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  The car moved slowly, weaving between the debris. He watched it. Black Mustang, late model, and no license plate. Red flag. Only amateurs would remove a plate. Too easy to get pulled over for a routine traffic stop. Not smart, if they were smart they would have switched plates, stolen plates. They reached the corner, turned left; both men were looking back at the destruction, looking back at Dwyer. Neither man was smiling. The car disappeared.

  The pretty woman stepped over a body. Grabbed Dwyer's arm tight. He looked at her. She was looking at the pain around her. Dwyer glanced back at the corner. The bad guys had left. He turned a chair right side up. She sat down. Held her head in her hands. Then she did something. She screamed, then a second time. She looked up at him. Her eyes calm, in control.

  "What the hell happened?" she said.

  "Dwyer, Jack Dwyer." he said.

  She looked him over. He watched her eyes as she sized him up.

  "Kelly Paul."

  "Car bomb," Dwyer said.

  "Bomb?"

  "Van was detonated. It was parked by the curb," Dwyer said. "Nice to meet you."

  He was sizing her up. Narrow face, delicate features, big eyes, and blue eyes. Perfect lips. Good looking, forty-five, maybe forty-six. He liked what she was wearing. The clothes fit well. Black knit dress, tight, shoes to match. Kind of overdressed for sitting in Starbucks. Professional; doctor, lawyer, maybe on lunch.

  Dwyer heard a siren. Ambulance was approaching fast. Right in front of it a fire truck. First responders. They arrive first in an emergency. Dwyer knew this. Fire stations are strategically located around a city, not random. They can respond to a situation in four minutes, the critical time to save a life. Medical support teams are attached to a hospital; not as strategic, usually take longer.

  "I need to get out of here," she said.

  A determined woman, not weak. Dwyer looked at her. She seemed rational. His focus shifted to the fire truck. He could feel her staring at him. He glanced back. She looked away. Looking up and down the street. Searching.

  "Go where?" he said. "You running from something?"

  "You saw what happened," she said. "You said it yourself. It was a bomb."

  "That's right," he said. "The guy that did this is gone. Now it's the medic's turn to check us out."

  He looked at his clothes. Started brushing himself off. Chances of a second bomb going off are rare. He looked left, down the street nothing parked close. Looked right, clear for one hundred and twenty feet, maybe one hundred and fifty.

  "Why do you think I'm running," the woman said.

  She was staring at him again.

  "The bomb was for you,” he said. “They were amateurs, they messed up."

  She was watching him, his eyes. The way he moved. She was confident. Thinking. Wondering who this guy was who saved her life.

  "You were the target," he said. "Don't think they wanted to kill you."

  She tilted her head. Kept eye contact.

  "You saved my life," she said. "I wasn't planning to be here."

  "The guy spotted you," Dwyer said. "He signaled to someone."

  "You called them amateurs?" she asked.

  "You're still alive," he said. "That says it right there. It was an easy operation. Big bomb, covers a large area. Don't have to be precise. If they were pros you'd be dead. They'd have a back-up plan, a shooter, and sniper. That's what I would have done."

  "A back-up plan?" she asked.

  "You did something unexpected," Dwyer said. "Let's assume you work next door. You're there everyday. Maybe get to work early morning, eat lunch inside. You don't usually go out. Probably leave work same time everyday. But today you did something different. They weren't prepared for that. That's obvious right? You're still alive, no back-up plan."

  Dwyer shrugged his shoulders and looked around. Medics and firefighters were attending to the injured.

  "It was your lucky day. You aren't dressed for work. Maybe you're a doctor, or a lawyer. You were going somewhere, meeting someone. You've got some position of influence or power and somebody wants you dead."

  She looked at him. Still wondering who he was.

  "What if I said you're all wrong?"

  He looked at the blown up van.

  "The bomb was only part of the plan. It was a big bomb, daytime when people are working which meant they didn't care how many they killed. They had been watching you; routine was what they expected. The way you're dressed, not for the office. You were meeting someone. Sitting waiting. You kept looking around expecting someone to show up."

