. Other than that he was dressed student-style, in a parka, jeans, and boots.

  Though manufactured for the high-end consumer market, the GR-SXM93OU JVC vid cam put out broadcast-quality images, even in low-light conditions. And that was important because the stuff that the cops would eventually harvest from the surrounding security cameras would be too static and vague to claim people’s attention for very long. And Lopa, who ran what he thought of as the Red Cell from the back of his van, wanted to ensure that the sanction received a lot of coverage. That was important because while there seemed to be a nearly inexhaustible supply of Muslim martyrs, people willing to die for the sake of the environment were in short supply.

  Most of the bystanders moved back out of the way as Rossi arrived, but one, a resident from the university’s hospital, stood waiting. A stethoscope dangled from her neck. There was blood on her hands. Her eyes locked with Rossi’s. “Did they belong to you?”

  The agent nodded mutely.

  “I’m sorry. Both of them are dead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  Rossi nodded for a second time. “Stay with them, Doctor. Don’t let anyone touch the vehicle or the bodies. Not Medic One…not anyone. This is a crime scene.” The resident nodded.

  The agent’s hand shook as she pulled the Nextel phone off her belt, told the dispatcher that two agents were down, and that the killer or killers might still be in the area. That was when someone yelled, “Rigg Hall is on fire!” Rossi ran toward the brick building and Lopa panned. Meanwhile, having been alerted by 911, a member of the University of Washington’s police force arrived on the scene even as a fire engine bulled in from the north.

  In spite of the fact that the sprinkler system had kept the flames down, flammable materials were stored in the lab and it wasn’t long before the fire found them. McDonnel heard a loud “whoosh” as additional oxygen was sucked into the room through the open fire door, and knew it was time for the second part of the operation to get underway. “Okay,” McDonnel said, “this is it. Greg, come here.”

  The young man did as he was told. McDonnel told Aspee that she loved him, kissed him in spite of the vomit on his breath, and pulled back in order to look at him. He was crying. “Don’t worry, honey,” she said. “It won’t be that bad. Don’t forget what you’re supposed to do.”

  Aspee shook his head. “I won’t.”

  “Good. Larry? Are you ready?”

  Shaw grinned, took McDonnel in his arms, and stuck his tongue into her mouth. He would have gone further except that she laughed and pushed him away. “Alright,” she said, her eyes shiny with emotion, “let’s go. I’ll see you in Paradise.” It sounded believable the way she said it, as if people went to Paradise every day and you could go there on a bus.

  Aspee trudged in the direction of the door, saw Shaw push it open, and stumbled out into the cold. There were things he was supposed to say, slogans he was supposed to shout, but he couldn’t remember the words. Aspee heard a woman’s voice shout, “FBI! Stop or I’ll shoot!” and ran for the nearest bystander.

  Rossi fired, felt the Glock buck in her hand, and saw the man go down. But then the subject was up again. The bastard was wearing body armor! The FBI agent considered a head shot, but the crowd was on the move by then and a number of people were running through the area immediately behind the suspect by that time. If Rossi were to miss, or if a bullet were to pass through the suspect’s head and keep on going, a bystander could die.

  Aspee’s side hurt where the 10mm round had hit him, and although he could feel something wet running down his leg, there was no way to know whether it was urine, blood, or gasoline. The lady in front of him stood as if rooted in place, a look of terror on her face, as the terrorist closed in on her. She made a strange squeaking sound as Aspee wrapped his arms around her torso. Then, because the middle-aged office worker smelled just like his mother, he tightened the embrace.

  The push-button lamp switch, which had been duct-taped to the inside surface of Aspee’s right wrist, made a click as he pressed the button. Electricity from a pair of batteries surged through a short length of wire, and a spark was introduced into one of six bottles of gasoline strapped to the terrorist’s body. There was a gentle “whump,” as Aspee burst into flames and the woman began to burn, too. Their voices formed a gruesome harmony as they screamed in unison and danced within a cocoon of flames. McDonnel had promised Aspee that it wouldn’t hurt, that the cocaine would suppress the pain, but she’d been wrong.

