David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

Brendan fumbled for his phone to check the game clock. The Vikings were managing the clock to try to score again before the half ended. “There’s less than a minute left in the half.”

Liz’s eyes widened. “I’m going to go take a look.” She wrenched a thin strip of metal from the side of the detector. Before he could say another word, she had slipped around the front of the Escalade.

A few seconds later, he saw her head pop up near the van. She walked around the front of the vehicle, her handgun drawn. Then she holstered her weapon and slipped the strip of metal into the door of the driver’s side. She was using the metal strip as a SlimJim to unlock the door, Brendan realized.

He stood up. She had the driver’s side door open now, and Brendan heard the chunk of the power locks disengaging. He gathered up the laptop and MINDS detector and rushed toward the van. Liz, her hand on the back door of the van, called to him. “Bren, bring the detector—”

A boom echoed through the parking ramp. Liz’s body flew away from the back of the van, crashing into the trunk of a sedan before sliding to the ground.

Brendan dropped the MINDS equipment.

“Liz!”

Rafiq cruised up I-35, back toward the Twin Cities. He kept under the speed limit, letting the few cars on the highway pass by him.

He exited on Route 13 south, a two-lane road of strip malls and traffic lights interspersed with neighborhoods and green space. He drove conservatively, accelerating slowly away from the lights, and braking well before they turned red. The brick bulk of Burnsville High School came up on his right, and he turned into the empty parking lot. Rafiq selected a spot behind the corner of the building, next to the bleachers and out of sight of the road. He shut off the engine, letting the silence of the deserted school on a summer evening surround him.

He checked the NFL Live app again. Second quarter, three minutes left, Vikings up by only three points now. He knew from past experience that three minutes of play could take thirty minutes of actual time. Another commercial advertised the half-time show. Prince. Rafiq smiled faintly, remembering that the movie Purple Rain had been a popular rerun when he and Chas were at Carleton.

The squeak of the car door echoed against the brick building as he exited the vehicle. Although the sun was mostly below the horizon, there was still plenty of light. It wouldn’t be dark for another few hours at this latitude. He walked north, passing the high school football stadium, the baseball diamond, and two practice fields until he reached the edge of a bluff.

The ground fell away sharply, and he looked down on a business park of warehouses. The Minnesota River glinted in the valley and he could see the lights of the cars on I-35, one lane white headlights, the other red.

Rafiq raised a set of binoculars. The Minneapolis skyline stood out sharply against the lavender of the evening sky, the high-rise towers glinting in the last rays of the dying sun. He could make out the prow of the Vikings stadium poking out of the grouping of glass and steel, a pointed shape sailing toward the cluster of downtown skyscrapers.

Perfect.

He opened the NFL Live app again in time to see the Vikings kick a field goal with four seconds left in the half. Both teams headed to their respective locker rooms. The announcers began to prattle about the halftime entertainment as the stadium went dark. Less than a minute later, a solo spotlight came up on the stage. Prince stood alone, dressed in a dazzling suit of ivory with rhinestone trim, holding an intricately shaped guitar. The music started, and Rafiq recognized the song. He closed his eyes to recall the name. It was a favorite of Chas’s from Purple Rain —“When Doves Cry,” that was it. Rafiq felt his eyes grow hot with tears of gratitude. It was as if the universe had conspired to make this moment perfect for him.

With shaking hands, he drew the second mobile phone from his hip pocket, the burner phone. He pressed the power button, watching as the screen glowed to life and connected to the mobile network. The clock in the upper right-hand corner read 20:48.

He lay on the ground, the grass soft and still warm from the sun, and positioned himself so that he could duck his head under the lip of the bluff as soon as he dialed the phone.

Prince was just finishing his first song and launching into a second. The rest of the stage was lit now, showing the rest of his band — all women, Rafiq noted. He thumbed to the icon labeled “Recent Calls.”

A single number showed on the screen.

With a whispered prayer, he hit the SEND key, and ducked his head.

Brendan dropped to his knees next to Liz and rolled her onto her back.

The breath rushed out of his lungs. A handful of bright steel shot was still buried in the black Kevlar vest. Her right shoulder had taken a few pellets and a slice of weeping red blazed across her temple. Her head lolled to one side.

Brendan pressed his shaking fingers against her neck. He forced himself to calm down so he could feel for a pulse. It was weak, but she was still alive.

“Hold on, Lizzie,” he whispered. “You and me — we’re not done yet.” He fumbled for his phone to call an ambulance.

A ringing sound interrupted his thoughts. He looked around.

It was coming from the van. He scrambled to his feet and peered into the back. The large-bore muzzle of a shotgun poked out from under a blanket, a tendril of smoke still leaking from the end.

The phone rang again.

There. A large black packing case occupied the center of the floor. Brendan jumped inside and flipped open the lid. A large gray tube about the size of a fire hydrant filled the case. Could this be a nuclear weapon? In his mind, he’d expected a sleek modern-looking device with red and blue wires and a fancy digital countdown clock. This? This thing looked like something he might find in a plumbing supply shop.

Next to the cylinder lay a mobile phone, its glowing green face illuminating the interior of the case.

The phone rang again. It was connected to a small black box by a foot-long length of braided wire.

Brendan frantically looked for a kill switch, anything to turn the device off.

Nothing.

With a whispered prayer, he looped the length of wire around his hand and heaved with all his strength. He let out a scream as he crashed back against the side of the van, with the mobile phone, wire, and black box dangling in his grip.

For a long moment, the world stood still around him. He could hear the roar of the crowd in the stadium, low-angle sunlight slanted through the windshield of the van painting the interior in bright gold. Liz’s body lay still on the concrete.

Liz.

As he stumbled out of the back of the van, Brendan realized the phone in his hand was still ringing. He pressed the green icon and held it to his ear.

“Hello?”

The rasp of heavy breathing. In the background, he could hear an echo of the song Prince was playing in the stadium.

“Rafiq Roshed,” said Brendan.

The breathing hitched.

“I know who you are. If she dies, I will find you.”

The phone went dead in his hand.

He knelt next to Liz. Sirens wailed in the distance. Her eyes fluttered open, and a look of panic swept across her face.

Brendan pressed his hand to her cheek. “I’m here, Lizzie. You’ve been shot. You need to lie still.”

“The bomb?” Her voice came out as a rasp. Her eyes widened in pain as she tried to draw a full breath.