Checkmate (35 page)

“Say again?” Glenn tapped the button on his radio. “Can you repeat that?”

“We're sending another engine toward you on your line,” the dispatcher told him. “You need to jump before you get to the Cathouse Signal.”

He knew M343 wasn't braking like it should, but—

He checked, and, to put it lightly, at the speed they were going, it was going to be a rough landing.

But it was better than hitting another engine, derailing, or blowing up.

“Just a little slower,” he told Louis, “and then we need to go for it.”

+ + + +

I watched as an engine started out of the rail yard and entered the line that paralleled the stadium.

My pilot swiveled the helicopter around, and I could see M343 coming from the other direction. From here I couldn't tell its speed, but it obviously wasn't going to stop in time.

Two men were standing on the sides of the engine as it traveled along the tracks. One leapt off, hit the ground, and rolled. Moments later, the other jumped, hit the ground. And lay still.

+ + + +

As he drove, Kurt Mason had been monitoring the breaking news on the radio.

The news anchor seemed baffled. “It appears there is
now another engine on the tracks, heading toward M343. I have no idea what's . . .”

Kurt pulled over and stared at the skyline as he realized what they were trying to do.

+ + + +

We radioed to get paramedics over to help the two men who'd leapt from M343. The engineer who'd started the solo engine in the rail yard had also jumped. He looked fine.

His unmanned engine passed the stadium toward the pressure-release mechanism and then crossed it.

And that's when the tracks blew.

The initial explosion sent debris flying hundreds of feet into the air and initiated a ripple of other explosions underground, causing a section of earth the size of two football fields to collapse.

As the mineshafts and tunnels of the Saint Catherine Mine blew, they swallowed that unmanned engine and the tracks behind it.

Black, bottomless-looking holes opened up at various places in the fresh wound marring the city as the long-abandoned shafts that had been capped off in the 1900s broke open.

The tracks in front of the engine that had vanished into the earth bowed and rippled as the shock wave rolled through the ground; then M343 hit the fractured section of tracks and its three lead engines derailed. The first two dropped into the rift and exploded, sending a thick, black cloud erupting into the sky.

The coupling of the third engine snapped and the engine plowed off the tracks, causing a pileup of the cars behind it. First, the buffer cars slid sideways, accordion style, as they jumped the tracks one by one. Then the tankers began to derail, colliding with the cars in front of them. Two tank cars smashed sidelong into each other.

One tanker rolled and sheared off the valves inside the protective housing, and immediately a cloud of thick white vapor spewed from it in a quickly expanding plume.
The wind caught hold of it and carried it toward the stadium.

More freight cars folded up alongside the anhydrous ammonia tankers, tipping sideways off the track.

The overpass didn't crumble immediately, but seemed to do so in slow motion as its concrete supports shuddered and then cracked apart as the ground under their foundations broke open.

Since traffic had been stopped on both sides of the overpass, no cars were on top of it when it fell, but it smashed down violently onto a couple of M343's freight cars. A huge cloud of dust and debris billowed up from the impact.

Scores of people were trying to get out of the path of the dense vapor cloud. Thousands were covering their mouths as they rushed to get out of the way.

“Take us back to the hospital,” I told the pilot soberly. “You're going to be needing this helicopter.”

We landed, I stepped off the chopper, and the pilot immediately took off again to be available to transport victims back here to the hospital.

The wind from the rotors rushed past me, and then, as the sound of the helicopter's motor faded, the whine of emergency-vehicle sirens from all across Charlotte's Uptown filled the void.

Fire-suppression units, paramedics, police.

All en route.

I stood there for a long moment on the landing pad, listening to them.

Within minutes, the first victims would be starting to come in.

My phone vibrated: a text from Ralph:
8 pounds, 7 ounces. 20 inches long. Name: Tryphena. Mom and baby are doing fine.
There was an attached photo of Tryphena in her pink hat.

Tryphena.

Delicate.

Hmm. Eight pounds, seven ounces of delicate.

I wondered if Ralph knew what had just happened in Charlotte. The last I'd heard he was in the OR with Brin, and now, based on his text, it didn't appear he was aware of what was going on here.

I texted him congratulations and asked him to let Lien-hua and Tessa know that I was alright. I ended the message by telling him to turn on the news.

