Patriot by M.A. Rothman (summer reading list TXT) 📗

get some fresh air and exercise, make decent bank for just keeping in shape. Hell, sounds like a win-win to me.”

“You’ve changed.”

Smith laughed. “Speak for yourself, tubs!”

“Hey there, in my prime I would have been all over that—”

A deep, chest-rattling boom ripped through the air like a crack of thunder. A block north of where the two officers stood, several cars were flipped right off the road and thrown into the facades of the buildings. A ball of flame curled across Prince Street in less time than it took DeMarco to realize his hat had been knocked from his head. A cloud of smoke and soot rose above the red brick buildings, and a cacophony of squealing brakes, cars slamming together, horns blasting, and people screaming filled the air.

DeMarco looked up to see streamers of flaming debris arcing through the sky and raining down onto the street.

“Get down!” Smith shouted, pulling him back.

He tripped over his own feet and fell back on his rear, knocking Smith a few steps away. He quickly righted himself, getting to a knee. “What the—”

A second explosion tore through the expanding wall of dust, sending gouts of flame curling through the air. More debris rained down, smacking off car roofs and shattering windows. People screamed, scrambling to get away from the destruction. The cloud of smoke that rolled down the street filled the air with a fine gray dust.

Coughing, DeMarco got to his feet and swiped at the smoke and dust.

From down the street, where the bike messenger had gone, now hidden by the haze of smoke, came the sound of cars slamming into each other, one after another. An ear-splitting blat of an air horn cut through the commotion, and a second later a semi emerged from the dust and smoke, barreling through the line of cars, sending the twisted wrecks spinning away. A Taurus rolled onto the sidewalk, barely missing a couple in a full sprint.

DeMarco saw a few foolish gawkers actually moving down Lafayette toward the destruction. Covering his mouth with one hand, he waved at them and shouted, “Get back! Back!”

Smith, coughing, moved to a Lincoln stopped in the middle of the street and pounded on the window. “Get out! Come on, you gotta get out of here! Come on!”

The driver, a confused businessman in a suit, climbed out of the car, keeping his head down. “What the hell happened?”

“Just get moving!” DeMarco shouted, motioning him to the west.

“We’re under attack!” someone screamed. “Was it another plane?”

DeMarco grabbed his radio. “Central, be advised, there’s just been a massive explosion at St. Patrick’s Basilica! We need EMS and Fire here now! Send everyone you have!”

Screams and shouts filled the air as people emerged from the thick cloud of smoke and dust. A limping man, blood streaming from the side of his head, was being helped along by two others; all three of them were covered in gray powder. A woman in a torn white blouse and skirt limped along as well, her leg bloody from a gash in her thigh. Tears streamed down her face, drawing streaks through the dirt and grime.

“Keep moving!” DeMarco shouted, pushing up the street toward the blast. He covered his mouth, trying to keep from breathing in the dust. Thoughts of the almost-weekly news reports of first responders dying from exposure on 9/11 rushed through his mind, but he pushed on.

“What the hell happened?” Smith asked beside him.

DeMarco shook his head, not knowing what to say.

At each vehicle they passed, DeMarco checked to see if anyone was inside. He found no one. As they reached the next intersection, the dust cloud finally began to dissipate, revealing the extent of the destruction.

Almost the entire west face of the basilica was missing, turned into a pile of burning rubble. Black smoke poured from the jagged remains of its roof, and flames licked up the sections of the wall that still stood. Brick and glass filled the street, and the trees that separated the building from Prince Street had been blown apart, flaming branches and sections of trunk littering the road in all directions.

DeMarco stepped up to a Chevy Malibu lying on its driver’s side and looked through the shattered windshield. There was someone in there, lying against the door, white shirt soaked with blood, a jagged piece of metal the size of a briefcase protruding from their side.

“Oh my god,” Smith said, though he wasn’t looking at the impaled driver.

DeMarco turned, and his heart sank. As the cloud of dust rose away from the street, it revealed a cluster of mangled bodies. A man in a jogging suit was missing a leg. A woman next to him was bleeding from countless gaping wounds, her clothes ripped to shreds. A bike lay twisted and bent in the middle of the street, its rider several feet away, face-down on the pavement.

DeMarco ran a hand through his hair, trying to process what he was seeing. “Son of a bitch.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Connor slapped his palm against the bridge’s handrail. “No, I’m telling you, I haven’t seen a goddamn thing. What are you trying to say, that the bureau doesn’t have any leads at all? Isn’t anyone claiming responsibility?”

“Oh, there’s several groups claiming they did it,” Thompson said, the tension in his voice evident despite the signal being relayed through several secure satellites. “But they’re all full of crap, trying to get noticed. We can be sure of this, because none of them know the one detail that’s been kept from the news. The bomb that went off… it was dirty. There was low-grade radioactive content mixed into whatever package was blown up.”

“Are you serious? How are they—”

“It’s not as big of a deal as you might think; it can be cleaned up. The analysts say it was done more for terror effect than for any real meaningful damage. That’s why it’s being kept under wraps. Luckily, the people on the scene are already treating the bombing as a level B hazmat exercise