  She stood up.

  "Who were you waiting for?" he asked.

  "My son," Kelly said. "Still don't see him."

  "So I was right?” he asked.

  "You're observant." She said. "I'm here on business. Family business. Got a voicemail from Jimmy, my son, said he had something important to talk to me about. Said he would be here this morning."

  "Said he would meet you here?"

  "No, I thought I would surprise him. You know coffee, lunch. Haven't seen him in awhile."

  "What kind of business?" Dwyer asked.

  She looked at the building across the street.

  "Just investments," she said.

  "Investments," he said. "Stocks, property. You buying something someone doesn’t like. Who doesn't like what you're doing?"

  She looked at him. Then at the people around her.

  "I need to help," she said.

  He followed her eyes. The medics were busy so were the firemen. But she didn't answer the question. Cautious.

  She started to move toward the medics.

  Dwyer touched her arm.

  "You all right?" he asked. "Who wants to harm you?"

  She paused, like she wanted to say something. Like she wanted to tell him something important. She glanced to the side, to nowhere. Thinking, searching her brain.

  She looked at his eyes.

  "I don't know."

  She moved carefully, stepping over chairs and tables.

  He watched her walk away. He watched her talk to a medic and just like that she was helping.

  Chapter 4

  The guy was calm. A big police officer waving his hands, directing everyone like he knew what he was doing. Backup was arriving in a steady stream. Police cars, barricades and he was pointing, moving his hands. It was a symphony; well rehearsed. Everyone played his or her part. Sirens drowned out the moaning. Dust and debris settled on everyone's face. Panic had turned to rescue.

  A medical technician approached the pretty woman. He hurried along, looking for the wounded. She stood up. Her hands were red, bloody, not hers. She was working doing her job, saving lives, helping the injured. She glanced at Dwyer. The technician asked if he was with her. She responded, moving her head like she was agreeing with something.

  The med tech led the way. The pretty woman followed. They walked toward Dwyer and stood in front of him.

  "The woman says you got hit with something, the stomach," he said. "Both of you need to go to the hospital."

  He said the line with authority. Had definitely done this before. Dwyer didn't say anything; he knew he was right. A blow to the abdomen could mean internal bleeding, could mean a lot of things. You don't feel bad, not at first, no real discomfort. Stomach starts to bloat, no pain. But you know something's wrong. Then you get weak. Blood pressure drops, you pass out and things get serious.

  "Okay. Let's go," he said.

  They walked to the sidewalk then to the back of an ambulance. A small group was there, eight maybe ten people. They'd walked past the seriously injured, people bleeding, people dying. Dwyer looked left, a tent was set up on the road. The injured were covered with blankets. Medical personnel hunched over them. Everyone was busy. It didn't seem right to Dwyer that they were going to the hospital, he wasn't that hurt. Shook up, but not injured. Not hospital injured.

  Someone in white with a clipboard, a woman took down their names. She took down everyone's name. The lined moved.
A police car pulled up. The back doors opened, three people got in. The line moved again. Another car pulled up. The pretty woman, Kelly Paul, and Jack Dwyer got in.

  "Is this necessary?" Dwyer asked. "The hospital; others should go before us."

  "The serious have to be stabilized first. An ambulance will take them."

  "Still not right," Dwyer said.

  "Were you in an explosion? Got hit with something. Blood running out of your ears?"

  Dwyer leaned forward trying to look in the front seat mirror. He tilted his head from side to side. He saw it, a small trickle. He glanced at Kelly.

  "You look all right," he said. "How are you feeling?"

  She smiled at him and looked down at her leg.

  "Got a piece of metal in there. I need to get it out," she said.

