A scream pierced the tent. Blayne looked over to see Cleo Barnes holding her grandchildren to her, doing her best to comfort them.
“What the fuck is going on out there?” Blayne asked.
Just then, Mr. J. entered the tent. A gash on his head covered the right side of his face in a bloody mask. Ms. A. entered a second later, carrying Ethan, who was still out. Blayne ran to the woman and took Ethan from her arms.
“What’s wrong?” Blayne asked.
Ms. A. pointed to a lump on the side of Ethan’s head. “During the second blast, he hit his head. He’s been unconscious ever since.”
“First aid… I need first aid.”
“I can help,” Cleo Barnes offered, startling Blayne by suddenly appearing at his shoulder.
“He’s not conscious.”
“The second blast threw us,” Ric said, coming up on the other side. “Ethan just didn’t respond.”
“Put him down over there,” Cleo said, pointing to a part of the tent that wasn’t covered. “Can I get a blanket here?”
Blayne carried Ethan over to the spot Cleo suggested. Cleo crouched down and immediately checked Ethan’s pulse. “His pulse is strong. I see nothing wrong with his breathing. I see no outward signs of swelling. Of course, we’ll want to get a CT scan as soon as possible to ensure there’s no internal bleeding or swelling.” She turned and looked at a woman on the other side of the tent and yelled, “Agent Malone, get George Washington University Hospital on the line. As soon as we can move, we have a patient needing emergency care transport. Warn them about possible head trauma and the need for a CT scan.”
The sound of a gunshot in the tent caused everyone to flip their heads toward the entrance, where a woman in a ZERO concert T-shirt stood under a red jacket. A Secret Service agent was dead at her feet.
Mr. J. immediately reached for his gun, but she shot him before he could grasp his weapon.
She then clicked her tongue disapprovingly at the group and eyed the other agents in the room, “I wouldn’t if I were you. I’m rigged with an explosive device equipped with a dead man’s switch.”
* * * *
Murphy
Murphy was doing her best to coordinate with all the various law enforcement agencies around the Capitol. The chatter from various agencies such as the Capitol Police, Metro Police, Secret Service, FBI and emergency services made it impossible to get a clear picture of what was happening.
On the monitor, Murphy watched a group of three people approach someone. “Is that one of our drone feeds?” she asked, pointing to the figures.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the agent at the computer terminal.
“Can you zoom in?”
Dr. Hennigan’s voice suddenly came in crystal clear through her earpiece. “Agent Murphy, are you there?”
“This isn’t the time,” Murphy said. “I’m a little busy.”
The FBI agent at the terminal shot her with a confused look. She pointed to her earpiece.
“You need to heed my words and listen now. This is a distraction. I repeat, this is a distraction.”
The drone finally got into position as three-armed people surrounded a woman on the ground. The woman was the fourth suicide bomber.
“Is that you on the field talking to the bomber?” Murphy asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Hennigan said. “Her name is Martha Thompson. Her husband Jake and her teenage boys James and William were carjacked two hours ago.” Murphy grabbed a pad of paper, wrote out their names and handed it to an agent, who immediately started typing away. Murphy didn’t catch what Hennigan said, but she heard the words “forced” and “remote.”
“Ma’am, the names you provided were victims of a carjacking two hours ago.”
“Run them against our images of the bombers,” Murphy said. Into her walkie-talkie, she asked, “Why hasn’t hers gone off?”
No sooner had she finished her sentence than the woman sitting on the ground detonated.
