Authors: James Patterson,Andrew Gross
She saw a gray side-paneled van pull up right next to them. APEX E
LECTRICAL
S
YSTEMS
. A
STORIA
, Q
UEENS
.
Jarrod said, “So, what’ya got planned, Mom? You
always
have a plan.”
She was about to give him an answer when she noticed something a little strange.
The driver of the van had jumped out. He was dressed in a navy work uniform, had a baseball cap pulled over his face, long blond hair peeking through. What made it doubly strange was when the guy in the passenger’s seat jumped out too.
They both started to run.
Across the busy intersection. Away from the van. When they reached the other curb, they glanced back. Not at the van.
At them!
At the bus.
“Mom? Are you listening to what I’m saying? Earth to my mother. Hel-lo.”
And suddenly she knew! Stabs of terror ripped at her chest.
“Get out of here fast!” Andie screamed to the driver. “Drive away. Now!”
But the light was still red. And they were locked in traffic. Besides, everyone was talking among themselves and not seeing. Jarrod looked up at her strangely and squinted. “Mom?”
“Oh, Jesus.” Andie shuddered, unable to take her eyes off the van. She put her arms around Jarrod. She hugged him close to her chest. Something terrible was about to happen.
“Oh my God. No!”
“Mom?”
I THINK BACK sometimes to that moment—to the very heartbeat before something terrible happened. Something I couldn’t stop.
What if I could just reach out my hand and turn back the hands of time? Hold on to the moment for one more second? See what I should have seen?
I would see that smile. Not Andie DeGrasse’s, sitting next to her son on the bus as they drove off.
Cavello’s smile.
In the courtroom, just moments before.
I would know exactly what it meant.
I had followed the jury out of the courthouse and stayed there, watching the bus as it pulled away from the curb.
With Ellen gone, my life was falling apart a bit. So it made me feel good to help the two of them, DeGrasse and her little boy. It made me feel that in all this craziness, I had done something for a change that put some life back. I watched her wave at me, that happy smile. I waved back.
Happy birthday, kid.
And then the world fell apart! Theirs, and mine.
The gray van pulling up next to the bus at the red light. Then two men, in work clothes, suddenly running out.
Running away.
It took a second for it all to register, even for someone trained to see the worst in any situation. Then all of a sudden it was as clear as day. The whole horrible picture.
I heard myself yelling, “Get out of there now!” I started running toward the bus through traffic. “Get out of that bus!”
Then the van exploded, and the entire street just lit up in this brilliant flash. The recoil threw me back into a mailbox. Intense heat from a block away slammed into my face.
Oh, God, no! No!
All I could do was watch helplessly as the juror bus was engulfed in flames. Then it exploded.
I fumbled for my radio, connected back to the security team at the courthouse. “This is Pellisante. We’ve got a full-scale nine-one-one. The juror bus just blew up! Corner of Worth and Church. Repeat, the juror bus just exploded! We need full medical support out there now!”
Then I ran toward the bus at full speed.
It was bad. Very bad. Flames raged out of the hulk of the van. Dense gray smoke billowed over the street. People everywhere around me were screaming. Passersby, injured by the blast, were lying dazed on the street. A taxi lay upended and in flames.
I did a quick scan for the two men in work clothes. They were gone, melted into the bedlam. Dear God, the juror bus was no more than a charred, burning carcass. The entire left side was just a fiery, jagged hole.
I ran to the entrance. The blast had blown it wide open. The heat coming off arm rails felt like a thousand degrees.
Everything was covered in flaming char. The bus driver was dead. Not just dead, decapitated. Oh, God. One of the passengers, an elderly woman who I could picture sitting in the back row in court, had been flung over the driver’s back and smashed into the front window. I didn’t remember who she was—which juror?
“FBI,” I screamed into the thick, diesel-smelling smoke. “Can anyone hear me in there?”
I waited for voices.
There had to be voices. C’mon!
Moaning, shouting, screams for help, some evidence of life.