  Dwyer glanced down. "You're tough. It looks painful"

  She hid it well Dwyer thought. Pretty women don't deal with pain. Not the ones he'd met. He was single, never married. Liked being single, didn't think he would make a good husband. He had dated a lot of women. It never worked out, mostly his fault as he liked to move around. Liked his own place. Never liked opening a drawer to find woman's clothing. Made him feel like he was owned. That's when he would check out, mentally.

  They sat in the back seat, the worn out leather making noise from each bump they hit. They bounced around. The car was new, but springs were shot. The first three hundred maybe four hundred feet were slow. Cars were lined up along the road, police, medical and everyone in uniforms, some Dwyer had never seen before. They sped up. He didn't know where they were going. They passed a hospital on the left but kept moving. If they were headed north, there was another hospital about a half-mile ahead. The university was surrounded by them. He figured the first hospital was taking casualties and overwhelmed.

  The car slowed at the next intersection. Slow enough to turn right and then it sped up. Dwyer saw the hospital entrance to the right. They turned in, slowed down to ten miles per hour, and thumped over a speed bump coming to a stop at the emergency entrance. Kelly Paul grabbed her leg. She winced. It was red from her knee to her ankle.

  Dwyer heard the sliding doors open and saw a man in white walking toward them from the right. He peered into the window. Then his side door opened.

  "How bad are you?" the man asked.

  Dwyer shrugged and looked at Kelly Paul.

  "She needs medical, right leg, shrapnel wound."

  He turned toward the emergency doors and yelled.

  "Wheelchair!"

  Another guy in white appeared, pushing a wheelchair and went around the back of the car. Kelly's door was open. Big cop standing there, smiling, eyeing the pretty woman. He reached in and helped Kelly out of the backseat. Kelly grimaced; she was in pain. She shot Dwyer a look. He was watching her; she smiled.

  Dwyer got out. He didn't need a wheelchair and walked into the emergency room.

  The first guy in white gestured with his hand to the left. Dwyer looked around the room; it was full. There was an empty seat against the far wall wedged in beside a plant. When he turned back, Kelly Paul was being pushed down the corridor. He watched until she disappeared around the corner and then he took the seat.

  Dwyer looked around the room. Nobody seriously injured, some blood but nothing that required a first rate emergency room doctor. There were fifteen people in the room. He counted each one, figuring out their story, who they were what they were doing. Innocent bystanders, kind of thing you see on the news and now it was happening here, right here in America. They were mostly young people, mostly women. Students hanging out at Starbucks.

  It had been an hour and only three people had seen a nurse. Dwyer examined himself. Pulled his shirt out from his pants and slid his hand across his stomach. Firm, tight hard knot. Two young girls sitting across from him were watching. He ignored the girls. He opened the bottom two buttons. Saw a red welt, no blood, nothing to worry about. Tucked his shirt back in.

  The ears were a different story. Three small bones. The bleeding had stopped, maybe ruptured during the blast. But whatever it was, he could hear. There was a ringing, kind of bothersome. Like when someone smacks your head. The air pressure compresses the eardrum causing some pain, swelling, sometimes you bleed. This was one of those moments.

  The wait lasted most of the afternoon because of the number of casualties and the care they were getting. Dwyer was in his chair against the wall in the corner. He saw a police cruiser pull up to the front door. They sat there for a minute, two of them in the car. Dwyer was watching them. They hopped out and stood by their vehicle talking to one of the orderlies. They kept turning toward Dwyer. He kept watching them. One of the police officers adjusted his leather belt, pulling it up higher above his belly. His right hand found his sidearm. Then two more cops appeared, guns drawn. The orderly turned, he was looking directly at Dwyer. The four cops did the same.

  Dwyer glanced left then right. Considering his options. Escape wasn't an option.

  They were moving fast when they burst through the emergency entrance doors.

  Dwyer was watching them. He sat back in his chair. Crossed his legs, remained calm. There were two other people in the waiting room. An old couple. They weren't coming for them. He knew they were coming for him.

