Pulling the radio from her waistband, she held it to her mouth. “All available security personnel to the…” She paused as she tried to catch sight of a good spot for an outpost nearby but not too close. “Report to the central midway—Manny’s corn dog stand,” she ordered. “Quickly.”
She was struggling to clip it to her belt with trembling hands when a man in turnout pants came trotting up to the operator’s station.
“Ma’am?”
“If you want to talk to me, you have to come aboard.” She closed her eyes against a rising wave of nausea.
She heard the thud of heavy boots hitting the metal platform and forced herself to look in their direction. The firefighter approached. His expression of grim determination spoke volumes.
“You know what’s happening?”
“Sergeant Evan Furst, Little Rock Fire Department Tactical Response Squad.” He introduced himself. “Special Agent Hastings gave me the gist.”
Cassidy’s years in military, security and law-enforcement-adjacent careers helped her recognize the double speak used for “bomb squad” when she heard it.
“We’ve got a real situation here, Sarge,” she said with a wan smile.
Gesturing to something behind her, he looked worried. “There’s a bench seat, ma’am. Why don’t you sit down? Try to focus on something stationary.”
“Do I look bad?” She gave a shaky laugh.
“I’m only saying we’ve got a real situation here, ma’am,” he said, tossing her words back at her in a deceptively light tone. “Special Agent Hastings has alerted Arkansas State Police Headquarters. They’re sending specialists. There’s a bomb threat?”
“Yes. They replied with the number twelve, but I don’t know if means twelve o’clock or twelve bombs,” she confirmed. “The initial message said ‘devices’ plural, though, so let’s assume more than one.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve asked my security team to assemble at the corn dog stand.” She gestured vaguely at the asphalt midway.
“We’re on it, ma’am. Are you in radio communication with your team?”
“Yes,” she said, fighting down the bile rising in her throat.
“Good. I will liaise with them and with the other tactical teams as they assemble. If you’d relay all the messages sent via radio once I get with your team, I’d appreciate it. We want to keep the suspect’s line of communication as uncluttered as possible.”
“Will do.” A knot of dread tightened in her stomach as she watched him hop down from the ride. Before he made it more than three strides, she called out to him. “I could use some water.”
Sergeant Furst raised a hand to let her know he’d heard her, moved two of the metal crowd-control panels to close off access to the operator’s station, then trotted off in the direction of the food stands in the center of the carnival.
Cassidy forced herself to put her phone in her blazer pocket, then, swinging from pole to pole, made her way to a gaudily painted bench bookended by sparkly green seahorses. She kept her eyes trained on her feet, trying to block out the motion by focusing on the tips of her lug-soled boots.
Sliding into the double bench, she dropped down heavily on the wooden seat, wondering idly who would ever choose to ride a merry-go-round seated backward.
A soft shuffling sound to her right made her freeze. Tearing her gaze from the tips of her shoes, she turned to find the small, skinny kid with the enormous backpack staring up at her wide-eyed.
“Did you say there’s a bomb?”
Chapter Two
“What have we got?” Captain Jake Donovan slid from the driver’s seat of his state-issued SUV. Squinting into the late-morning sun, he raised a hand to shade his eyes before reaching for a black cap with the Arkansas State Police logo.
“Bomb threat.” The firefighter hooked a thumb over his shoulder, then offered his hand. “Sergeant Evan Furst. I’m lead technician with the LRFD bomb squad.”
He shook hands with the young man in the LRFD shirt who’d met him at the south gate in an ATV, intent on taking Jake straight down onto the fairground’s colorful carnival midway.
“Where are we at?” Jake walked around to the passenger side of his vehicle before pressing the button on his key fob to release the rear door. He gave a short, sharp whistle and Max, a ninety-pound German shepherd, jumped out of the vehicle and promptly sat at Jake’s feet.
“We’re assembled near the corn dog stand, but Colonel Aronson is in the arena at the moment.” Furst gestured toward the midway.