Taking a deep breath, I attempted to relax the tension in my chest, to get rid of the twisted feeling I had in my gut, but it didn't work.

I tried telling myself that we'd stopped this, that we'd acted in time, that we'd avoided the worst possible outcome, but I wasn't happy about the one we'd ended up with.

Undoubtedly, the vapor cloud was much smaller than it would have been if we hadn't taken action. We'd been able to get people out of harm's way, no cars were on the I-277 overpass when it gave way, and no one was on any of the engines when they derailed—although I was concerned about the man I'd seen jump from M343 who'd landed and then lay unmoving by the side of the track.

However, despite what we'd accomplished, Kurt Mason was still free; Richard Basque had slipped through my fingers; and, by agreeing to leave him alone with Mason, I felt like I'd compromised the very thing Lien-hua had exhorted me not to—my integrity.

Additionally, Mason had told me the climax was coming tonight. So if he was telling the truth, there was still something waiting on the horizon.

I walked to the edge of the landing pad and, watching the rising vapor cloud envelop the stadium, I listened to the cacophony of emergency-service vehicles racing to the site.

It was time.

Before things got any worse, I needed to call Margaret and tell her the truth about what had happened earlier today between Basque and me.

Washington, DC

In her office at FBI Headquarters, Director Margaret Wellington listened in silence as Agent Bowers recounted the details of his encounter with Richard Devin Basque earlier that afternoon. “Given the circumstances,” he said, “I should have called you.”

“And what kind of deal did you make with him to avail yourself of the information he was offering regarding Kurt Mason's location?”

“I told him I would leave him alone with Kurt.”

“You were going to leave the two of them alone?”

“That's right. It was a snap decision. And it was the wrong one.”

She sorted through what he'd said. “But from what you're telling me, Basque would work only with you, and it's only because of his help that you were able to locate Mason's house, learn about the timing, and prevent what might have been one of the worst train disasters in US history.”

“You're saying what? That Basque helped us save people's lives?”

“Not Basque, no, but the chain of events that he was a part of—and that you were a part of—yes.”

Patrick was silent.

“These issues will obviously need to be reviewed by
the Office of Professional Responsibility. Until then, you're on administrative leave.”

“Administrative leave?”

“Yes.”

“What about Mason and Basque?”

“Law enforcement down there will take care of that. I want you back in DC.”

“When?”

“Tonight. We'll sort things out first thing Monday morning. Be in my office at eight o'clock sharp.”

+ + + +

I hung up with Margaret.

That had actually gone better than I'd expected. I'd thought she might ask for my resignation on the spot.

Okay, so administrative leave. I could work with that. I might not have carte blanche regarding the investigation, but it didn't mean my brain was on vacation.

And there were still a few things I needed to take care of.

+ + + +

Margaret hung up and mulled over her next step.

Earlier in the afternoon, she'd discovered that indeed it was National Security Council Representative Pierce Jennings who'd been leaking details to the press. Her people had uncovered phone calls from him to one of Cable Broadcast News's political correspondents before the Bureau had officially released any details about the crimes this week to the press.

Why was he doing it?

Margaret didn't know.

She guessed power or money—in matters like this it was usually one or the other. She could look into that later. Right now she had a lot more to worry about in dealing with the incident in Charlotte than in dealing with Pierce Jennings in DC.

+ + + +

I thought about calling Lien-hua and Tessa to tell them I
was coming back to Washington, but opted to just text them instead.

Before leaving the hospital, I stopped by Mitzner's room. He was still unconscious. I told the officers guarding him that the minute he was able to speak, they needed to find out what they could from him about how Basque had envenomated him.

I checked with admitting and learned that the engineer and conductor from M343 were a little banged up from jumping off the train, but they were going to be alright. One of the men had a broken ankle, but that was the worst of it.

The engineer who'd started the engine from the rail yard was fine.

So we had at least a little good news.

Right now there was nothing more for me to do here at the hospital. There wasn't anything for me to do at the site of the wreck, either—it was all up to the fire chief and hazmat crews to evacuate the area and knock down that vapor cloud of anhydrous ammonia. Local and regional law enforcement would take care of security around the stadium.

