Chapter Two
Interrogation
Nurse Judy Tremont sits in her seat in the Interrogation Room, tense from the silence even more than her captivity. The woman blocking the door says nothing. She had brought her here from her cell in the basement ten minutes ago and the woman hadn't said a word. Ever since she had been arrested by this Government Agency, one she's barely heard of, none of her questions had been answered with more than a few words, the leader - Higgins - doing all the talking.
She'd been arrested the night before last and held without a lawyer. They said she was not arrested, but it feels like it to her. Through her own carelessness one of their agents had been murdered on her watch, now she's their prisoner and must answer for it. They'd given her a chance to make a call but she has no lawyer and, living alone, fearful of her future at work at the Hospital, she has no one to call who will reassure her.
She turns again to the Sphinx-like woman - Special Agent Susan Bourne - at the door, but before she can open her mouth the door opens and the same man who had arrested and interrogated her comes in. He's tall, too tall, and his jet black hair and black eyes give him a formidable appearance. "Good morning, Nurse Tremont."
"What's good about it?"
He shrugs as he sits down. "Good point. There's not a lot about today that's good."
"You were going to let me go. I gave you what you wanted. I described the doctor."
"Unfortunately, it's not enough. Your description was more of a comic book character than a real person."
"That's not my fault! I described him right; your man drew him exactly as he was. That's the way he looked."
Fred Higgins is not in the mood to debate that; rather, he opens the file folder before him. "I have here photographs of some forty men who best fit the description of the man you gave us, the supposed 'Doctor Strange'. I'd like you to look them over and see if there's anyone here you recognize."
"And if there isn't?"
"I'll have someone bring you a new set."
Judy feels her first distress-fueled burst of resistance. "You can't keep me here, I want to go home. If I'm not under arrest, then I want a lawyer and I want out of here."
"Unfortunately, it's not that easy. You see, Agent White was one of four operatives protecting a Marine General. Three of them were killed at Arlington during a funeral. I think you might have heard about that. There were quite a number of people killed, including the family of the soldier being buried and several mourners." The blood draining from her face is enough of an answer. "We think whoever did that also entered your SICU, waited until you were gone, then killed Agent White. You're the only witness we have."
"I know that, and I'm sorry."
"So does he."
"Does he what?"
"Know you're the only one who can identify him." Higgins wonders if her face can lose any more color. "You're not a prisoner, nor are you under arrest. You're under our protection, because if he can get to you he'll kill you just like he did White and the others."
x
"You're not lying." It doesn't sound like a question.
"What do you think?"
"I think … I think I'm having a nightmare."
"Believe me, Nurse Tremont, you are, but it is real." He points to the stack of photos between them. "You can help end it."
Defeated, she opens the folder, turning it around to see the first photograph. "He didn't have a scar." She tells him, turning it over. Higgins makes a note of it in his pad, along with the fact that Strange's eyes were bluer than those of number two...
x
After she has seen all forty, Tremont pages back to one particular photo. "This one is most like him."
"You're sure?"
She shrugs. "Not really, no, there's no moustache, he's grayer … I think. I didn't really pay that close attention, he was too old for me, but this one is the closest one of them all."
"But you're not sure it's him?"
She stares at the picture. "No, it looks like him - kind of, but … I'm not sure."
Higgins doesn't let his eyes betray anything. In conformity with standard practice, not everyone in these pictures was a suspect. He had never said they were, simply that 'they best fit the description'. Just as an in-person line-up uses ringers, only twenty seven of the forty had records of any kind.
Unfortunately Tremont had identified the photo of one of those ringers, Supervisory Special Agent Robert DiMarco.
x
"All right, let's go over it again from the top," Higgins says, settling into the chair. "The night before last your relief was late, then this man came in…."
They go over every detail, moment by moment, everything she saw, everything she heard, everything each of them said and how they said it. Higgins picks apart every aspect for well over an hour before he finally admits to himself that he's drained this well dry - and obtained virtually nothing more than a string of negatives on the identification and a few more details on voice and accent, which he'll incorporate into the continuing search.
