Bree closes her laptop. “It means we can’t bother Ned. He’ll be neck-deep. And you know who’ll be right by his side.”
Alex nods. “John Sampson.” He grips the wheel even tighter and glances over at Bree. “We’re on our own for this one.”
CHAPTER 7
Sampson
THE COPS ON SCENE point me toward a Panera restaurant on Thirteenth Street NW where the FBI has set up a temporary command post. Chairs are piled in one corner, and tables have been pushed together. The aroma of soup and grilled sandwiches still hangs in the air, mingled with the pungent smells from outside.
I walk in and spot my old buddy Ned Mahoney, a supervising special agent with the Bureau. I go over and shake his hand, grimy from soot.
“Glad you’re here, John,” he says. “This is a terrorist attack for sure, and the FBI is taking charge.”
The restaurant is crowded with command staff from DC Fire and EMS, a cluster of men and women in business suits, and DC Metro Police, including my boss, Moore Taylor. No doubt he’s pissed that the FBI has once again bigfooted its way into Metro Police territory and taken over.
I know Taylor’ll play nice. But he won’t like it.
“I’m setting up a task force,” says Mahoney, “and we’re going to make it lean and mean.”
I nod. “The leaner and meaner, the better.”
I hate red tape. Always have. It’s too easy to get tangled up in it.
Mahoney looks up and calls out, “Homeland Security, you here?”
One of the suits at the next table raises a hand. “Special Agent Tim Smith.”
“Did DHS have anything on the threat board? Anything at all?”
“Nothing to report at the moment, but we’re doing a deep dive into recent investigations and chatter. We should have an update in a few hours.”
“Good,” Mahoney says. “Make it as quick as you can.” He turns to a pair of police captains. “DC Metro, I want Detective Sampson on the task force. Understood?”
There are pursed lips and slight nods from the brass, including Taylor.
“ATF should be here any minute,” Mahoney continues. “Fire, what’s the casualty count so far?”
A captain steps up. He’s wearing a white bunker jacket and holding his helmet at his side. “Fourteen dead, twice as many injured. A few are critical. We expect the death toll to rise.”
Mahoney nods, his expression grim. “We’ll look at our own threat assessments, cross-check it against what DHS and other agencies have, see if we can narrow down who might have been responsible and what the target was.”
I raise my hand to get Ned’s attention; in this setting, he’s all professional.
“Detective Sampson?”
“I know we’re in the preliminary stages here, but I have an ideaof who the target might be, based on an investigation I did on this street nearly a year ago.”
All heads turn to me.
“Go on,” says Mahoney.
“About half a block away from the bomb crater is the DC office of FIP-PAC.”
Mahoney looks stumped. “Sorry. What the hell is FIP-PAC?”
“Friends of Israel and Palestine Political Action Committee. Maybe it’s too obvious, but it’s something that should be run down.”
Mahoney nods. “I agree. The first thing we need is—”
