1

The gun bucked and the cartridge was ejected. The smell of cordite hung in the air and stung in the ginger-haired man's nostrils. The bang echoed through the empty hall and resounded thrice. The man lowered his SIG Sauer P229 and smiled bitterly.

Horatio Caine was Lieutenant with and supervisor off the Miami-Dade Police Department's CSI-division. He was wearing his usual business-casual attire – a light-grey suit (no vest), a blue button-up shirt open at the collar and black loafers. His usual sunglasses hung safely around his neck.

"Stay down," Horatio said, striding over to the man on the floor.

He knelt next to the victim, holding his SIG in one hand. He cocked his head towards the man on the floor and shook it.

"What are they plotting?" he asked.

The man coughed, an eruption of tiny blood spatter. "I ain't telling you nothing."

"Well, José, that's where your wrong."

Horatio placed his hand on the wound in the man's abdomen and pressed down on it, hard. José screamed and gyrated, gritted his teeth. Horatio relinquished the wound and José lay on the concrete floor, panting.

"Now, José, again. What are they plotting?"

"There is another bomb," José said, his mouth turning into a sneer. "somewhere in Miami. I ain't telling you where it is."

Suddenly, José pushed Horatio, who toppled over. His SIG spun across the floor, stopping about three feet from Horatio. José pulled a little knife from his back pocket and sliced it along his throat, blood erupting from the artery and his limp hand relinquishing the knife with a clatter. Horatio tried to stop the bleeding, but was too late. A large pool of blood spread out over the concrete floor of the factory and the dead man's eyes stared at the ceiling without seeing. Horatio sighed and closed the man's eyes. He stood up, took out his cell phone and punched a speed dial.

"Eric, it's Horatio. Call in the cavalry, there's another bomb in Miami!"

"What the hell's going on anyway," Ryan Wolfe said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. His brown hair was ruffled and he wasn't wearing his usual crisp attire. He was wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans.

Southern-born Calleigh Duquesne shrugged. She, too, wasn't clothed up to her usual standards in a purple shirt and grey slacks. She held out her own MDPD-logo emblazoned mug and Ryan poured her a cup. "Dunno, all I know is it's gotta do with that bomb that went off three weeks ago."

They ambled through the fluorescent lit hallway towards the conference room. The Miami-Dade Crime Lab, housed at MDPD HQ, was state-of-the-art. The latest technology was used in the building with its angled Louvre-panels and pale-green walls. The sky outside was dark-blue streaked with lighter blue clouds. Though Horatio's team usually worked the day-shift, they were called in by Horatio at 10 P.M. that night. Yawning again, the two CSIs went into the conference room and plopped into one of the chairs.

Horatio came in, four evidence folders under his arm and a cup of coffee in one hand. Behind him walked Eric Delko in jeans and black shirt and vest. He plopped into a chair as well, but Horatio remained standing. The conference room was at the end of the corridor, with glass-and-steel walls on three sides and a large ceiling-high window overlooking Biscayne Bay. Calleigh and Ryan looked at Horatio questioningly, while Eric suppressed a yawn, or at least tried to. Horatio sighed and placed the folders on the table. He passed them to Ryan and beckoned him to pass them around.

"Okay, people," he said. "Today I was in a shoot-out with José Molinez, the man we pegged to be responsible for the truck stop bombing three weeks ago."

"Didn't Anti-Crime handle that case?" Calleigh asked with her profound Southern lilt.

"They did," Horatio said, smiling. "However, they kicked the case to us when it hit a dead end. We found the lead leading to Molinez. I went to question him, but he didn't cooperate. There was a shoot-out and before I could get anything useful out of him he slit his own throat. Dr. Loman is posting him as we speak. As soon as he gets the results he'll send them to our phones in an email."

"What do you need us to do?" Wolfe asked, sipping his coffee.

"Go through the file again, blank. Call me if you need more manpower, everything to catch this guy."

"H," said Eric. "I'll call the FBI, I'm their Miami VICAP-partner. I'll ask them to send over every file on any possible signatures matching our bomber."

"Go," Horatio said with a little nod.

"Ryan and I'll go look at the files," said Calleigh, picking up the stack off files. She nudged Ryan in the ribs and cocked her head to an empty, smaller conference room down the corridor.

"I'll be in the field, call me when you need anything."

Ryan and Calleigh plopped into chairs in the smaller conference room. Eric had stalked off to Calleigh's office around the corner – one of the perks og being the assistant supervisor was her own office with an unobstructed view over the Pacific – to call the FBI field office. Calleigh put down her MDPD mug and sighed.

The bomber parked his SUV and ground his steering wheel-mounted into the "PARK"-position. He got out, locked the vehicle – a rental, rented under a fake name with matching fake ID – and entered the café/restroom. The bomb was placed in the army-green messenger bag slung around his shoulder. He entered and nodded to the waitress as he stalked by and entered the toilet labeled "GENTS". He lifted the bomb from the bag and fitted it underneath the reservoir in one of the stalls. He set the timer on one hour and pressed the button on top. He then went into the next. He washed his hands and re-entered the café. He ordered a coffee, paid and the drove off in his SUV, which he returned to the rental company that same afternoon, less than an hour after he placed the bomb, even before it exploded.

The bomb eventually claimed fifteen lives. The first ten had been killed instantly, under which was the waitress. They were killed by the power of the blast as they were less than ten feet from the scene of detonation. The next three died by shrapnel piercing their vital organs. The last two died the day after, after they succumbed to the wounds inflicted by shrapnel and internal damage from the force of the blast.

