Page 103 of Zero Hour

Barely.

CHAPTER 39

Pat signaled for his team to move in. They fanned out, scanning every inch of the venue. Somewhere in this crowd, in this open space packed with potential victims, was a bomb.

Right now, their only mission was stopping mass slaughter.

Pat’s phone buzzed.

“Hey, Anna.”

“The Secretary of Homeland Security has authorized Special Forces support. They’re inbound. ETA ten minutes.”

Pat clenched his jaw. Finally.

“Also, Metro PD has units sweeping the park for Ameena Mousa. Her phone’s still pinging near the National Gallery.”

That meant she was still here. But was she carrying the device, or had she recruited someone else to do that? Somehow, he didn’t think the mother of four would risk it. She had too much to lose.

“Got it. Keep me posted.” He hung up and took off toward the stage.

Dropping to one knee, he lifted the black canvas skirting the platform and crawled under, using his phone light to cut through the shadows.

Nothing. Not even a candy wrapper.

Emerging into the glaring sunlight, he heard it—the unmistakable chop of rotor blades tearing through the air. He turned as the Special Forces helicopter banked low over the festival grounds, kicking up a storm of dust and debris.

The helo touched down in an open space in front of the stage—the very spot that, in an hour, would be packed with fans. Eight men disembarked, armed and ready.

Pat strode forward, shaking the hand of the lead operator.

“Burke, Blackthorn Security. Glad you could make it.”

The operator, Captain Chris Munro, was all business. “We’ll split up. My men will sweep for the device. Two of my guys are snipers. They’ll find high ground and cover the perimeter. Any sign of a bomber, we drop him.”

Pat nodded. “Do what you have to do.” He knew how these guys worked. Hell, he used to be one of them. No red tape, no hesitation.

The K-9 unit arrived next. The handlers fanned out, their dogs zigzagging through the venue, sniffing every crevice.

The came up empty.

The K-9 commander met Pat back at the entrance. “Not a whiff of an explosive inside the venue.”

Pat cursed under his breath. Where the hell was it?

Chris Munro came up to him at the gates. They were out of time. The opening act was setting up. Without a confirmed bomb, they couldn’t justify shutting down the concert.

Pat scanned the growing crowd. The Special Forces operators flanked the security gates, their eyes locked onto the incoming waves of festival-goers. They’d been briefed, and they knew the target profile.

Some of the security staff looked rattled. It was their first time working a gig like this, and now the added pressure ofa potential bomber had added to the drama. The concertgoers, oblivious to the threat, were buzzing with excitement.

Pat’s team regrouped outside the gates. Blade and Viper were locked onto the flow of people still pushing in, their gazes flicking between faces, backpacks, gestures, looking for anything out of place.

“It’s in a rucksack,” Blade said flatly. “That’s the only way they’d get it inside.”

“Or the equipment cases,” Viper countered.

“Nah, we searched the band’s gear,” Munro said.

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