  Chapter 5

  The first two police officers came straight toward Jack Dwyer. The other two separated, one to the left using the corner of the hallway as cover. The other went right. He crouched behind an empty chair and pointed his pistol. It was squarely aimed at Dwyer's chest. The triangular area that's most lethal, chin down to the middle of the left and right ribs. They were trained well, very precise. They moved fast. Deliberate. Like they had rehearsed this.

  Dwyer was trapped. Cornered with a wall on each side. The cops had him; he couldn't run. But there was no need to. The first two officers came to a halt in front of Dwyer. He made eye contact with them. Let them know they had his attention. Part of it was for himself. He wanted to know who they were. Understand them, their intention. So far they did this right. Good planning, neither one of them were in the direct line of fire from their two backups.

  He’d seen the same tactical maneuvers before when he was sitting in a bar a few years ago in Baghdad. He was watching the street, watching people. He was on a mission looking for suicide bombers and he was to spot them before they had a chance to blow themselves and half the street apart. He was out of uniform. The bar owner got nervous with a guy sitting watching everyone and called the security forces. They ran in with their guns pulled just like the local cops were doing now in Florida.

  "Don't move!" one of them yelled.

  Dwyer hadn't planned to.

  One of the cops stepped forward. His face was red, tense. He moved slowly, expecting Dwyer might do something.

  "Hands in the air."

  Dwyer moved carefully. This is the moment when things go wrong. Everyone is nervous. He raised his hands. He scanned the area without being obvious. Used his peripheral vision. Took the next moment to survey the situation. The guy crouching down was fidgeting, moving his body. He wasn't steady like the rest of the team. Maybe he was new, overexcited. He could easily have slipped up, fired a round by mistake. That would set them off. They would open fire. Twenty, thirty rounds at close range. Not a good thing. The guy at the corner, with the shotgun was steady. Dwyer could see the over and under barrel and it wasn't moving. The guy had his body weight leaning forward. Normally, if a shooter pulls the trigger, the momentum of the blast sends the gun up and pushes the shooter backward. But he had his weight into it and would avoid this; his fingers tight on the wooden stock. He controlled the situation.

  The cop doing the yelling had moved forward. Another step and he would be in the strike zone of the shotgun. Dwyer thought about it. He could reach out, grab the cop in mid step. He would be off balance, maybe surprised. He could hit the cop in the throat. Spin him around. The cop with the shotgun wouldn't fire; he could kill his partner. The guy c
rouching was too nervous. He'd wait; wait until he was sure of himself. It would leave the fourth cop and that was the problem. He had his gun pulled. He could squeeze off a round, maybe two. Shoot the legs from someone and they go down, hurts like hell when a lead slug shatters the tibia. Takes the fight right out of them. Dwyer decided to do what he was told.

  "Stand up, turn around, hands behind your back," the officer screamed.

  Dwyer raised himself from the chair. Kept his eye on the police officer doing all the yelling. He didn't want anything stupid to happen.

  He turned around slowly. To his right, he caught the old couple holding onto each other, scared. Their faces were white, all screwed up. They didn't know what was happening.

  "Spread your legs."

  He was doing that. He knew the routine.

  Dwyer was facing the wall. Opened his legs. Heard movement behind him and felt cold metal around his wrists. Then he heard the click of handcuffs snapping shut. More movement, hands on his elbows. Forceful, big hands. One of the cops, patting him down was kind of rough. Had an attitude. Car keys, wallet, some loose change and a cell phone. The iPad was lost in the explosion. He was clean, no weapons.

  "Turn around."

  Dwyer looked at him, keeping eye contact.

  The cops had put their guns away. Two of them held Dwyer by the elbows one on each side.

  "What's your name?"

  "Dwyer, Jack Dwyer."

  The cop, the one doing all the talking wrote it down. He nodded to the chair behind Dwyer. One of the cops pushed him down. Same chair as he was sitting in before. Then the cop in charge pressed his microphone, it was attached to his collar. It was loud, lots of static. He spoke into it, kind of yelled.