  Lopa, still located a safe distance away, knew what would happen next and pulled wide to capture the action. Though disappointed by Aspee’s failure to shout at least some of the agreed-upon slogans, everything else was going well and the cell leader was pleased.

  Rossi pointed toward the spot where the two fiery bodies were locked together and shouted, “Smother those flames!” just as Shaw and McDonnel emerged from Rigg Hall and ran towards the crowd. Most of the bystanders turned and ran but one student tripped and fell. McDonnel screamed something incoherent as she prepared to throw herself on top of the helpless male.

  Rossi yelled, “FBI! Stop or I’ll shoot!” but it made no difference. Having learned from the first episode Rossi aimed for the terrorist’s head but missed. Then, careful to lead her target, the agent fired again. McDonnel went down. There was no way to know whether the young woman triggered the fire bombs prior to being shot, or whether the explosion was the result of an involuntary movement of her thumb, but it didn’t make much difference. Her dead body exploded into flames, fell just short of her intended victim, and lit the surrounding area with an obscene glow.

  Shaw was only twelve feet away from a campus cop by then. The police officer shouted for him to stop for the third time, fired his 9mm, and saw the young man stumble. But then the terrorist was up firing a pistol as he staggered forward. I should have gone for the bastard’s head, the cop thought to himself, and was just about to squeeze off another round when Rossi fired her Glock. The bullet removed the top of Shaw’s skull, sprayed the area behind with gore, and hit Rigg Hall. The terrorist toppled over backwards, landed with an audible “thump,” and was left to stare sightlessly up into the night sky.

  Lopa lowered the camera and frowned. Rather than unfold the way it was supposed to, the sanction had been compromised by the female FBI agent, and that made him angry. Very angry. So angry that it might be necessary to cap the bitch. But that was for later. He had work to do.

  Unsure of how many more opponents she might face, and which direction they might attack from, the agent tilted the Glock up and turned a complete circle. She saw bystanders, television cameras, and firefighters all waiting to see what would happen next. The first terrorist, the one that she hadn’t fired on, lay wrapped in someone’s steaming raincoat. A medic tended to him while the other worked to revive his victim.

  Then, having completed her turn, Rossi realized that the fire department had water on the building, the police were pushing the crowd back behind yellow crime tape, and Kissler had arrived for work. He stood with his pistol pointed at the ground and a look of amazement on his moon-shaped face. “Jesus, Rossi, what the hell happened?”

  Rossi shook her head, wrinkled her nose in response to the odor of burned flesh, and felt a snowflake touch her nose. “Something bad, Kevin. Something really bad.”

  About a hundred feet away, toward the rear of the crowd, Lopa touched the camera’s power button. In spite of some initial misgivings, the sanction h
ad gone fairly well and the day’s work was done. His van was parked on the west side of the U-district not far from the I-HOP. The terrorist stowed the camcorder in his pack, slipped his arms through the straps, and sauntered away. He had news to deliver.

  The morning sky was Seattle gray, a steady drizzle fell, and most people were on their way to work as Jack Dexter stepped out onto the street. Baghdad, Mosul, and Fallujah were thousands of miles away, his forebrain knew that, but his hind brain, the so-called reptilian brain, was alert to the possibility someone could fire at him from a passing vehicle, blow him to smithereens by triggering an IED (improvised explosive device), or kill him with a randomly fired mortar shell. That’s why the ex-SEAL had to force himself out of what he still thought of as cover.

  The leg, by which Dexter meant his left leg, was a little sore after the run the day before, but that was not only typical but hardly worth thinking about compared to the pain he had experienced when the so-called resistance fighters had ambushed his convoy. He and his team had been in the process of escorting four VIPs from the Defense Department out of the green zone to an Iraqi government building located near Haifa street when their vehicles came under attack.

