Chris listened to the constant crackling chatter through the headset. There had been no sightings of the dually or the pickup, according to the bulletins from the Philadelphia police and the other federal agencies, all with their own lingo and codes, telling the story of a major American city under terrorist threat, unfolding in real time. The public had been just been notified of a credible bomb threat on the federal courthouse, and Homeland Security had issued a severe threat level for the City of Philadelphia, shutting down the airport, and train, subway, and bus lines.
The Ben Franklin, Walt Whitman, Betsy Ross, and Tacony-Palmyra Bridges had been closed, and cars stuck on the bridge at the time of the closure were being escorted off by Philly and Port Authority police. The federal courthouse and all municipal offices and courts had been closed, and all employees, judges, staff, personnel, and jurors evacuated. People flooded the streets and sidewalks in panic, waiting their turn to be bused to shelters uptown. But none of this could be accomplished quickly, and tens of thousands of people were terrified, frantic, and in mortal jeopardy.
Tony looked over, eyes narrowed. “You seeing anything below?”
“No.” Chris watched the traffic as they flew over I-95 south, six lanes of wall-to-wall traffic, the drivers honking in fear and driving erratically as they fled the city. A fleet of Black Hawks and bigger helos from JTTF, FBI, and the Philly police filled the sky, searching the highway traffic, main streets, side streets, and parking lots for the dually and the pickup.
“This is JTTF. Pilot, identify yourself,” crackled an authoritative voice in the headset.
Tony looked over. “Tony Arroyo. I’m a subcontractor for DEA.”
“Who are you with, Arroyo?”
“Special Agent Curt Abbott, ATF.”
“Special Agent Abbott, do you copy? We were told you returned to base.”
“Negative,” Chris said, and just then, the voice was overridden by an urgent voice through the headset:
“Subject vehicles sighted at Ninth and Race Streets, heading east.” Suddenly the headset exploded with orders, reactions, and sightings, a frenzied cacophony of official business as every helo in the air and vehicle on the ground started barking orders, notifications, and alerts.
“They found them!” Chris said, his heart pumping.
“Copy that. We’re on.” Tony steered the helo eastward. The other helos turned and headed east as if on cue.
Chris and Tony’s helo was among the closest and they beelined for Race Street, flying over the concrete complex of buildings that was Hahnemann Hospital, then the Roundhouse, Philadelphia police headquarters. They zoomed east on Race Street and fell into formation with the other helos in hot pursuit.
Chris scanned the city streets. He didn’t see the dually or pickup. Traffic was being stopped in a ten-block radius around Race Street. Race Street was in the process of being cleared by police cruisers blaring their sirens, herding motorists off the street or to the curb.
Chris scanned the city streets as they descended, flying over Chinatown, which was bisected by Race Street. They flew directly over the ornate red-and-green gate that was the entrance to Chinatown, then zipped over Ninth, Eighth, Seventh, and Sixth Streets, where Chris spotted the police chase and felt his heart leap into his throat.
“There!” Chris pointed to the black dually and pickup, careening down Race Street at high speed. Blue-and-white Philadelphia police cruisers, boxy black SUVs from JTTF, FBI, and ATF, and emergency vehicles raced after them at top speed. Adrenaline surged through Chris’s system.
“Uh-oh.” Tony shook his head. “They’re not turning for the courthouse. They’re heading for the Ben Franklin Bridge.”
“The bridge is full of traffic.” Chris felt his heart sink, looking at the Ben Franklin, the massive blue suspension bridge arching over the Delaware River. Cars, trucks, and BOLT buses sat stopped across its span like a parking lot.
Meantime, the Shanks kept trading positions on the street, sometimes driving side by side, sometimes one leading the other.
“This does not look good.” Tony clenched his jaw.
“Stay with the dually.” Chris saw with horror that one of the unmarked helos was aiming a long gun out of the window, a sniper getting ready to take a shot.
“No!” Chris cried out, too late. The rapid popping of gunfire filled the air. He looked below on the street, stricken. Bullets ripped through the pickup. It zigzagged down Race Street and crashed into a line of parked cars.