I shielded myself from the flames as I listened for somebody, anybody.
Nothing came back, no sound. That’s what I’ll always remember. That’s what will always haunt me.
The silence.
IT FELT AS THOUGH my heart didn’t move a beat. I just stood there listening, praying.
Somebody say something back to me. Shout! Scream for help!
All I heard was the crackle of flames, and all I saw was the dark gray smoke mushrooming through the bus. The scene was as still and desolate as a bloody battlefield after the fighting was done.
I covered my face with my hand and pushed my way down the aisle. Madness, but I had to do it. It was impossible to see. Somebody, a small woman, had been hurled against a side window and was twisted into a grotesque position. Others had died right in their seats. Clothing was burned off.
I recognized some of the faces. The writer was dead. So was the kindly-looking Hispanic woman who always knitted. Both had been roasted in their seats. Then I saw the red-haired guy who worked for Verizon, O’Flynn.
“Can anyone hear me?” I shouted. Only silence came back from the passengers.
I heard sirens outside. Emergency vehicles had arrived on the scene. Someone else, a policeman, stepped onboard. “Jesus, God.” He winced. “Is anyone alive?”
“I don’t think so.”
I tripped over some kind of mound. It turned out to be the body of the Jamaican mechanic, his clothes charred, his body crisp.
The thick, acrid smoke was starting to get to me. I coughed, pulled up my shirt, and covered my nose and mouth with folds of cloth.
“We better wait for the emergency people,” the cop called to me. He was right. There were noxious fumes and fire everywhere. The damned thing could go up at any time. I tried to see the back of the bus. There were no signs of life there either.
Then I heard something. A groan—more like a whimper.
Someone alive?
“FBI,” I shouted, fighting against the fumes. The smoke was blinding. “Where are you? Are you all right?”
I heard the voice again, just a murmur.
“I’m coming.”
Then I saw him. On the floor. It was the boy! He was in the fetal position underneath a seat. “Jarrod!” I bent down—I remembered his name. “Jarrod!”
I put my face down to his, as close as I could get. The floor was hot, steaming.
My stomach fell. The little boy was dead. His pink skin was black with horrible burns. I wanted to retch. I couldn’t help bringing up the image of his face just seconds before in the window as his mother waved to me. “I’m sorry, little guy.”
Then I heard it again. The whimper, soft and faint. Someone was alive.
I pushed over twisted metal and bodies to the very back of the bus. Vinyl seats and plastic panels were melting in flaming strips. The smoke clung to my skin, like scalding rubber.
I heard it close. “
Jarrod . . . Jarrod.
”
It was Andie DeGrasse. She was pinned beneath a metal support beam. Her hair was black. Her face was covered with blood. Her lips quivered. “
Jarrod . . . Jarrod.
” She kept calling for her son.
“Help is here,” I said, bending to her.
She was the only one alive.
RICHARD NORDESHENKO HEARD the tremendous blast. At precisely 2:03 p.m., from three blocks away. He felt the ground beneath him shudder, the earth slide. It was done.
He had instructed his limo to wait while he went inside an electronics store and purchased a gift for his son.
World Championship Poker.
Nordeshenko had heard similar explosions before. The
double
concussion. The ground shaking. Like an earthquake, actually. The store clerk looked confused. Nordeshenko knew what had happened. Nezzi had taken no chances. There was enough C-4 in that van to do the job three times over.
Nordeshenko tucked the package under his arm and left the store. He looked forward to getting home. He had a few gifts for his son: an iPod and the new computer poker program that he knew would delight the boy. And earrings for his wife from New York’s Diamond District.
His work here was over, and it couldn’t have gone any better.
He had already received a message about his Swiss account. More than two million dollars. There were still a few more payments that had to be made. But he had earned every penny. He would take it easy for a while when he returned home.
“What the hell was that?” the limo driver said, looking back toward Foley Square as Nordeshenko climbed back in the car.