Gathering the photos together, he returns them to his file and starts for the door, determined to have his team select others that more closely match the details he'd gleaned in this session. Signaling Bourne to exit first, he closes the door.
x
In the hallway he addresses her. "Take her back to Holding. Have someone bring her some food, then knock off for the day." It's long past their 0800 quitting time, now approaching noon. "I'm going home to bed, we'll try this again at Zero hundred." It has been a long night into day and the hope of normal hours to come is not bright.
As Bourne enters the Interrogation Room, Max Crawford and Sol Mitchner come out of Observation.
"Do you want us to pick up DiMarco?" Crawford inquires, not even bothering to hide a smirk. Higgins, finding not even gallows humor in the question, closes his eyes and counts to five.
"I am really starting to understand why Gibbs slaps people."
x
As Higgins turns away and walks down the corridor, he passes the aforementioned Gibbs and DiNozzo just arriving, a handcuffed woman between them. "Two's getting a workout today," he comments, barely giving the woman a glance, "good thing I was done." It had been close timing indeed. "What about One?"
"It's occupied."
xxx
While DiNozzo secures Elizabeth McFadden into Interrogation Two, Gibbs decides he has some time while David and Lee compile a record on their prisoner who he intends to wait in the room alone for a while. He goes to the fourth floor, cutting down the corridor a short distance and entering the large room used by DiMarco and his team. He does not bother to knock and Susan Bourne, on her way out, must duck out of the way of the unexpectedly advancing door. "Sorry."
"I could use the Disability Leave," Bourne says with a smirk, cutting past him and continuing on her way. When the door closes Gibbs and DiMarco are alone
"Your winning ways," DiMarco says dryly, "will ultimately win you many friends - in the hospitals." Seeing he's not going to get anywhere with this line, he returns to business. "What have you got?"
"Does the name Dr. Elizabeth McFadden ring any bells?"
The older ex-Marine thinks for a moment. "There's a sonorous peal off in the distance."
"Well let me bring it a bit closer. She's a Psychiatrist. You and your team investigated her two and a half years ago before okaying her for Naval referrals and treatment."
"Oh, yes; we were assigned to do about half a dozen background checks that year. The Navy wanted to expand its resources beyond those they have in uniform. After 9/11 things got really strained. Long tours of duty, generally more problems than the current resources could handle, forced the Navy to use private practitioners. They supplemented the fees to help with the difference." Military personnel receive free care; by going to a civilian practitioner there were some out-of-pocket expenses. "All of the reports were routine, they'd been checked out thoroughly by the AMA and other Professional Standards Reviewers before we even got the list, but we did thorough checks as though they hadn't. Why?"
"We have her down in Two; she's cut from the same cloth as Sam Richards."
This is enough to vaporize DiMarco's ease. He sits forward, intent. "The disks? "Reverend O'Mallory had been her patient; she tried to put a bullet through McGee's face."
"Holy Hell. Gibbs, I swear to you there was none of that when we checked her out. Back then, she was straight arrow."
"Who did the follow-up?" It hadn't been in her file, but in a normal, efficient world, there would be annual reviews of the fitness of the Navy's contractors, not that Richards had been caught. Gibbs has no faith in that normal, efficient world
"Not us, but I'll damn well find out and get the word to you ay-sap, on everyone we checked out back then."
xxx
When Gibbs enters Interrogation Two he finds their prisoner arranged just as he had directed, her cuffed hands secured to a leg of the table. Considering the extent of post-hypnotic suggestions they've been dealing with, none of the agents have any trust that McFadden will not try to do herself in. The table isn't bolted to the floor, but any attempt to move it will be seen and quickly interrupted
With DiNozzo and David watching from the Observation Room, where the interview will be recorded by the operator at their left, Gibbs sits down at the table before McFadden. "At this moment," he tells her, his quiet tones forcing her to listen, "Agents are going through every inch of your offices and we have a warrant in the works to tear your home apart. You can save time now and tell us who supplies you with your disks."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Gibbs is actually disappointed, not surprised but disappointed. "You're an intelligent woman – at least I hope you're an intelligent woman. You know we have O'Mallory, we're treating her to undo the damage you caused. We have the disk you gave her. If there are any others, and she kept them, we'll find them. Where did those disks come from? Save yourself some time."