Tony said grimly, “They’re shooting to kill.”
Chris said into the headset. “This is ATF, Special Agent Abbott. Do not fire on the dually. Repeat, do not fire on the dually. The dually contains a fertilizer bomb. Firing on the dually will result in its detonation and drastic loss of life and property.”
“Special Agent Abbott?” several voices replied, crackling with static. “To whom do you report?”
“Supervisor Alek Ivanov at the Philly Field Division, ATF. In the dually is domestic terrorist David or Jimmy Shank and also a hostage, minor Evan Kostis. I need to get the hostage out of there. If the bomb goes off on the bridge, you’re going to kill thousands of people and destroy the Ben Franklin Bridge. Do you copy?”
“Stand by,” “Negative,” “Affirmative,” came a torrent of replies, crackling with static.
Chris turned to Tony. “You got binoculars? I need to see inside the dually.”
“In the compartment at your feet.”
“Can you get me to the passenger side of the dually? I want to see if the boy is driving or in the passenger seat.” Chris opened the compartment, found the binoculars, and trained them on the dually as they bounced along.
“Going south, hang on.” Tony swung the helo around, provoking excited chatter in the headset, which Chris ignored.
“This is Special Agent Abbott, going in for a visual to determine location of the hostage and detonator.” Chris ignored the responding chatter and looked through the binoculars, trying to focus in the bumpy ride.
Suddenly he spotted Evan in the passenger seat, hair blowing back from his terrified expression. A large pink bruise distorted the right side of the boy’s face, swelling his right eye. Evan’s hands were handcuffed in front of him. He wasn’t holding the detonator. Chris tried to see if Shank had the detonator, but had no luck. There was no time to lose. A protective fury gripped Chris’s chest, the closest he’d experienced to a paternal feeling.
“This is Special Agent Abbott. Preparing to extract the hostage. The hostage does not have a detonator. Do not fire on the hostage or the dually. Repeat, do not fire on the hostage or the dually.” More excited chatter crackled through the headset, and Chris heard a few “copy thats” from the other helos. He turned to Tony. “You got a ladder?”
“Sure, behind your seat.”
“If I hang a ladder outside, can you get me down to that dually?” Chris climbed out of the seat and into the belly of the helo, opening the trunk and rummaging to find a rope ladder of yellow nylon.
“You’ll see the clips on the wall there.”
Chris located the clips, secured the ladder to the helo wall, and opened the door. Wind buffeted him crazily, but he grabbed the handle and righted himself, saying into the headset, “This is Special Agent Abbott. Deplaning to extract the hostage.”
Frenzied chatter came nonstop.
Chris looked over at Tony. “I’m going. Thanks.”
Tony nodded, tense. “I’ll keep talking to them. Go with God.”
“Thanks.” Chris slid off the headset, grabbed the ladder, and climbed out of the helo.
Chapter Fifty-six
Chris got hit full force by a powerful wind current. It almost blew him off the rung but he kept his grip. The ladder swayed sideways as their helo swept toward the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, a major span of seven lanes with a center divider heading to and from Camden, New Jersey. Two massive anchorages stood at either end of the bridge, and along the span were arches with lighted signs to shift l
anes in off-peak hours.
Chris climbed down the ladder, flying over the sign that read WELCOME TO THE BENJAMIN FRANKLIN BRIDGE, DELAWARE RIVER PORT AUTHORITY. Below him, the black dually barreled around the curve at Fifth Street onto the bridge. Tony steered their helo farther south, overshooting the dually, then circling back toward the city for the one pass that Chris would get to grab Evan.
Chris kept climbing down the ladder, buffeted by the wind and the wash from the other helos, circling like hornets. Again he spotted a long gun poking through the passenger-side seat of one of the helos.
He couldn’t stop them now. He could only hope that the gun was aimed at Shank and not Evan or the bomb. His feet reached the final rung, and he flew through the air at the end of the ladder.
Tony turned the helo west, then south to complete the circle, at the same time lining up with the dually.