It had taken Horatio's CSI-team three weeks to pin José Molinez as the bomber. They had matched the footage salvaged from the security system to his DMV-photo – with thanks to A/V-tech Dave Benson. Horatio had gotten the result right that day and went out to apprehend Molinez alone, which ended up in the latter being shot and killed. And revealing another bomb in Miami, with no indication where and when it would go off…

Calleigh flipped through the files and jotted down notes on the A5-sized wirebound notepad she had brought along. Horatio's report on the bombing / shooting was extensive and full of detail. As soon as the FBI-reports would come in they would cross-reference the points she and Ryan jotted down. Hopefully that would get them some kind of lead.

Horatio wasn't much for sitting by idly while his team was working as hard as they could to solve a case. Though he was promoted to Lieutenant ten years ago, he hadn't sit still ever since he transferred Robbery/Homicide for Crime Scene Investigations. And he wasn't about to start now. Though officially a Crime Scene Investigator, Horatio had not lost the knack off old-fashioned police work, even with the millions of expensive gadgets at his disposal. He had retained his old CIs and even leaned on them from time-to-time to get information inaccessible for "regular" MDPD Detectives.

The Hummer's engine roar died out when Horatio parked it along the curb of Southwest 134th Street in Little Havana. The neighbourhood was exactly what it was called: a lively smaller replica of the Cuban capital. Spanish music drummed out of ghetto blasters at every other corner or blaring out of cantinas and bodegas. Horatio loved Little Havana, its people and especially its food and drinks. He didn't know any other place in the whole of Miami where he could get a decent Café Cubano, except for Félipe's Bodega.

Horatio locked the Hummer, which he had parked around the corner from Félipe's. He had dropped his MDPD parking permit on the dash, as he had parked in a no parking-zone. To avoid outing the CI he was going to meet, he pulled his badge from his belt and slipped in into the pocket of his blazer. He also made sure his gun wasn't exposed as he rounded the corner. He slid into a chair at one of the round table on Félipe's terrace. He waved over the waitress and she strode over to him with a broad smile.

'How can I help you, sir,' she said with a heavy Spanish accent, slapping a notepad on the stainless steel serving tray she was carrying.

'A Café Cubano, please.'

'Certainly, sir.' She smile at him again and he reciprocated, flashing one of his own.

Two minutes later the waitress put down his coffee. She smiled at him again and turned away. Horatio looked up and down the street and then checked his watch. He saw movement in the corner of his eye and he looked up. A lanky Latino had slid into the seat across Horatio's. He was wearing a greasy grey sleeveless T-shirt, navy coveralls – opened halfway and with the sleeves knotted around his waist – and white sneakers, stained with grease as well. He wasn't much older than twenty-two. His arms were covered in colourful tattoos, one of which was a black and red tribal design.

'Hey, hermano,' the man said. 'didn't know you were working nights now.'

Horatio glanced at his watch: 10.30 pm. 'Know what, Ruben? Neither did I.'

'So, whatcha doin' here, Caine?'

'I need information.'

'What else is new? Hit me.'

'José Molinez.'

'Whoa, man. Whatcha want with the big guns? Molinez is one SOB, I tell ya. What the hell'd you want with him?'

Horatio looked the Latino in the eyes. 'Molinez is dead. He planted a bomb right here in Miami. And like hell I'm going to let that slide. Tell me what you know about him. Hangouts, affiliations, the works.'

'All I know is that he ain't in any gang. What I did hear was that he was rolling with some of Nunez's dudes. Rumour has it that they were looking to get their paws on some serious hardware. I'm not talking rocket launchers, Caine, I'm talking A-bomb.'

'Really?' Horatio said. 'When and where?'

Ruben shrugged. 'Two or three weeks ago? Where? I dunno. Nunez rolls in Calle Ocho, so safest bet would there. Then again, I doubt Nunez authorised a bomb in Miami, so in that case it would not be wise to prepare on Nunez' turf.'

'Hmm. So, basically what you're saying is they could be preparing this anywhere?'

'Well, yeah. I ain't the bomb squad, so beats me why you came to me anyway.'

'No, you're not the bomb squad. But you are my resident snitch in the Cuban community.' Horatio whispered the last part to keep other people on the terrace from overhearing.

'Would you mind not saying that? You're gonna get me killed!'

Horatio flicked a smile. 'Nah, I won't.'

Ruben smiled as well and shook hands with Horatio. The two men got up and Horatio dropped a five dollar bill on the Formica table. The two parted ways at the curb; Ruben crossed the street and Horatio turned left to get back to the Hummer parked in the alley.

That was when he saw the suspicious vehicle. A new BMW 7-series stood halfway down the block, in the middle of the road. There were at least two men in the car, but it was hard to make out. Horatio glanced back at Ruben, who was still waiting for the traffic light to turn green. Imaginary all kinds of bells went off inside Horatio's head. He grabbed his badge from his pocket with one hand, clipped it to the breast pocket of his blazer and pulled his SIG. He cocked the hammer and spun around.

'Everybody, GET DOWN!' he yelled. 'MIAMI-DADE POLICE!'

Several people screamed and Ruben turned on his heels. Horatio started down the road, while behind him the BMW accelerated. Horatio holstered his weapon, ducked into another alley – pulling Ruben along by his shoulders – and came up on one knee, SIG in hand. The BMW skid past.

'Come on!' Horatio said, dashing out of the alley. He made sure Ruben was in front of him. He glanced back and saw the BMW make a U-turn.

'In here!' Horatio unlocked the Hummer, pushed Ruben toward the passenger's seat and climbed in. He started the engine, flipped on the flashers and revved the engine. He accelerated the moment the BMW stopped in front of the alley, blocking the way out. The Hummer banged into the BMW's flank. Horatio rocked back-and-forth and his head banged against the wheel. He drew his SIG immediately. He ground the gear into reverse and backed up the car. One of the men inside the BMW got out. Horatio elbowed out the window and trained his gun on him. He then drove the Hummer over the curb and drove off.