Blind Spot

  Tanner had a bemused smile tickling her lips.

  Declan narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  “Just you, going with your feelings again. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Then, clearly, I haven’t been doing this right.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her with a level of passion that caused her to melt into his strong arms.

  Declan and Tanner sat on the rug in front of his fireplace as they worked back through Steven Burke’s notations while waiting for Marco, Stallings’ trawler connection, to return his call. Declan had left a message saying that he was a friend of Stallings, and was looking to arrange for a trawler, leaving his number and a false name.

  Burke’s magazines and maps were spread out in an arc around them. Their backs rested on his steam-trunk coffee table, their shoes kicked off to the side, letting the heat radiating from the flames warm their toes. The temperature was in the low forties and threatening to drop below freezing, but the sky was ablaze with a deep orange harvest moon. It was nearly as breathtaking as Tanner.

  “15–8–G–10–H–4,” Declan read off the numbers and letters again. “I’d say part of it was a lock combo or even latitude and longitude, but not with the letters.” He grunted. “The letters are what’s keeping me stuck. Though I still think there is a date in there somewhere. August has passed, and April is still a long time away, so let’s assume it starts with the 10—October, this month. The fourth and eighth have passed, so if it is a date, it would have to be October 15 . . .”

  Tanner’s eyes widened. “Which is tomorrow.”

  Declan took a deep breath. “If we are correct about the date, that leaves us with 8–G–4–H.”

  Tanner tilted her head and studied the open Maryland map.

  “What?” He’d seen that look before. She was on to something.

  She grabbed the map. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. Read off the remaining letters and numbers again.”

  “8–G–4–H.”

  “Hmm.” She lay on the floor, elbows bent in front of the map, her legs kicked up and crossed behind her. Her index finger traced along the boxes. “G–8.” Her finger settled on the corresponding square where row G and row 8 intersected. “Annapolis,” she said. “Now H–4.” She ran her finger the other way. “Kent Island?” She frowned. “I can see Annapolis would make a viable target with the state house there and large population, but Kent Island?”

  “Maybe it’s not the two separate places but what’s in between,” Declan said.

  “You think they plan to contaminate the water?” she asked.

  “Not with the IEDs, line charges, and whatever other weapons Carlos saw being loaded into crates,” Declan said.

  “Do you think Annapolis is the target?”

  “No,” Declan said, it all finally connecting. “Carlos said Steven Burke was killed because he found tunnel and bridge brochures in Darmadi’s berth. G–8 and H–4. Look what’s smack in the middle of the two.”

  “The bay?”

  “The Bay Bridge. They plan to blow up the Bay Bridge.”

  40

  Shock blanketed Tanner’s face. “I can’t believe it. I mean . . . I believe you’ve got it. I just can’t believe that’s going to happen tomorrow if we don’t stop it.”

  “That’s what the trawlers and line charges are for.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “The trawlers carry the line charges,” Declan said. “Blow the bridge from underneath.”

  “That’s brilliant,” she said, “in a totally frightening way. But how, exactly, would it work?”

  “I’m just spitballing here, but it would make sense if they used the trawlers or divers off of them to wrap line charges around the bridge’s central pylons.”

  “To crumble it from underneath,” she said, following his logic. “But that would only be the center. The bridge is over four miles long. It would be awful, but not the damage you’d expect from a terrorist attack.”

  “Don’t forget the IEDs and black Toyota Camrys. No doubt they plan to set off car bombs, probably at both ends of the bridge. Blowing the ends would prevent emergency personnel from getting to the main blast in the center and likely undermine the entire structure.” Declan shook his head. “We’ve only got hours to stop this.”

  He turned to Tanner. “Hand me the phone, love.”

  “Who are you calling?” Tanner asked.

  “Noah Rowley.”

  Special Agent Noah Rowley, or “Row” as he was sometimes called, was a supervising agent with the Coast Guard Investigative Service. If there was going to be an attack on water, the Coast Guard needed to be involved. And having worked with him on the Hiram case, he could easily say Noah was one of the most thorough investigators he’d had the pleasure of working with.

  Declan lay in bed, unsurprisingly unable to sleep. Too much was hanging in the balance. Max’s trawler contact had never called him back, but it was a moot point now. They knew the target.

  They could close the Bay Bridge for a time, but that would incite panic, which would allow the terrorists to achieve at least part of their objective. And they couldn’t keep the bridge closed forever. But most importantly, the terrorists would know how closely they were on to them, and they’d most likely switch the target, and then they would have to start again from scratch.

  After running it by their bosses, Noah and Declan agreed to let Ebeid think his plan was working and intervene at the crucial moment. It was a sound plan, but made for a restless night’s sleep—well, total lack of sleep—on his part.

  He shifted, adjusting his UMD sweatshirt. It was one Tanner had borrowed earlier in the night. He’d picked it up from the living room chair where she’d left it before heading to the guest room, and he’d slipped it on. As he lay there, the scents of coconut and vanilla wafted around him. It smelled like her.