Pandemonium broke out on the bridge. Drivers sprang from the parked cars and abandoned them, running for their lives toward the nearer side of the bridge.
Suddenly Chris realized that their helo was zooming toward one of the arches over the bridge, which would crush him. Tony jerked the helo upward just in time, sailing Chris over the top of the arch, but they’d missed their first pass.
The other helos circled or hovered, creating major turbulence, setting Chris swinging crazily on the ladder. He could barely manage to hang on.
Below, the dually barreled up the incline of the bridge. Shank started firing at the helos. The helos returned fire or jerked out of the way, evading the bullets. Chris was still armed, his Glock in his shoulder holster, held securely by the thumb break.
He kept his eyes on the dually as Tony began another pass, circling again to the north, then toward the west, and then south again, ultimately beginning his descent to the dually. It would be Chris’s last chance to save Evan.
He spotted another long gun poking through the back door of one of the larger Black Hawks. He intuited that they were waiting for him to get in position to take their shot. Meanwhile, Shank kept firing on them.
The dually sped to the summit of the bridge, and Chris kept an eye on Evan as Tony flew their helo closer, within fifty feet, then forty, then thirty.
Evan looked out the passenger-side window, spotting Chris, his eyes wild with fright. He shouted, “Help, Coach!”
The helo was twenty feet from the passenger side, then ten feet, and Chris could see Shank pull Evan away from the window.
The second arch of the bridge zoomed toward Chris at warp speed, and he made his move. It was do or die.
Chris linked his legs through the bottom rung of the ladder, flipped down and backwards, and reached both hands down. The ladder swung toward the dually with him facing away and upside down. Momentum carried him to the passenger side window. He arched his back and stretched out his hands toward Evan.
“Evan, catch!” Chris shouted, on the downswing.
Evan thrust his handcuffed arms out the passenger side of the dually and grabbed Chris’s arms.
Chris grabbed him back, gripping Evan’s arms as tightly as he could, and in the next moment Tony flew their helo up and away, lifting Evan from the speeding dually and clearing the second arch.
The air filled with a lethal barrage of automatic weapons fire. The snipers must have hit Shank. The dually veered to the left.
Chris secured his hold on Evan, straining with all his might to hold on to the boy as they flew through the air. Evan looked up with terror in his eyes, his hair blowing wildly, locking his fingers around Chris’s forearms.
“I got you!” Chris shouted to Evan.
Below, the dually barreled toward the cars that had been abandoned, parked every which way, along the north side of the bridge. Motorists scrambled safely out of its path.
Chris watched the scene unfold with his heart in his throat.
The dually headed straight for a Corvette and drove squarely onto its low front end, kept going onto its hood like a ramp, and took off over the side of the bridge. The dually soared away from the bridge into thin air, its wheels still spinning, then plummeted into the Delaware River.
Chris held his breath. There was a muffled boom. The fertilizer bomb exploded underwater, producing a massive bubble of white water and ripples in all directions. The bridge shuddered at the percussive wave, but the explosion was far enough from its anchorage not to damage them.
People fled toward both ends of the bridge, but none of them was harmed or injured.
“Yes!” Chris cheered inwardly, keeping a tight grip on Evan as Tony completed his final circle.
Flying them toward safety.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Their helo flew back toward the Philadelphia side of the bridge and descended slowly. The ladder dug into the back of Chris’s knees, cutting off his circulation and weakening his leg hold. The ache in his shoulders and arms intensified, supporting Evan’s weight.
Chris felt Evan grow heavier, as if the boy could no longer hold himself up, the handcuffs hobbling his grip. Chris formed his fingers in a vise, praying that they landed soon. He feared that Evan had been beaten, suffering internal injuries.
The street below was being hastily cleared and a makeshift helipad was being formed at the base of the bridge, in front of a small grassy park that contained a monument to Benjamin Franklin, a silvery lightning bolt piercing the sky. Their helo descended slowly, and Chris worried whether they’d clear the lightning bolt, but he had confidence in Tony, who’d more than proved his mettle.