  An IED had been used to destroy the lead Humvee, while the second vehicle, the one Dexter had been riding in, was struck by a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG.) He knew he was hit but didn’t realize how badly because there wasn’t enough time to think about it. The bad guys rushed in hoping to take hostages that could be sold to Al Qaida—but Dexter and his men had other plans. They sprayed their attackers with CAR-15, MP5, and M203 fire even as the rest of the convoy bull-dozed its way out of the trap and a crowd of Iraqi civilians began to throw rocks at the infidel occupiers.

  Unable to break through the defensive fire, and having suffered more than fifty percent casualties by that time, the black-clad fighters were already in the process of pulling back when a Cobra helicopter arrived on scene and sprayed both sides of the street with 20mm cannon fire. Sixteen terrorists were killed, plus twelve civilians, one of whom was a woman holding her baby. The baby, amazingly enough, survived.

  That was when Dexter felt the pain, and looked down at where his leg should have been, but saw nothing but mangled flesh. He passed out, woke up in Germany, and was put back to sleep. The amputation of what was left of his leg took the better part of three hours. From there, the lieutenant was sent to Walter Reed, where he had been fitted for a prosthesis and put through a grueling regimen of rehab before being discharged from the Navy. Now, more than two years later, Dexter was used to the pain and the inconvenience of wearing an artificial limb. What he hadn’t been able to accept was the disfigurement itself. Eventually he would adjust, that’s what the shrinks told him, but what the hell did they know? Every single one of them had both legs—and could take their clothes off without embarrassment.

  Even though Jack Dexter hadn’t consumed much coffee when he was younger, he had acquired the habit during his Naval service and still enjoyed it now. That was why he began each day at Starbucks. It sat on a corner in the space previously occupied by a tiny grocery store, one more indication of the way in which the neighborhood had been gentrified.

  Dexter held the door for an elderly woman who he recognized as a regular, grabbed a Post Intelligencer off the inside rack, and scanned the front page as he waited in line. It seemed that a bomb had exploded in Manila, there had been some sort of shoot-out at the University of Washington, and Boeing had won a big contract from China. “Are you having the usual today?”

  Dexter looked up to discover that the people in front of him had been served. The woman behind the counter was in her late twenties and had blonde hair and a nice figure—something Dexter already knew, had known for six months now, but done nothing about. He had considered making a pass at her but knew that doing so could trigger a series of predictable events. Success would lead to a date, which could lead to a second date, which could lead to sex. Or the expectation of sex, which would force the ex-SEAL to undress and show her the leg. Maybe it would turn her off, or maybe it wouldn’t, but how to know? It was a helluva lot easier to simply have sex by himself. “Yes, please,” Dexter replied warmly, and smiled to seal the bargain.

  Annie smiled in return and turned to fill a paper cup with drip coffee. A drip, plus a blueberry scone, was what the man with no name ate each morning. He was single, she felt certain of it, but never attempted to make a move on her. Because he didn’t find her attractive? No, that didn’t make sense because she had seen him look at her. So what was the problem? He was tall, had short, sandy hair, penetrating hazel eyes, and even features. He wore nice but non-descript clothes, sported a complicated-looking watch, and walked with an almost-imperceptible limp. Maybe, in spite of all the signs to the contrary, he was gay. Annie made use of a pair of metal tongs to select what looked like the nicest blueberry scone and placed it in a brown paper bag. “Will there be anything else?”

  Dexter gave her a five, waited for his change, and dropped a dollar into the clear plastic tip box. Then, oblivious to the way that the barista’s eyes followed him, the businessman took his paper and his breakfast over to what he thought of as table number two. It was back in a corner, where the ex-SEAL could put his back to a wall, but too close to the side door. Table one was perfect, but had already been claimed by a rumpled man equipped with a cell phone, PDA, and a laptop.