  He longed for her to be in the bed beside him—to see her face last thing before sleep and first thing in the morning. He knew they had a ways to go to reach marriage-ready, but he was thrilled they’d finally taken a giant leap onto the path. He longed for the day when she would be fully his and he’d be hers.

  Tanner was brilliant, witty, savvy, compassionate, strong, brave, and grounded in her faith—rather soaring in her walk with God. Her vibrancy was contagious, her laughter tickled his soul, and her heart for others inspired him in a way he never knew could be experienced on such a profound level. She was making him a better man, and she didn’t even know it.

  Thank you, Father, for bringing Tanner into my life. Please, Lord, let me make her my wife one day. More pressing, let us stop those who intend to hurt our country. Let us get Ebeid behind bars where he belongs, and let us prevent the attack that could hurt so many. Equip us, Lord, and be with us always. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.

  41

  After what seemed like endless travel, Griffin, Jason, and the Markums made their way into the precinct. They had arrested and Mirandized the Markums in Jamaica, and then escorted them back to Maryland—being careful to keep the couple separated.

  Once the Markums had been fed and allowed to change clothes, they put them in separate interrogation rooms. Jason took John Markum, and Griff took the woman behind it all—Elizabeth Markum.

  How could this couple, who from all appearances seemed to be upstanding professionals, actually be killers at heart? After observing Elizabeth’s dominion over her husband and his subservience throughout their transport back to the States, Griffin was certain she was the one who’d murdered Haywood.

  Griffin took a deep breath and said a prayer for God’s guidance and wisdom before he entered the interrogation room.

  He set a legal pad and pen on the table and slid it to Elizabeth.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” she said, sliding it back to him. “I’m a lawyer. I know my rights, and I want my lawyer, Trent Howard, here. Now.”

  Her resolve remained firm, and she remained silent until Trent Howard arrived.


  “Don’t say a thing” were the first words out of his mouth as he entered the room.

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t.” Which indicated she might not be so sure about her husband.

  Interesting. Griffin was curious, what, if anything, Jason had gotten out of John Markum.

  “What’s this nonsense all about?” Trent asked.

  “I didn’t realize you consider murder and fleeing the country to be nonsense,” Griffin said.

  “My clients didn’t kill anyone.”

  “The evidence begs to differ,” Griffin said.

  Elizabeth Markum snidely huffed. “He’s bluffing.”

  “If you aren’t involved, how do you know what evidence I’m referring to?” Griffin asked.

  “I wasn’t involved so I know no evidence tracks back to me,” she said, her tone and expression smug.

  “Okay. Let’s start with the blood in your room.”

  “What does blood in her room have to do with Mr. Grant’s supposed murder, which was in reality most likely suicide?” Trent asked.

  “It was definitely murder. Autopsy confirmed it,” Griffin said.

  Elizabeth frowned, hard lines forming at the edges of her tight, thin lips.

  “Be that as it may,” Trent said. “What does blood in my clients’ room have to do with Mr. Grant’s murder?”

  “Because it was all part of the Markums’ plan to hide their disappearance by framing Haywood for their ‘murders’ and staging Haywood’s death as a suicide to keep him from denying he had murdered them.”

  “My husband had an accident,” Elizabeth said. “You’re wasting our time.”

  “So you maintain you and your husband did not murder Haywood Grant?”

  “That is correct, Detective.”

  “Then why did Haywood ‘confess’ in his fake suicide note to killing you and your husband?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Unless you have something more substantial, Detective McCray,” Trent said, “I really must insist you let my clients go.”

  “Oh, I’m just getting started,” Griffin said.

  Jason knocked and popped his head in.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I talk to you for a sec, Griff?”

  Griffin nodded. “Of course.”

  Concern filled Elizabeth’s eyes.

  Griffin stepped into the hall, closing the door behind them. “What’s up?”

  Jason pulled a yellow legal pad filled with writing from behind his back.

  Hope filled Griffin. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yep. Mr. Markum just confessed, said it was all his wife’s idea and doing.”

  Thank you, Lord.

  “How’d you get him to talk?” Griffin was greatly impressed.

  “I told him one of them was eventually going to talk, and whoever did so first would receive leniency with the judge. Plus, I got the feeling he doesn’t like his wife very much.”

  “I’d say not, considering he just gave her up for murder.” Griffin smiled. “I can’t wait to see the look on Elizabeth Markum’s face when I tell her the news.”

  His smile remained on his face as he strolled back into the room and said, “Your husband just confessed.”

  42

  Declan met Row at the Annapolis Coast Guard station, only a matter of minutes from the Bay Bridge. It was the day of reckoning.

  Crews had been watching the bridge all night. Everything was set, and everyone in place. Now it was just a matter of waiting.

  “As soon as the trawlers move in, we will too,” Noah said. “We have men watching the pylons from a good distance away, just in case they approach from a different direction than we’re anticipating.”

  “I’ve got men stationed as construction workers at both ends of the bridge for the first quarter mile in,” Declan said. “Once their cars enter the bridge, we’ll seize them, and immediately stop traffic from entering the bridge while making sure all civilian traffic is cleared off. The bomb squad is ready and waiting.” Thanks to Max Stallings, of all people, they knew exactly what make and model of car to look for.

