Page 114 of The House of Cross

“Less than a mile?”

“A kilometer, then,” Olson said.

One of the other officers flipped up his visor. “Captain, they stopped the jamming again,” he said. “I can talk to Randolph. He’s talking to Kimberley. There’s been a definite break in the weather and the medevac chopper is lifting off as we speak.”

I grinned and high-fived Bree just as we heard a low thumping noise followed by the roar of a heavy diesel engine.

“They’re bugging out!” I jumped back on my sled, Bree rightbehind me, and yanked on my helmet. I started the sled and was about to twist the throttle when the radio crackled.

“I hope you’re out there listening to my voice, Dr. Cross. I wanted to say goodbye. I have evaded you once again. Maestro’s mission goes on.”

I triggered my mic. “Malcomb, I—”

The helmet radio went to hissing again.

In that weird blue light thrown by the moon, we saw the silhouette of Malcomb’s helicopter rise over the far end of the butte, no running lights, and arc out of sight. Two seconds later, the snow-covered ground beneath our sleds and then the sleds themselves began to tremble.

Over the sound of our engines came a rumbling.

“Earthquake?” Bree yelled.

Before I could reply, the rumble became a full-throated roar.

From five hundred yards away, through the busted-out windows high on the side of the old mining building, we saw a flash of brilliant gold and red light; the flames gathered and blew the entire structure to smithereens.

The energy of the blast smashed into us.

Then a second explosion erupted out of the southwest flank of the butte, out of that huge door—a massive fountain of flame and red-hot debris gathered force, arched, and bent upward, lashing at the winter night like some dragon’s last, furious, blast-furnace breath.

CHAPTER 90

Washington, DC

Inauguration Day

CLUTCHING CUPS OF HOTcoffee, Bree, Mahoney, and I hurried into a large briefing room adjacent to the FBI director’s suite of offices and stood at the back.

It was four o’clock in the morning, but despite the early hour, the scene was intense. You could feel energy pulsing off every top law enforcement official involved in security for the swearing in of Susan “Sue” Winter as president of the United States.

U.S. Secret Service special agent in charge Alan Wilson was responsible for the overall detail and he spent the first fifteen minutes reviewing the sequence of the day’s heavily scripted events and describing a few last-minute assignment changes. He stood aside when acting FBI director Marcia Hamilton entered the room, looking very put together and all business.

“Thank you, everyone, for all your efforts so far,” Hamilton said. “Let’s take this day home flawlessly, show the world how the greatest democracy on earth changes hands peacefully, just like the old days.”

A murmur of approval swept around the table.

The acting director went on. “I want to brief you on a credible threat I learned of only four hours ago.”

Every commander at the table straightened.

The acting director nodded, then introduced the three of us and asked Mahoney to bring them up to speed.

More than two and a half days had passed since we’d watched Ryan Malcomb’s wilderness redoubt go up in flames. John Sampson was airlifted to a hospital; Bree and I arrived there two hours later, and after a doctor splinted my ankle, we spent the night and the next day answering questions from a team of RCMP investigators.

We’d been allowed to leave Canada after the U.S. attorney general intervened, and we’d briefed Hamilton on the situation as we flew east. She had asked us to come straight to the meeting when we landed.

Mahoney condensed our history with Maestro, M, and Ryan Malcomb into a ten-minute briefing that included the murders of the potential U.S. Supreme Court nominees, their links to the informal nominating committee, the words of the assassin caught on tape, and our capture and escape from the vigilante group and its leader.

“Where is Malcomb now?” Wilson, the Secret Service commander, asked.

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