When I made my way to the hospital's main entrance, the ambulances were starting to arrive with victims suffering the effects of inhaling the cloud of anhydrous ammonia.

The car that Voss had provided me with was still Uptown where I'd left it before my meeting with Basque. Getting into or out of Uptown was going to be nearly impossible.

However, the cruiser I'd borrowed to get to the hospital was here in the parking lot. I could use that for now. They could always pick it up from the airport later, after I'd boarded my plane.

*   *   *

Back at the hotel, I made arrangements to get on the earliest available flight, but it didn't leave Charlotte until after seven thirty, which meant that by the time I flew to DC, landed, and got out of the airport, it would be almost nine o'clock.

I flipped on the news while I packed my things.

They were talking about an anhydrous ammonia leak back in 2002 in Minot, North Dakota, and how it compared to this event today. Back then, emergency services told people to shelter in place—to stay in their houses and shut off their home heating systems to keep the vapor from being drawn indoors. And they told them to go into the bathrooms and, if they could smell the ammonia, to turn on the shower, and to wet washcloths and lay them over their mouths.

Well, that wasn't going to happen with all the people outside for Fan Celebration Day.

That day in North Dakota there'd been one fatality, dozens needed to be treated and nearly twelve thousand people were caught in the path of the vapor cloud.

I prayed that today we would get by without anyone being fatally affected by the anhydrous ammonia spill—the one, that, in a butterfly-effect sort of way, I was responsible for.

+ + + +

Earlier that afternoon when Richard Basque had fled from Patrick, he hadn't known whether or not the MRI magnet would disrupt the nanobot sensors, but it was a chance he'd been willing to take.

He'd been expecting an ankle bracelet. He'd been prepared for that, but Patrick had surprised him.

Given more time he would've liked to research things
a bit more in depth, but it looked like it had all worked out in the end.

With all those nanobots in his bloodstream, entering the MRI room had been excruciating——almost like thousands of needles piercing him all at once, trying to get out. It'd hurt like nothing he'd ever experienced before.

But, in the service of avenging his sister's death, it was worth it.

He hadn't found any clues as to Mason's whereabouts in his Fourth Ward home in the brief time he'd been in there while Patrick chased Mason around the back, but based on his previous conversations with him and the story he knew Mason was telling, Richard figured that at this point his best bet would probably be to head to DC.

Patrick had asked him if the climax would be in the afternoon or tonight. The only way he would have asked that question was if Mason had mentioned a timeline to him.

So, now, using the car he'd stolen from a mall parking lot, Richard headed north. No, he hadn't been able to corner Mason in Charlotte, but if he was right in what he was thinking, he would find him in the nation's capital tonight.

+ + + +

I left the hotel and parked at the Charlotte Field Office.

Voss wasn't there—he was on-site over at the stadium, working with the hazmat incident commander. In fact, almost everyone was gone from the Field Office and there was only a skeleton crew here.

I left the nanobot-tracking sensor, the body armor, the cell phone I'd borrowed from the police officer at the home Mason had rented, Ingersoll's automatic knife, and the Glock, with the agent at the front desk. I made arrangements for one of the agents to pick up the cruiser I was driving to the airport. Since my driver's license and creds were still at the bottom of the mine shaft, I pulled some paperwork together to get me through airport security.

Then, distracted by my thoughts about Mason and Basque, I left for the Charlotte Douglas International Airport to fly back home.

+ + + +

Kurt Mason was impressed.

Yes, the Semtex had exploded. Yes, the mine had collapsed. Yes, the freeway overpass had fallen, and one of the tankers had released some of its contents, but if the news reports were correct, there had been no fatalities.

Patrick had managed to stop M343 before it would have blown as it crossed the pressure sensor.

It was good work, but this had always been about more than just the train wreck and the chemical spill. That was part of it, yes, an important part, but so were the textile plant and the mine. And it was that broader story that mattered more than the number of casualties.

Anonymous people die anonymous deaths every day. But their lives, their deaths, don't always mean anything, unless they're part of something bigger.

However, tonight the people who were going to die would be remembered. Their names were going to live on in posterity after the website went live.

There was still the final act of the story, the one that would tie everything together, the one that, in retrospect, Patrick and his team would see was the place where everything had been heading all along.

And that act would take place tonight at nine thirty in Washington,
DC.