Jeffery Deaver - The Cold Moon

12:14:52.

Still, the risk of failure made the victory against boredom that much sweeter. His eyes were riveted on the alleyway behind the HUD building.

12:14:55.

12:14:56.

12:14:57.

12:14:58.

12:14:59.

12:15:00

Silently a huge fist of flame and debris shot out of the conference room window. A half second later came the stunning sound of the explosion itself.

Voices around him. "Oh, my God. What-?"

Screams.

"Look, there! What's that?"

"God, no!"

"Call nine-one-one! Somebody…"

Pedestrians were clustering on the sidewalk, staring.

"A bomb? An airplane?"

Concern on his face, Hale shook his head, lingering for a moment to savor the success. The explosion seemed bigger than he'd anticipated; the fatalities would be greater than Charlotte and Bud had hoped. It was hard to see how anybody could have survived.

He turned slowly and continued up the street, where he descended once more into the subway station and took the next train uptown. He emerged at the station and headed toward the Allertons' hotel, where he'd pick up the rest of his payment.

Charles Hale was satisfied. He'd staved off boredom and had earned some good money.

Most important, though, was the breathtaking elegance of what he'd done. He'd created a plan that had worked perfectly-like clockwork, he thought, enjoying the self-conscious simile.

"Oh, thank you," Charlotte whispered, speaking both to Jesus and to the man who'd made their mission a success.

She was sitting forward, staring at the TV. The special news report about the evacuation of the Metropolitan Museum and the halting of public transportation in the area had been replaced by a different story-the bombing at the HUD building. Charlotte squeezed her husband's hand. Bud leaned over and kissed her. He smiled like a young boy.

The news anchorwoman was grim-despite her restrained pleasure at being on duty when such a big story broke-as she gave what details there were: A bomb had gone off within the Housing and Urban Development building in lower Manhattan, where a number of senior government and military officials had been attending a ceremony. An undersecretary of state and the head of the Joint Chiefs were present. The cameras showed smoke pouring from the windows of a conference room. The important detail-the casualty count-had not come in yet, though at least fifty people were in the room where the bomb detonated.

A talking head popped up on the screen; his complete lack of knowledge of the event didn't stop him from drawing the conclusion that this was the job of fundamentalist Islamic terrorists.

They'd soon know differently.

"Look, honey, we did it!" Charlotte called to her daughter, who had remained in the bedroom, lost in a book. (That satanic Harry Potter. Charlotte had thrown out two of them. Where on earth had the girl gotten another copy?)

The girl gave an exasperated sigh and returned to the book.

Charlotte was momentarily furious. She wanted to storm into the bedroom and slap the girl's face as hard as she could. They'd just won a spectacular victory and the girl was showing nothing but disrespect. Bud had asked several times if he could take a hickory stick to the girl's bare butt. Charlotte had demurred but she was now wondering if maybe it wasn't such a bad idea.

Still, her anger faded when she thought of their victory today. She stood up. "We better leave." She shut the TV off and continued packing a suitcase. Bud walked into the bedroom to do the same. They were going to drive to Philadelphia, where they'd get a plane back to St. Louis-Duncan had told them to avoid the New York airports afterward. They'd then return to the backwoods of Missouri and go underground again-waiting for the next opportunity to further their cause.

Gerald Duncan would be here soon. He'd collect the rest of his money and leave town too. She wondered if she could convert him to their cause. She'd spoken to him about the idea but he wasn't interested, though he said he'd be more than happy to help them out again if they had any particularly difficult targets and if the money was right.

A knock on the door.

Duncan was right on time.

Laughing, Charlotte strode to the door and flung it open. "You did it! I-"

But her words stopped short, the smile vanished. The policeman, in black helmet and combat outfit, pushed inside. With him was Amelia Sachs, a large black pistol in her hand, her face furious, eyes squinting as she scanned the room.

A half dozen other cops streamed in behind them. "Police! Freeze, freeze!"

"No!" Charlotte wailed. She twisted away but got only one step before they tackled her hard.

In the bedroom, Bud Allerton gasped in shock as he heard his wife scream, the harsh voices and the stomping of feet. He slammed the door shut and pulled an automatic pistol from his suitcase, worked the slide to put a round in the chamber.

"No!" his stepdaughter cried, dropping her book and scrabbling for the door.

"Quiet," he whispered viciously. He grabbed her by the arm. She screamed as he flung her onto the bed. Her head hit the wall and she lay stunned. Bud had never liked the girl, didn't like her attitude, didn't like her sarcasm and her rebelliousness. Children were put on earth to obey-girls especially-or suffer the consequences if they didn't.

He listened at the door. It sounded like a dozen officers were in the living room of the suite. Bud didn't have much time for a prayer but those through whom God speaks can be moved to communicate with Him as circumstances allow.

My dear Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, thank you for the glory you've bestowed upon us, the true believers. Please give me the strength to end my life and hasten my journey to you. And let me send to hell as many of those as I can who have come here to transgress against you.

There were fifteen bullets in the clip of his pistol. He could take plenty of the police with him, if he remained steady and if God gave him the strength to ignore the wounds he'd receive. But still they'd have a lot of firepower. He needed some advantage.

Bud turned toward his sobbing stepdaughter, who was clutching her bleeding head. He added a coda to the prayer, with a kindness that he thought was particularly generous under the circumstances.

And when you receive this child into heaven, please forgive her her sins against you. She knew not what she did.

He rose, walked over to his stepdaughter and grabbed her by the hair.

"Is Allerton in there?" Amelia Sachs shouted to Charlotte, nodding at the closed bedroom door.

She said nothing.

"The girl?"

Downstairs, the desk manager explained what suite Charlotte and Bud Allerton, along with their daughter, were staying in and the layout of the place. He was pretty sure they were upstairs now. The clerk recognized the picture of the Watchmaker and said that the man had been here several times but hadn't been back today, as far as he knew.

"Where's Allerton?" Sachs now snapped. She wanted to grab the woman and shake her.

Charlotte remained silent, glaring up at the detective.

"Bathroom clear," one ESU officer called.

"Second bedroom clear."

"Closet clear," called Ron Pulaski, the slim officer looking nearly comical in the bulky flak jacket and helmet.

Only the bedroom with the closed door remained. Sachs approached it, stood to the side and motioned the other officers out of the line of fire. "You, inside the bedroom, listen! I'm a police officer. Open the door!"

No response.

Sachs tested the knob. The door was unlocked. A deep breath, gun up.

She opened the door fast and dropped into a combat shooting position. Sachs saw the girl-the same one who'd been in Charlotte's car at the Watchmaker's first crime scene. The girl's hands were tied together and adhesive tape was over her mouth and nose. Her skin was blue and she thrashed on the bed, desperate for oxygen. It was a matter of seconds until she suffocated.