  Declan looked at his watch. “We probably have several more hours if they are planning on hitting the highest traffic time, but far better for us to be way early than even a second late.”

  Everyone was in place, tensions high, time moving slow as molasses, until finally two trawlers approached the bridge from the south.

  “Here we go, people,” Declan said over the comm system.

  “Hold until they stop near the bridge before moving in,” Noah said. “If it’s not them, we’ll have tipped the terrorists off to our presence.”

  Sure enough the two red trawlers slowed down twenty feet from the bridge. A diver from each ship with a black dive pack stood ready to enter the water when Noah and his team quickly approached, advancing from both sides.

  The divers jumped into the water despite their arrival, but Noah had his own divers deployed. Declan prayed the terrorists’ divers didn’t disappear into the bay, that they didn’t lose a single man. Led by Noah, the Coast Guard Investigative Service boarded the trawlers, taking the men into custody.

  Meanwhile on top, the report came through that two black Toyota Camrys entered the bridge from either side at the same time. This is it. Declan ordered them seized immediately. On the north end he stepped from the faux construction site and approached the now-blocked vehicle, aiming his gun at the driver’s head. “Exit the vehicle. Slow and steady. Keep your hands where I can see them,” he ordered.

  The southeast Asian man, no more than twenty, did as instructed.

  “Up against the car. Do you have any weapons on your person?”

  The man shook his head.

  Declan patted him down, finding none.

  His men searched the interior of the car, finding nothing.

  “Trunk,” Declan said.

  They popped it open to find an IED counting down from three minutes.

  Getting the same report from Barrows, he called for dual bomb-squad teams to begin.

  The bomb squads moved in and began working on defusing the bombs.

  “We have diver number one,” Noah said over the comm. “Still searching for the second one, but we’re keeping an eye on the pylons.”

  Great. They had two bombs counting down the mere minutes they had to stop them, along with an armed diver on the loose in the bay. At least he’d miraculously talked Tanner into waiting at the Coast Guard station where they’d started out this morning.

  “Did Ebeid order the attack?” he asked the man he’d cuffed and had sitting in the back of a guarded FBI vehicle.

  The man remained silent.

  “You’re either going to spend a long portion of your life in prison or we’re all going to die—either way you might as well answer the question. You’ve already let Ebeid down.”

  “Not until you stop that bomb, I haven’t,” he said, defiantly.

  “So it was Ebeid.” He’d admitted as much without even realizing it.

  The man’s face scrunched in anger.

  “Thank you.” Declan stepped from the vehicle and to the bomb squad coordinator. “How are they doing?” Time was getting tight. They had less than two minutes. “Cutting this one a little close, aren’t we?”

  “I’ve never seen an IED rigged like this.”

  Declan exhaled. “All nonessential personnel clear the bridge,” he ordered.

  People began moving off the bridge en masse, but only one entered on. Was that . . . ? He squinted.

  “Tanner? What on earth are you doing?” Was she crazy?

  “I couldn’t just sit in the office and listen over the radio. I needed to be here with you.”

  “I need you to go, honey, please.” He glanced at his watch in a panic. “The bomb has less than a minute.” His heart rate increased threefold. “Do we need to evacuate?” he asked Justin, the bomb squad coordinator.

  “No,” he said. “One more . . .”

&nbs
p; Don’t say minute. We don’t have a minute.

  “Second,” Justin said, then stood back and wiped the sweat beading across his brow with the back of his hand. “All done.”

  Declan’s lungs filled with an immense breath of relief. “Barrows?”

  “Frank says almost there. Wait. Yes? Okay, Declan, it’s disarmed.”

  Praise God.

  Forty-five minutes later, Declan stepped to the rear of the police van where all the terrorists were now held. He smiled and then shut the door, banging on it to let the driver know they were good to head toward the federal building, where the interrogations would commence. Thankfully the second diver had been caught coming ashore a half mile south of the bridge and was being transferred to the Bureau office now.

  He, Barrows, and Tanner would spend the rest of the day debriefing the terrorists. Tanner might very well be able to reach them on a level he and Barrows could not. That’s precisely why she was on staff.

  A crew was left in place to handle cleanup and containment, keeping the bridge closed until they deemed it safe to reopen.

  Noah and his men were working their way through the trawlers, searching for any clues, and the cars were towed back to the Bureau’s garage.

  Now they just needed to gather enough concrete information from the terrorists to bring in Dr. Ebeid. It might take hours or days of interrogation, but he’d get the evidence he needed to arrest Ebeid and put him behind bars, where he belonged.

  Meanwhile, Luke waited for the transfer convoy to pass by him. His agency had coordinated with NSA and the CIA to ensure Dr. Susa Kemel wasn’t heisted in transit. Luke’s task had become even more important when hours earlier he learned that Dr. Bedan had entered the U.S. via Canada, but his whereabouts were unknown. Were the terrorists planning to have these two horrific scientists, who had no regard for human life, work together? And if so, what on earth was the scope of the project and the magnitude of destruction it would employ?