Both Chris and Evan hung their heads, looking down at the chaos below. JTTF, FBI, and ATF vehicles, Philly and Port Authority police, firefighters in heavy coats, and EMTs and other emergency personnel clustered around a slew of fire trucks, ambulances, and a bloodmobile. There were SWAT team members in boxy paramilitary vehicles, white Bomb Squad trucks, and bystanders, gawkers, and other civilians, who must have left or been evacuated from their offices, businesses, and homes.
The helo dropped lower and lower, and each person watched the sky or held up a smartphone, iPad, or tablet to videotape the dramatic descent. A throng of reporters and media stood filming from white vans bearing network and cable-TV logos.
Chris realized that it was the biggest news story that had ever happened in the Philadelphia area and it was being recorded, filmed, and photographed by professional outlets as well as guys with flip phones. He looked back at the smartphones, lenses, and cameras with the sickening knowledge that he was blown. His undercover career was over. His face, his image, and his true identity would be posted online, shared, and broadcast everywhere around the country, maybe even the world, starting right now.
Chris Brennan/Curt Abbott was about to go viral, and there would be no more hiding in plain sight. No disguise would be good enough, not after today. Chris had saved Evan but he’d lost his job, and the only life he knew.
And it struck him that if he didn’t know who he really was, he was going to find out.
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chris didn’t release Evan from his grip until the boy’s feet touched the street, then all hell broke loose. Philadelphia police, JTTF, FBI and ATF agents, federal marshals, and EMTs rushed Evan from all directions, crouching to avoid the rotors and wash of the helo as it hovered above the street.
“Coach, Coach!” Evan shouted, as they hustled him away, his voice lost in the din of the rotors and blaring sirens.
“Get him to a hospital!” Chris shouted, as Evan was whisked into the nearest ambulance, its back doors hanging open at the ready.
Chris kept his grip on one side of the ladder, unhooked his legs from the rung, and swung his feet down to the street, righting himself as a noisy slew of official personnel engulfed him. He scanned the crowd for an ATF windbreaker, but there was too much of a commotion. The rotor wash subsided as Tony pulled the helo up and began his ascent, still trailing the yellow ladder.
Chris looked up, and Tony flashed him an okay sign, then climbed higher and steered northwa
rd.
“Special Agent Abbott, come with us, this way!” shouted one of the Philly police, barely audible over the din. “Special Agent Abbott, this way! There’s a command post at the United States Attorney’s office. We’ve been instructed to take you there unless you require medical attention.”
“I’m fine, let’s go!” Chris shouted back, jostled in the crowd, and the cadre of police whisked him to a waiting cruiser surrounded by more cruisers, emergency vehicles, and paramilitary vehicles. The media and the civilians beyond the perimeter surged forward, trying to get a look at him and cheering, applauding, or shouting to him.
Chris hustled to the backseat of the cruiser, closing the door behind him. The sirens kept blaring, preventing conversation with the uniformed officers in the front seat. He didn’t feel like talking anyway. He worried about Evan and how the boy would be dealt with by the law. It wasn’t a fate that Chris could save him from, but maybe the time for saving Evan was over.
The cruiser began to make its way through the crowd as official personnel cleared a path for it to pass. Chris couldn’t hear anything because of the sirens and the people cheering, clapping, or calling to him, though he couldn’t make out any of the words. They waved at him or flashed him thumbs-up. One woman blew him a kiss, and another one held up a hand-scrawled sign that read, MARRY ME!
Chris looked away, thinking of Heather. He didn’t know what she’d think of him now or if she still felt betrayed. Same with Jordan, which hurt, too. Chris didn’t want to be untouchable anymore, but he might have blown his chance.
The cruiser inched along, and he looked out the window at the cheering mob. His thoughts were in a quieter place, Central Valley. It struck him then that everything he’d said to Dr. McElroy in his job interview was absolutely true. He’d thought he’d been lying to her, but he’d been lying to himself. Central Valley did feel like home to him, and it was the kind of place where he’d want to settle down and raise a family.
He just didn’t know how, or even if, he could ever get back there.