"My time, Agent Gibbs, is worth $200 an hour."
"Mine," he assures her, "is worth so much more."
x
In the Observation Room, Tony feels he has to give that round to Gibbs. "I wonder how long it will take her to break."
"You are so sure she will break early. Me, I see a cold, hard snitch."
"You mean 'bitch'."
"Yes, that too. She obviously feels she has the psychological skills to match against Gibbs in a fair fight."
"My money's still on Gibbs, and who said this is going to be fair?"
"Maybe he should let me do it. I can get answers with a minimum of blood loss."
"I think if he really wanted to have her learn the meaning of pain, he'd send the Probie in."
The glare Ziva gives him is nearly fatal.
xx
"If you think sitting there staring at me is going to get me to break you can forget it." "I'm going into overtime in an hour. I have no plans for the next couple of days. Have you?"
xox
"You're wasting your time staring at me. I don't care if it has been two hours, you're not going to break me. No matter how long you keep staring at me I have nothing to say to you."
xoox
"If you're not going to ask me any questions, take these things off and let me out of here."
"I asked you a question. I'm waiting for the answer. Who gives you the disks?"
"You won't get anything out of me, but could you at least let me get to a bathroom. I haven't had a chance in hours."
xooox
"Look, I've had it! Stop staring at me! I want my lawyer now! I want to get out of these damned cuffs and I want to use the bathroom!"
xoooox
"How much longer is this going to go on? Will you stop staring at me?
xooooox
This is abuse! Let me out of here. Get my lawyer in here or at least have someone escort me down the hall!"
xoooooox
"Please – I'm begging you! I can't stand it any longer. Please!"
"Where did you get the disks?"
xooooooox
"Goddammit - stop staring at me and let me pee!"
"Where did you get the disks?"
xoooooooox
"Please let me out of here! All day you're torturing me - let me out of here! I can't stand this any longer! If I don't get to a bathroom now I can't be responsible for what happens!
xooooooooox
"PLEASE!"
"Where did you get the disks?"
xoooooooooox
"FOR GOD'S SAKE THEY COME TO ME BY FEDEX!"
"From where?"
"I never know! They come from different addresses along with instructions on who gets which ones, and I get wire transfers to my account! PLEASE!"
"When is the last time you had a delivery?" He knows DiNozzo is already on the phone, relaying these details to the Squad Room.
"Two days ago. PLEASE!"
"How many people do you get disks for?"
"Oh my GOD!"
"How many people do you have in this scheme?"
xxx
Tim McGee, at 1330, is on his early afternoon break, staring through the large observation window into Interrogation One at the still body of the red haired woman who lies upon Abby's daybed. He's been here every free moment since returning from McFadden's this morning, each time returning to his work at the last possible second.
Siobhan sleeps under a light blue blanket, looking peaceful but he knows better. She may look peaceful, but inside he knows a battle is waging, a battle for her mind.
The bed had been set up in here when Abby had grown so busy with the growing mountain of evidence to be tested that she could no longer retain a quiet environment. Siobhan is sedated, the enhanced music fed in through speakers, a reverse of the normal operation. A technician monitors her slumber, her only unknown company other than McGee, and he has spent every break and meal time in this spot.
Tim stands at the window, Observation One shrouded in darkness. He can see her, but even if she were awake she couldn't see him through the one-way glass. He remains silent, not moving, but isn't surprised to see Gibbs' ghostly image superimposed over the blue draped woman.
