Rick Mofina - Six Seconds

Huge banners, along with U.S. and papal flags of all sizes, waved and rippled from the street sides. Cameras were ever-present. People smiled, called out to the pope. Some were enraptured, some prayed while news crews captured it all.

As the parade neared the school, Walker’s cell phone vibrated against his chest.

“Blake, it’s Jackson.” The agent calling was out of breath. “We just had a breach on the street at the school. No weapons of any sort.”

“What was it?”

“Lone, hysterical woman jumped the barricade, ran to the school as the choir kids arrived. She was scream ing gibberish about an abducted kid. We grabbed her. According to a nurse at the school, our woman was here a few days earlier making verbal threats against the pope.”

“You got it under control?”

“Yes, but the stranger thing is, the woman is asking for you. By name.”

“Me? How does she know me? You get an ID?”

“Margaret Conlin, early thirties, from Blue Rose Creek, California.”

Blue Rose Creek, California.

Something about it was familiar but Walker could not put his finger on it.

“She say why she’s asking for me?”

“Don’t know, she’s a bit incoherent.”

“Hold her in the command center truck. I’ll take care of it after we get through this.”

Cold Butte, Montana

Graham entered the bedroom in Jake Conlin’s house. Dim light splintered through shutters, casting the room in shadow.

A man lay on the bed; his face was turned. “Jake Conlin!”

Graham touched the man’s shoulder, his fingers found tacky wetness. Nothing moved. The darker shad ows were blood-drenched sheets.

Jake Conlin’s throat had been cut.

Graham retreated from the room, found a cordless phone. Carefully, he picked it up by the edge of its frame and used a pen tip to press 911.

“This is Lone Tree emergency, do you require police, fire or paramedics?”

“Police and paramedics to 1023 °Crystal Creek Road.”

“On their way. What is your emergency?” “White male approximately thirty-five years of age.

Deceased in an apparent homicide.”

“Homicide? Out on Crystal Creek Road?” “Yes. Are they rolling?”

“Sir, it will take a bit of time to reach your location.

Stay on the line. I need your identification, sir.” Graham identified himself with his regimental num ber, then said, “Please listen carefully. I request that you immediately alert the Secret Service detail on papal security. And the FBI. This homicide could be related to the two traffic fatalities on Highway 87 east of Lewis town and a pending attack on the pope at Cold Butte.” “Repeat that, sir.”

Graham did, then with his free hand he fished his cell phone from his pocket and tried to reach Blake Walker as he returned to the living room.

He’d glimpsed something here. What was it? Some thing repeating?

He couldn’t reach Walker.

Staying on the phone with the dispatcher and search ing the living room, he stared at the TV’s live coverage then noticed the laptop on a desk. The computer was wired with a Web cam.

The screen was lit.

The machine was running a number of programs and features.

Walking toward it, he saw pictures of Samara, the same woman in Maggie’s restaurant photograph with

Jake and Logan.

But these photos were different.

She was with another man and another boy. They were happy, smiling. Joyous. Standing in front of a palm tree, standing in a public square, the entrance to a city.

Middle East? Baghdad, maybe?

Drop by drop, the awful realization fell on Graham as he got closer to the computer.

In one corner of the screen a small video was running, repeating itself in a continuous loop.

It was Samara.

Wearing a white hijab. As she stared back at Graham, her eyes burned.

“…I am not a jihadist…”

In seconds as Samara spoke of her pain and her vengeful plan, Graham recognized what he was view ing.

The “martyr’s video” of a suicide bomber.

No!

Graham then noticed several cables wending from the back of the laptop to and through an open window. The cables continued outside to a tripod and a satellite dish. Inside, affixed to the cords just behind the laptop, there was a small box with an antenna. The box had several small blinking red and green lights, and a display window with red flashing numbers.

Graham’s knees nearly buckled as the enormity landed on him.

All the spit in his mouth vanished and his stomach quaked.

Something would be activated from this laptop!

The small box was a timer clock.

It was counting down!

Cold Butte, Montana

The papal entourage arrived at the school.

The pope entered the foyer, where he first embraced

Father Andrew Stone.

“God bless you, my brother.” The pontiff smiled. Brilliant light flashes rained on them as news cameras from around the world photographed the meeting. “Welcome, Eminence.” Stone introduced the pope to the line of local officials and school staff backed by hundreds of wildly happy students.

After small presentations and a brief tour, the pope entered the gym, triggering applause and camera flashes as TV crews jostled for angles.

Having hosted state basketball championships, the gymnasium was the largest in the region. But today it seemed small. Nearly eight hundred people in their

Sunday best filled rows of folding chairs and bleachers, and crammed the balcony at the back.

Amid the clapping, Walker pressed on his earpiece while he responded to a radio status check and took stock of the venue.

The children in the choir were in place on the stage. Uniformed police and newspeople lined the walls.

FBI and Secret Service marksmen were concealed in strategic points throughout the gym. Federal agents in plain clothes had been inserted into the audience. Special closed-circuit security cameras had been in stalled to watch the crowd. They were monitored from the command post truck parked among the scores of emergency vehicles encircling the building. Walker and the other Secret Service agents took points at stage right and stage left.

Onstage, the pope stood at his chair, spread his hands and smiled to the audience, telegraphing his love. Next came welcoming remarks from more local, county and state officials as the agents and security cameras continued scanning the crowd.

They were as ready as they would ever be, Walker thought and offered every cop’s prayer.

Lord, please don’t let anything happen on my watch.

Cold Butte, Montana

As the choir prepared, bits of information buzzed in the back of Walker’s mind.

Yesterday’s false alarms, the unconfirmed intel from Issa about a planned attack, the explosion at Malm strom.

Did the pieces go together?

The traffic deaths, the call from Graham, the Mountie, still pursuing Tarver- why call now? — the security breach by the distraught woman. Something familiar.

From Blue Rose Creek, California.

She knew Walker’s name. How could that be?

Walker began making a mental link. Didn’t the Mountie go to California? Blue Rose Creek, California? Didn’t Tarver’s final wild theory concern a planned attack?

Walker’s earpiece crackled.

“Agent Walker, this is Baker in command. Sir, please go to your cell phone now for a call patch from Lone Tree emergency dispatch.”

“What? No, I can’t take one now, pass it to-”

His response was ignored, his phone vibrated. He cursed then answered.

“Agent Walker, this is Corporal Graham of the RCMP.”

Gripping her digital camera, Samara sat in the front row of the gym in her new suit.