Page 37 of The Night Of
After a thirty-minute drive, I parked down the block from a historic townhome on a tree-lined street in one of the old residential neighborhoods of Takoma. Carl Rose had lived well enough to afford one of the nicer homes in the historic district, inside the posh circle of northwest DC. It wasn’t Foggy Bottom or Georgetown, but it was quieter, calmer. I could see why someone would want to live there.
There was no sign Detective Casey had ever been to the home. I snorted and fished out the keys from the manila envelope, trying the first of what looked like house keys. No luck. I tried the second. The lock turned. I pushed open the door.
I had a half second to register everything at once.
One, the mail shoved through the drop slot was already swept into a half-moon pattern, as if the door had been opened once before me. Two, someone had recently added a fuckton of weather stripping to the door, sealing the place down and making it virtually airtight. Three, there was powder scattered across the floor, where the mail used to be. It looked like someone had upended a bag of salt onto the tile. Four, opening the door tipped over a cup of water. The cup had been right behind the door, waiting for someone to come in and knock it over.
The water raced for the spilled powder, following the lines of the grout and cracks in the entry tile.
Five, the smell of sulfur—mercaptan—nearly brought me to my knees. The first breath I took was almost pure natural gas, as if someone had blown out the pilot light and the whole place had filled from wall to wall.
Gas. Sealed door. Water racing for crystals scattered on the floor.
I dove down the front stoop, right before the water sparked off the flash powder on the floor of the entryway. The spark ignited the gas that filled the home, and in less than a second, a fireball mushroomed in a billowing explosion. Flames rode the cloud of gas, blowing out every window, bursting through the century-old bricks and collapsing the roof, and rising over three stories above the roofline.
The force of the blast flung me halfway across the street. I hit the pavement and rolled, sliding, my suit tearing and my cheek slicing open. Gravel dug deep into my skin, and I felt blood begin to weep down my side. I lay in the street, not moving, as neighbors burst out of their homes, screaming, and shattered glass rained on the sidewalk.
When the sirens started, I pulled myself to my knees and staggered away, hiding behind parked cars as I lurched down the block. Everyone was focused on the inferno, on saving their own homes. No one saw me slide into my SUV and slump sideways across the back seat, where I passed out, my hand pressed to my ribs as warm blood oozed between my fingers.
Ten
The rubbing alcoholstung when I poured it over the tear in my side. I squeezed my eyes closed. Clenched my teeth. Screamed. The sound echoed through the underground parking garage.
I’d made it back to the White House. I’d left a smear of blood on the driver’s seat and a small puddle in the back seat of my SUV. Now I sat in the open trunk, the med kit’s contents scattered next to the gun rack and the locker with our Kevlar vests.
I slapped an alcohol-soaked gauze pad over my ribs. All that did was dig the alcohol deeper into my torn flesh. I curled forward, trying not to fall out of the trunk as the world spun.
My burner phone started buzzing. It danced in the pocket of my jacket, out of reach where I’d thrown it in the corner of the trunk as I stripped. It kept buzzing. Either Jonathan was sending me a dozen texts, or he was trying to call me.
The buzzing stopped. I exhaled. Pulled the bandage back and peered at my wound.
Ring. Ring.
My personal cell kicked off, vibrating in my pants pocket. Cursing, I fished it out and swiped to answer without checking who was calling. Blood swept across the screen behind my thumb. “What?”
“Are you all right?” Jonathan. His voice was shaking, thunder lacing his words. He sounded furious. “I was told there was an explosion in DC, and I’ve just been let out of the emergency bunker. Whereareyou?”
“In the garage, actually.” I winced as I shoved the bandage back over my bleeding ribs. “It was Rose’s townhome. I got out of there right before it blew.”
“Then why do you sound hurt?”
I stayed silent.
“Goddamn it,” Jonathan growled. “What happened?”
“Rose was murdered. I think whoever killed him set a trap to try and cover their tracks at his house. Someone had spread flash powder all over his entryway and left a cup of water there to ignite it. They left the gas running. As soon as the powder sparked, the whole place went up. If there was anything to find there, it’s long gone now.”
Jonathan said nothing. I heard movement, heard the swish of his clothes and his heavy footsteps.
“The carjacking was a hit. It fooled the DC police, but they were expecting to see gangbangers from the hood and didn’t look any further. But the shooters weren’t dressed right. They didn’t change their shoes.”
Jonathan grunted. “Carl was killed the same night as Steven.”
“Yeah, looks that way—”
A door at the far end of the garage opened, slamming against the concrete wall. I heard it twice: once in person, down the long row of black SUVs and Secret Service patrol cars, and again over the phone line. I twisted. The movement sent a jolt of agony through my side, and I hissed, lowering the phone as I doubled over.
“What the hell happened to you?” Jonathan said. He was striding toward me, his face set in a scowl, his stormy eyes burning into me. He was pissed. I could feel it from three car lengths away.