"I keep telling myself," he tells that image, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears, "that if I had shared my cases with her she wouldn't have been victimized like this. She'd've seen what McFadden was going to do."
Despite her connection to NCIS, the Priest is not an Agent and Gibbs has always been aware of that distinction. He grants that "You could have shared Classified information about investigations with a civilian. She could have told you she was seeing a shrink."
McGee doesn't face him, he knows what his boss is saying. Neither of them was going to do anything other than they'd done.
"There are some lines of communication that just don't get opened," Gibbs says. "Maybe they should, maybe they shouldn't. I don't know."
"It took Abby about twenty hours to break her own conditioning," Tim says softly. "She was working on herself, but she hadn't had the command to kill."
"She's in good hands. Abby's monitoring her progress from the lab." Gibbs can't make his voice reassuring. He doesn't deal in false assurances he can't guarantee or in hopes he can't grant. He looks at their translucent reflections, his eyes locking McGee's. "You've been haunting this room every free minute today." He doesn't need anyone to tell him this, and no one had. He knows the man who stands before him, staring through the window.
"She stood by me when I was sedated, when I wasn't myself." Tim doesn't remember that time, he has only his friends' word and his own faith. "It's the least I can–"
"Don't lie to her - or to yourself," Gibbs takes a step closer, his voice carrying only inches. "That conditioning made her pull your gun on you; you threw a suspect out of a helicopter because he was trying to hurt her. You drew a sword on DiNozzo because you thought he was trying to hurt her. Whether you were in your right mind or not, you 'stabbed' DiNozzo to save her."
"What are you saying?"
"I think you know."
Tim turns to him. "Wait a minute - are you trying to tell me I love her? I'm committed to Ziva!"
"I'm not trying to tell you anything, McGee." He looks about the room Tim has been haunting. "What are you trying to tell us?"
Gibbs starts out, but Tim has one more concern. "What about McFadden?" It's been hours, most of the morning and afternoon. "Did she break?"
"Oh, she broke, we learned a lot."
"How was it?"
Gibbs continues out. "Messy."
x
He is no more than five feet down the corridor, heading back toward I2 when the door behind him opens again. "Boss?"
He turns around. "What, McGee?"
"Did you get everything? Why she did it?"
"We will. I get a break, she doesn't."
"I'll get it for you."
Gibbs regards the younger agent intently. Certainly McGee's motivated, but can he keep that motivation under control? He advances until they are only inches apart. "You break her, we can break this case. Step out of line and–"
"I'm not going to."
McGee wishes he could read the old Marine's mind, but his eyes are saying nothing. The moment lasts too long.
"Come on."
x
Elizabeth McFadden sits alone in the Interrogation Room, shaken. She'd revealed so much, had broken so humiliatingly, and the man hadn't laid a hand upon her. When he was satisfied he'd granted her plea of relief, but then she was brought back to this room and locked in again, hands chained to the leg of the table. For all she knows she's being held until the next time her body is going to humiliate her. It might take hours, it might take days. Her captors have proven they have no mercy. She can only wait for the next step in her torture.
It happens sooner than she had anticipated; the door beside her opens and her heart leaps into her chest. The man who enters is not the one who'd sat all day staring at her until her body had forced her to break in utter humiliation. This man is the one who'd taken her, the one O'Mallory had described in such detail, the one whose eyes she had looked into and had seen her own death.
x
He comes with a single file folder in his hand, closes the door firmly and locks it with a snap of his wrist on the bolt. The smile he presents to her is one of grim satisfaction, one she's seen on killers and psychopaths. She wonders which one he is and how O'Mallory could have been so completely fooled by his act. She'd seen a kind, caring man; McFadden sees the truth.
"I just came to tell you you're done," he announces.
This is not the last thing she'd expected him to say, it had never made the list. "What – what do you mean I'm 'done'?" She's apprehensive. That word had held utter finality – and satisfaction.
