Thursday, September 15, 1:30 p.m. EDT

Crouching low, Riley, Scott, Skeeter, and Stanley Porter made their way along the police tape about a hundred feet back from the north side of the cathedral. Most of the noise and confusion nearby had died down. The released hostages had all been gathered in one area to await buses that would transport them to a facility where they could be debriefed. Now it was back to business as usual with police officers tucked behind their cruisers, guns pointed at the building where the bad guys were holed up with their hostages.

Stopping, Riley pointed to an entryway to the crypt level. “See? Over there. I’m just saying, those doors are going to be secured and possibly wired. But those windows—there’re simply too many of them to wire up.”

Porter nodded his agreement. Although he had initially made quite evident his lack of enthusiasm at Riley forcing himself onto the leadership team, he had apparently decided to live with it. Riley knew he had Scott to thank for that. Will the wonders of the Great Scottini never cease?

“Do we know where they lead to?” Porter asked.

Riley looked to Scott, who shrugged distractedly. “Downstairs?”

“Maybe you could get Evie to give us a slightly more precise answer,” Riley said sarcastically.

“In a minute,” Scott said.

Riley could see he was processing, so he decided to give him some space. Turning to Skeeter, he said, “I’m thinking that with some kind of diversion, we could have two teams of twelve—one east, one west—across the grass and through the windows in thirty seconds, forty tops.”

“Mmmm,” Skeeter agreed.

“But we’ve still got the vests,” Porter said. “They’re the wildcard that trumps all of our plans. All we’d need is one tripped alarm, one broken window, and the whole place could go up.”

“That’s what I’m wrestling with,” Scott said. “I’ve got Gooey compiling the best enhanced shots he can of those devices. If we can figure out how they’re put together, we can figure out a way to neutralize them.”

Scott pulled a hand to his earpiece. “Evie says the front door’s opening,” he told the others, and they ran west toward the cathedral’s entrance.

From their vantage point behind the lead cars, they watched as a single man poked his head out the door. A moment later he was pushed, and the door closed behind him.

His hair was disheveled, and his face looked like he had been struck a few times. He was jacketless but still wore an expensive-looking tie around the collar of his tailored white shirt. Over the shirt and tie, looking like the waistcoat of a mismatched three-piece suit, was a khaki green safari vest. The four front pockets of the vest bulged, and external wires connected all the pockets together. He carried an envelope in his hand.

“Get back! Get back!” Scott yelled to the cops who were running up to assist the hostage to his freedom. “Everybody back behind the line! I mean everyone!”

All the members of the advance team fell back. It was obvious the man had been crying. He tried walking forward but stumbled like it was closing time and he had just stepped out through the door of the corner bar. Grabbing hold of the railing, he found his legs and gradually began to make his way down, one shaky step at a time. The envelope crumpled around the handrail and crackled as it slid down.

When he ran out of handrail, he stopped.

After taking three deep breaths, he cleared his throat and said, “My name is Tyson Bryson. I have been asked to read a statement, after which I am to be released with the promise of no harm coming to those who assist me.”

Yeah, right, Riley thought. Ten to one they’re just trying to draw us out so they can maximize the damage.

“Everyone stay back,” Scott ordered, and Riley was relieved to hear that his friend felt the same way.

With another deep breath, Bryson opened the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper. He stared at it a moment, like he was trying to decipher a secret code. Suddenly its meaning dawned on him. “Oh, no,” he said, and the paper and envelope fell from this hands.

“Down!” Scott yelled, but his command was cut short by a deafening sound.

Riley found himself thrown backward, then showered by glass from the windows of the police car he had half ducked behind. It was as if he had been hit in the chest by a home-run swing from an enormous foam bat, and he sucked in deeply, trying to replenish his air supply.

Slowly, he rolled to his side and pushed himself up to his knees. He knew that there was chaos all around him, but he had a hard time connecting with it. Everything was muffled, like when as a kid he walked around with the earflaps down on his dad’s beaver fur hat.

As he surveyed the damage, he was relieved to see that it appeared to be mostly cosmetic. There were some cuts from flying glass on the faces around him, but for the most part everyone seemed to be in the same condition he was. Thanks to Scott. If he hadn’t kept everyone back, it would have been carnage.

Speaking of Scott . . . Riley used the hood of the police cruiser to pull himself to his feet and began looking for his friend. He turned toward the cathedral and immediately wished he hadn’t. There wasn’t much left of Tyson Bryson, but what did remain was gruesome. Riley quickly looked away.