  Dexter brushed some crumbs off the table, dropped into the chair, and laid out his breakfast. Having swallowed his first bite of scone, the businessman chased it with some black coffee and turned to the classifieds. His ad was under the heading “Downtown.” It read: “View of Elliott Bay! This newly remodeled luxury apartment is located in a quiet twelve-unit complex with on-site parking, a high-tech security system, and 24/7 management. Enjoy three cozy bedrooms, two and a half baths, and a spacious living room with a sweeping view of the bay. $2,500 per month.”

  The ad was followed by a phone number, his phone number since the complex belonged to him and had ever since his father’s fatal heart attack more than two years earlier. The news that his son had been wounded in Iraq, plus his generally poor health, had been too much for the old man. But Dexter didn’t like to think about his father’s death, or the war in Iraq, and turned to the funnies instead. He chuckled over his favorites, washed the last bite of scone down with some coffee, and eyed the blonde as she carried a bag of trash out through the side door. She was pretty, no doubt about that, and he wondered what she would look like naked.

  The mixture of rain and snow continued to fall with the same determination that it had earlier, but Dexter was used to that and enjoyed the cool two-block walk to the only home he had ever known. The apartment house had been forty years old back when his parents bought the building and moved in. There had been twice as many units back in those days, and as time passed, the people who lived there became family—especially after Mrs. Dexter passed away and the residents took turns looking out for the little boy that everyone called Dex, and the father who drank too much.

  Rents remained low, a lot of the maintenance was deferred, and the structure began to fall apart—so much so that by the time Dexter returned from the war the complex was in need of a complete renovation. The ex-naval officer felt a distinct sense of pride as he turned a corner and the freshly painted building came into view.

  It stood six stories tall, and had a flat roof and big windows. What had been a maze of smallish one-and two-bedroom apartments had been combined into large two-and three-bedroom units designed to appeal to the carriage trade, people who enjoyed the ambience of living downtown but for reasons that never made sense to Dexter, preferred to rent rather than buy. He was grateful, however, and now that the renovation was complete, the ex-naval officer planned to sit back and relax. And, depending on who took unit 6A, he might be in for some entertainment as well. Dexter smiled, waited for a light, and stepped out onto the street.

  There had been a time when the forty-year-old, two-bedroom fr
ame house had seemed too small for a man, woman, and child, but not anymore. Now it felt big and empty. The place where Rossi went to have a Lean Cuisine, watch some television, and grab some sleep. She had considered selling it and using the proceeds to buy a condo, but there was Missy to consider, including the need for a yard to play in.

  The FBI agent went to the front window, pushed a blinds slat up and out of the way, and peered out onto the street. She could see two news vans and knew that others lurked nearby. The attack on Rigg Hall and the resulting homicides would have been news under any circumstances. But the fact that the ELA had taped the entire incident and sent copies to the local television stations had raised the ante. The footage of the first terrorist wrapped in a fiery embrace, and of Rossi shooting his companions, had been played countless times during the last twenty-four hours. And not just locally, but nationally, until she was sick of looking at it.

  Should the networks have run the extremely graphic footage or shouldn’t they? Pundits were still debating the issue. Not that it mattered much since the networks had run the footage, had granted the terrorists the significance they wanted so badly, and had trashed Rossi’s life. In addition to the reporters camped outside, various media outlets had literally filled the FBI agent’s voicemail with requests for interviews. Additionally, one of her ISP’s employees had leaked her email address and her inbox was filled to overflowing with hundreds of messages. Some supportive—some filled with hate.

  Meanwhile, she was on administrative leave while the Bureau assembled a shooting review team and prepared to judge one of their own. Not that there was much to talk about, not in Rossi’s opinion, since nobody seemed to dispute the fact that the eco-terrorists had murdered two FBI agents, attempted to kill a grad student, and shot Professor Posada in cold blood.