"You're moving out of here," he passes behind her, she has to swivel first one way, then the other, her hands cuffed to the table leg restricting her, in order to keep looking at him. He turns, retracing his steps, just enough so she must come about again, shifting to her left to keep him in sight. "I'm here to introduce you to your new home."
He slaps the folder down sharply upon the desk. It's topped with a clipped-on photo depicting a huge fenced compound. Numerous buildings surrounded by soldiers bearing assault rifles or restraining German Shepherds form a scene out of hell. Barracks are one thing, this is so clearly a prison that her spirit quails. "You've been declared an Enemy Combatant; that's your new home. Guantanamo Bay – 'Gitmo' for short. You leave in two hours."
He passes behind her again; she turns frantically, seeking him out. For a moment he's gone, she has to turn until the cuffs dig into her wrists in order to find him. She's heard of Guantanamo Bay – everyone has. It's the 'prison' no one ever leaves. Ever since the war began, she doesn't believe anyone has ever gotten out – at least while still breathing. "Wait, you can't! I'm a U.S. Citizen, you ca–!"
"You've no idea how many U.S. citizens wind up at Gitmo. Believe me, there are a lot of them. You'll fit in nicely." He moves on, she almost turns completely about before reversing herself, seeking him out again.
"You can't do this!"
"I already did. You should have thought of that before you hurt Shav. She trusted you – you tried to turn her into a killing machine. My consolation is that no one in the U.S. is ever going to see you again."
"I want a Lawyer!"
"Citizens get lawyers, Enemy Combatants do not. You're not even a Citizen, you're a nobody."
"How dare you?"
"You were a U.S. Citizen, now you're not. Everything these days is stored in computers and I am a Level One Computer Expert. I've canceled your Citizenship. Your Social Security number has been deleted. Your driver's license, your voter registration, they've all been erased. You have no license or record of any kind. If anyone from the AMA ever looks, they'll have to say they never heard of you. Someone else leases your office now, and has for the past three years. You have no birth record, no school records, no work records. You have no credit cards, no bank, no political registry, no identity. You're a cipher, a non-entity, a nothing."
"You can't do that!"
"I did."
x
He goes to the door, unlocks and pulls it open. "Enjoy Gitmo. You're never coming back."
"WAIT!" He hesitates only a moment. "I have more – more I didn't give your partner! I know who was doing this and where they can be found!"
"I don't give a damn. This isn't business. They may care, I don't. I'm sending you to Gitmo because of what you did to Shav! This is personal." He starts out the door, her scream cuts past him.
"Agent Gibbs! I'll talk! Stop him – I'll talk! AGENT GIBBS, STOP HIM! I'll talk!"
It takes only seconds for Gibbs to make it from the Observation Room. He seems to appear in the doorway. "What is this?" he demands.
"Agent Gibbs, I'll talk! I'll tell you everything I know! Just stop him! PlLEASE!"
xxx
"Sir, I've been searching everywhere," Michelle Lee tells Gibbs when he enters the bullpen an hour later to receive the results of the search he'd ordered from Interrogation, having spent most of the day with McFadden while the others tracked down scores of leads. "I can find nothing of McGillicuddy, Crocetti or Morrison."
"What do you mean 'nothing'?" McFadden, babbling as quickly as she could, has already confirmed the connection. They're already enough of a mystery, though now much of it can be cleared up, provided they find the people they're looking for.
"Sir, I have the headquarters in Zurich, Switzerland, branches at false addresses all over the world but I can find no information at all about Jackson McGillicuddy, Antonio Crocetti or Herbert Morrison. As best as I can determine, there are no such people. It seems to be just names chosen at random, I can't track anyone down. There are names, addresses; a website – so far as I can tell it is all garbage."
"Then who does run it?"