After passing four cars and stepping over twice that many groggy cops, Riley found Scott. He was talking into his cell phone—his earpiece was nowhere to be seen.

“Say that again; I’m having a hard time hearing you.” Scott spoke at an unusually high volume. “Well, I’m sorry, but some psycho idiot just set off a body bomb about fifty feet from me. . . . Watch my words? You want me to watch my words after what you just did? Well how’s this for watching my words—you can bite me, Mr. Saifullah! You and all your junior American hajjis who are bitter at the world just because some racist, banjo-playing inbreed pushed them down and called them a camel jockey when they were kids. You know what most people do when they get knocked down like that? They pick themselves back up and they make their lives better. That’s what I did! That’s what anyone with half a brain and an ounce of huevos does. What they don’t do is feel so sorry for themselves that they take an assault rifle and shoot up a funeral! You understand? Sie verstehen?”

Through most of Scott’s tirade, Riley was signaling for him to bring it down a notch. While he agreed with everything his friend was saying, Khadi was still in there—a fact that, judging by Scott’s reaction, Saifullah had now just reminded him of.

“No, don’t. . . . Please. . . . Listen, I’m sorry. I just had a bomb blow up in my face. Just . . . No, let’s just . . .” Scott’s face was scrunched up tight and his whole body was moving in tense, contorted motions. His fist slammed down onto the roof of a nearby cruiser, leaving a wide dent in the sheet metal. He locked eyes with Riley, and his face said it all—Khadi!

“Please stop! I’m sorry. . . . I swear, if you hit her again, I’ll be the one pulling the trigger when . . . Stop!” Scott’s hand came down again, and this time he winced when it connected.

It was all Riley could do not to run for the doors of the cathedral. He wanted to scream. He wanted to hurt somebody. Lord, please make it stop! Do something! His complete and utter helplessness churned at his insides. It was like there was a swarm of bees filling his chest, surrounding his stomach. He squatted to the ground and was surprised to find his .44 magnum in his hand.

“Yes, I understand,” Scott said, his voice slightly calmer and his motions more subdued. “I know; I apologize. . . . Of course. Just tell me what you need.”

Scott looked to Riley and made a scribbling motion with his hand. Riley quickly felt his pockets, knowing even before he did it that he didn’t have a pen. Looking around quickly, he spotted a still-dazed MPDC officer just a few feet away. He stepped over, spun her around, snatched the pen that was sticking out of her chest pocket, and ran it back to Scott.

Scott tucked the phone against his shoulder and poised the pen over his left palm. “Okay, go ahead. . . . Okay . . . Okay . . . That’s it? . . . When do you want it? . . . Tomorrow, 1545. Fine . . . Yes, you have my word.” Scott shut down the phone.

“How’s Khadi?” Riley asked anxiously.

“They smacked her around some,” Scott said, anger still evident in his voice.

“But at least we know she’s alive.”

“Yeah, at least we know she’s alive,” Scott agreed.

Relief flooded Riley. Hope. That’s all I’m asking for is hope. “What were you writing on your hand?”

Scott looked at it as if someone else had written it on his hand and now he was trying to make sense of it. “It’s a . . . a . . . It’s a list—a grocery list. He said they’ve got supplies to last them tonight and tomorrow morning. This is what they want to have delivered tomorrow and for every day after.”

Just then, Skeeter showed up helping along an unsteady Porter. The Homeland Security secretary had a gash on his forehead and was using a handkerchief to dab the streaming blood out of his eye.

“Talk to me,” Porter said.

“Just talked with Saifullah,” Scott reported. “Got a supply list to be delivered at 1545 tomorrow. I also confirmed our cooperation for tomorrow’s Internet feed.”

“Do we know when he’s going hot tomorrow?” Porter asked.

Scott shook his head. “He just said to keep it open. Listen, Stanley,” Scott said. His finger was tapping Porter lightly on the chest, but his head was facing down. “I, uh . . . I’m kind of working on a thought here. I just . . . need . . .” With all the chaos going on around them, the four men stood there silently, waiting while Scott’s gears churned.

Then his head popped up, and he gave Porter a look like he hadn’t seen him in years. “Stanley! Listen, I need the analysis on that vest device ASAP. Everything they can give me—electronics, materials, origins, everything. And tell them I don’t need it all at once—they can feed it to me piecemeal if need be. Pull all the strings you can—get the president involved if you have to. As tragic as this was for that Bryson guy, I think it’s very possible that Saifullah may have just handed us our first break.”