“I don’t know. Some kind of explosion. Maybe a fuel line.” The scent of gasoline and cordite hung in the air.
They heard sirens. Two police cars rushed past them toward the courthouse, lights flashing.
“Something’s happened!” the driver exclaimed, turning on the news. “This is not good.”
Nordeshenko looked back and saw a cloud of black smoke rise up above the buildings, coming from directly behind them.
He placed the gift for his son in his traveling case. Two rings came from his cell phone—Reichardt and Nezzi were safely away now.
“Let’s go,” he said to the driver. “We’ll listen on the way. I have a plane to catch.”
SHE OPENED HER EYES very slowly.
She felt no pain. Just woozy and unreal. She was here—but she wasn’t. A leaden pressure was in her chest. Where was she? What had happened? Tubes were coming out of her, attached everywhere. She tried to move but couldn’t.
Nothing. No power over her own body. Was she paralyzed? How had it happened?
Then Andie began to panic. Something very heavy and bulky was blocking her throat. Making her gag. She couldn’t speak because of the obstruction.
A nurse came in. Just the look on the nurse’s face told her.
Something terrible has happened. What?
“Andie. Don’t try to talk, sweetheart. There’s a tube down your throat to help you breathe. You’re in Bellevue Hospital. You’ve been in surgery. You’re going to be okay.”
Andie made herself nod, eyes flicking wildly around the room. The
hospital
room.
Then it started to come back to her.
The jurors’ bus. She had been on the bus. A gray van had pulled up. . . .
That’s when the panic started to grip her chest again. Her eyes darted anxiously toward the nurse.
What happened next?
She tried to speak again, but could only cough and gag. Her fingers found the nurse’s hand somehow. She managed to grab two fingers. She held on as tight as she could.
My son . . . Where is Jarrod?
“Please.” The nurse squeezed back. “Try and stay calm now, Andie.”
She knew something horrible had happened, something unbelievable. She tried to sound out Jarrod’s name, but her air passage was blocked. And her mouth was as dry as sandpaper.
Please, please, my son.
But something was forcing her to close her eyes, and Andie couldn’t fight it.
WHEN SHE OPENED HER EYES again, someone else was standing there. She blinked sleepily.
FBI. The one with the smile.
But he wasn’t smiling now. Actually, he looked terrible.
Memories of what had happened began flashing in her mind. The bus stopped at a red light. Then the van. The two men running away. She had reached out and tugged Jarrod close to her.
Jarrod?
Her eyes went back to the FBI man. She tried to scream out her son’s name.
Please, don’t you understand? Can’t you read it in my eyes?
He just looked at her and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry?
she repeated to herself. It took a moment to register.
What is he saying? Sorry for what?
She felt him place his fingers lightly on her hand. Then a squeeze. His touch told her everything.
It was rushing back at her now. Her panic when she saw the men running from the van. The terrible explosion. Then she was thrown back. She remembered calling Jarrod’s name over and over.
Her body spasmed in shock now.
Andie felt something burn a path down her cheek.
This can’t be real. This can’t have happened.
The FBI man wiped away her tear.
She still hadn’t been told what happened. They didn’t have to tell her now. She knew. She could see it in his eyes.
Oh, my poor Jarrod.
Tears began streaming down Andie’s cheeks, and she had the feeling that they would never stop.
THEY DON’T USUALLY ALLOW anyone inside the cell blocks at this time of night, even law enforcement. Tonight, I was on my own.
“Nick, it’s late,” said Trevor Ellis, who was in charge of the sixth-floor cell block, where witnesses and defendants were held in the Manhattan County Jail. We passed through the electronic doors together. Only the night crew was around.
There was a guard at the desk, checking monitors. Trevor nodded for him to take a break. “I’m okay with Agent Pellisante here. Get some coffee.”
“It’s official business,” I told Trevor. We walked some more, then stopped at the end of the corridor. Cavello’s cell was cordoned off, at the very end of the long wing.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” Ellis looked at me.