Seeing the deadly look in his eyes, she knows better than to say 'I don't know', turning back to her monitor. "I'll tell you ay-sap."
xxx
Answers come far too slowly for Alpha Shift, which will be on duty until midnight. Everybody is on double shifts; two of the four Beta Shift teams must start at 0800 to 2359, the other two have been working since 1600 until 0800 tomorrow. Headquarters, normally a busy place, now has agents both in the field and squeezing into places where they may find them and computer records are in heavy demand. There are many agents assigned to a multitude of duties. All the recent cases are being reevaluated based upon their potential connection to this overall threat.
There are too many cases that fall into that category. There may not be much legwork involved in these investigations, but demands are made upon all and the day wears heavily. When Gibbs finally allows his team to start taking breaks from their computers it is nearly 1500 and DiNozzo is out of the bullpen almost before the echo dies. He is used to action, now most of his action comes in the form of keystrokes on his computer. He can't get out of Headquarters and off the Navy Yard quickly enough.
xxx
DiNozzo sits down with Edward Sheehan, one of the members of Patrick Gaine's Team, at a small wrought iron table, one of a half dozen set up outside the Emphasis Café. It's a mild early October afternoon and the double shifts make any opportunity to get away from Headquarters for an hour something of an obligation to the spirit.
"So tell me, whose bags under our eyes are heavier?" Sheehan, a large blond ex-football player, asks. Both men are on Alpha shift, the normal 0800 to 1600 now extends to 2359 and the time spent in going to and from home will quickly reach the point where it has to be reconsidered. DiNozzo is not quite ready to pull out a cot or seek space in the Bachelor's Quarters on the base, though some teams have already made provisions. If things keep up as they have been, he is going to seriously consider the option.
Looking at Sheehan's well worn clothing, he doesn't want to know how bad he looks. "Forget it. I've been picking apart Natasha Klein's life to the point I'm practically an expert on her. Go ahead, ask me any question."
"I'll pass. I heard some of what they did to McGee. It's a wonder he's on his feet."
"He's kind of motivated." DiNozzo doesn't want to let on just what motivates the man; it skirts too close to personal revenge for his tastes. He pauses instead to admire the blonde waitress who places two cups of coffee upon their table. "How goes the hunt for Adolphus?" he asks when the woman steps over to another table.
The elusive assassin known as the 'Iceman' had come back under scrutiny, as had John Carson and many others having even the remotest connection to suspicious international activities. They had come to NCIS' attention during the 'PDC/9 debacle', before the Army had pulled everyone off the case in the interest of National Security.
'National Security', DiNozzo thinks sourly; 'more like 'you pry - you die'.'
Anyone who has any connection to a Swiss Bank Account like the one funding Jack Carson and Ron Adolphus has come back under close scrutiny. DiNozzo had been appalled to find out how many there are.
"It's going." Sheehan admits. "The Army pulled a blanket over him and it's tricky when you can't allow our own Servicemen to know you're hunting one of their secret resources. I have to keep CID from finding out about my research when I'd much rather be asking them for help in cracking the case."
"No hits?" The Iceman has a particular style, primarily hit and stroll, a manner as unique as a fingerprint.
"He's keeping a low profile, which is odd, considering."
"Considering 25 G's a hit. Me, I'd be working around the clock."
"Me too." Sheehan takes a sip of his coffee. "Then again, we are. I guess the Army is keeping him on a short leash."
"Doesn't fit, does it? The Army having a hit man on retainer?"
"As Abby would say, it's got a load of hinkyness about it." He pauses, noticing he doesn't have DiNozzo's attention. He turns around, finding the one who does. "Nice."
"Thank God for warm weather and miniskirts." Washington is enjoying a brief gift of Indian Summer, and so are they.
"You don't make out too badly having Ziva and Michelle on your team," Sheehan reminds him.
"They're taken, but what about you with Maggie Calder. You ever –?"
"No way. Phil might be in Nevada this week, but you ever see him in the ring?"
"Ouch."
x
"Well, Jack Carson remains off the radar, if he's even alive." Sheehan tells his friend.
"Think they offed him?" DiNozzo asks tiredly, the cot seeming like a pleasant choice at this point, another twelve hours to go before he can hope for any rest.
"I don't know. What about Klein and Whitney?"
"They've got major rap sheets going back decades." DiNozzo admits, not looking forward to accumulating any more dirt. "I hear Whitney's ex-wife – ex-widow? – wasn't particularly sad to hear he wasn't ever coming back. The guy left everything to a Kathy Disher in Brooklyn. They're going to be in court for years over this."
"Nice guy. Disher got a rap sheet?"
"Yeah, Prostitution and Professional Submissive, though if the Will goes in her favor she could probably retire - or more likely open an Escort Service."
"How much are we talking about?"
"Over 52 grand."
Sheehan gives a low whistle. "I'm amazed these Swiss guys haven't tapped into it."
"I'm willing to bet they did." DiNozzo decides that when the audit of assets is finished the Ex and the girlfriend are both in for a surprise.
x
Any further speculation is cut short as a black car pulls up to the curb. "Time to quit loafing, Ed," Margaret Calder calls to him out the front passenger window, "we're heading over to Carson's place again."
"Hrmph, we've already swept it," the man says, standing up. The home had been a fantasy Armory; the walls lined with scores of outlandish weaponry ranging from Zulu zetkangs through Klingon bat'hleths.
"This time Shepherd wants us to use tweezers," Team Leader Patrick Gaine tells him as Calder reaches back to open the rear door.
"Well, time and tide…" Sheehan looks for the waitress, not seeing her.
"I'll get it," DiNozzo offers, standing and starting for the Café door. They had had little time for more than coffee. "You get the next one."
"Okay, thanks." Sheehan heads for the car, DiNozzo waving to the others before going into the Café, crossing the large room, his eyes taking a moment to adjust from the bright sunlight. When he can see again, what grabs his attention is the blonde waitress at the counter before him. She is not his waitress but he can dream...
He starts toward her, circling around a table with a middle aged couple just finishing their meal and reflexes take over as a bright flash of light has him dive for the floor.
The explosion shatters the bay window and glass door, shards of glass rocketing inward to bathe the assembled patrons as the concussion slams his body. He covers his head to avoid a thousand deadly missiles but does not avoid stabbing pain in each hand. The blast and a wave of searing heat knocks everyone and everything in the Café to the floor amidst piercing shrieks of pain. The concussion actually turns him over and two bodies slam heavily upon his. Climbing back to his feet from under the too still bodies, amidst the tinkling shower of glass and debris, he looks out through the shattered portal at the blazing car. Dozens of alarms fill the air, and become gradually clearer as his ears recover from the devastating noise and he can hear the roar of the inferno.
Even through the flames he can see there is almost nothing left of the burning chassis and frame of the car. He catches sight of a car door lying smashed against the wall to his left, resting on top of a woman's still body. He runs, leaping through the glassless door, knowing it is hopeless.
x
When he lands outside and sees the extent of the devastation, he is barely able to believe it. Everywhere for over thirty yards pedestrians lie upon the ground, their red covered bodies ranged outward from the explosion, and too many of the closest are not moving. The blazing fire in what had once been an NCIS car holds him back, the heat of the inferno searing his hands and face. A glance down at himself shows him his body is drenched in blood, he can feel no pain but he is covered in red.
There is glass upon the street as every window on both sides of the block has been blown apart. Behind him he can see the cracked stone and brick front of the building, testament to the force of the explosion that has taken out the entire front of the Café. The people who had been seated with him at the outdoor tables caught the worst of the explosion, driven toward the café wall. Blood flows from too many, too few move at all.
Flaming debris fills the street, so much of it things his mind will not allow him to identify, too much of it is soft and red but quickly charring. The building behind him and much of the sidewalk and street are splashed with red, too much of it too large and thick. Of Special Agents Edward Sheehan, Margaret Calder and Patrick Gaine he can see nothing – and far too much.