It was weird riding in a police car with all the windows shot out. We were racing toward San Antonio and I kept watching the time on Miss Ruby’s phone tick down. The light bar on top of the cruiser was blasted to bits and we got some weird looks from other drivers.
“We have to figure out where they’re going to set off the car bomb,” Angela whispered to me. “Was there anything you overheard?”
With the windows shot out and the air rushing through the car, it was a little easier to talk without the sheriff hearing us.
“Well, it wasn’t like, ‘Hey, hostage kid! Guess where we’re going to set off the bomb and hopefully kill thousands of people,’” I said quietly.
“This isn’t right,” the sheriff interjected. “Three people who I thought just lived in my county like regular folks just died. And the president of the United States told me they were terrorists. Now you and Dirk tell me I gotta get you to San Antonio fast, so your parents don’t miss you,” he snorted. “I ain’t stupid and I wasn’t born yesterday. I did two tours in Iraq. If there’re terrorists about, that means an attack of some kind. Maybe it’s a chemical weapon, or a bomb of some kind. Maybe a truck full of fertilizer. That’d be easy enough to find around here,” the sheriff said. “So you two can just drop the act. Seems like this Boone fella is being reckless with people’s safety.”
Angela and I looked at each other. The sheriff had proven himself capable and smart. Now we just had to make sure he didn’t change his mind about getting us back to San Antonio.
“I know it appears that way,” Angela said, “but he’s got a pretty amazing team of agents working for him. He wants to catch these people. If they suspect we know about the bomb, they’ll fade away again and we’ll never find them. And Boone is very close to destroying the whole group of them. And if we get this phone to X-Ray, he might be able to figure out a way to stop them cold.”
“That’s all well and good,” the sheriff said. “But what if he’s wrong? What if he doesn’t catch them? What then?”
“All I can tell you is that in the last few days a lot of bad stuff has almost happened and Boone has stopped it….”
“If he’s so great and knows everything, like you say, how come he didn’t stop the bomb in Washington and the one at the USS Cole Memorial?” The sheriff was getting more animated the closer we got to San Antonio. It was hard to blame him.
“The bomb in Washington happened before the president put Boone in charge of this operation. The Cole Memorial event was allowed to occur, after making sure no people would be hurt, so the cell wouldn’t get suspicious that he was onto them,” Angela explained.
The sheriff muttered something unintelligible. I understood why he was upset. Most men in his position probably didn’t have to deal with international terrorism right in their backyard.
Angela changed the subject. “Q, did you hear them say anything that might indicate where they planned to attack?” She was insistent.
“Just nonsensical stuff. I heard them say something about ‘ashes of the martyrs.’ I guess that’s some kind of terrorist talk. When they blow themselves up they’ll be a bunch of ashes? And I heard …” I stopped, thinking over everything I’d heard. “They said something about making sense of a graph,” I said. “Could it be some kind of graph of expected casualties … or … I don’t know!”
Angela was quiet. She was concentrating so hard I thought her face might crack.
“Say that again,” Angela said.
“What?”
“The graph … you said they couldn’t make sense of a graph?” she asked.
“Yeah, but they were way across the room and whispering and all I could hear were bits and pieces of what they were saying. I think it’s just a bunch of terrorist mumbo jumbo …” I said.
“No, it’s not! I know where they’re going! Give me your phone!” she said.
I handed her the iPhone and she hit the redial to call X-Ray.
“X-Ray, it’s Angela. Q overheard something … you need to get the intellimobile to the Alamo Memorial. Block all the phone signals! Shut them down. It’s not the Alamo itself or the concert! It’s the memorial! Hurry! Tell Boone! X-Ray, listen! I know that’s where they’re going … we’ll be there in ten minutes.” Angela disconnected the call.
“Sheriff, you need to get us to the cenotaph as soon as you can,” she said.
“Sure, why not?” Sheriff Hackett replied. “Probably only meet up with a whole division of Taliban troops there. No problem.”
I hoped the sheriff was just being sarcastic. Nevertheless he coaxed the battered car to go faster. It picked up speed and we were soon barreling down the street in the direction of the concert. His siren still worked and traffic pulled over as we flew by.
“Can you fill me in?” I asked her.
“It was in our homework. You said they mentioned ‘ashes of the martyrs.’ After the Battle of the Alamo, the bodies of the slain defenders were burned in a huge funeral pyre near the mission. Their ashes—the ashes of the martyrs, as the locals referred to them—were interred at the San Fernando Cathedral. The style of monument built on the site of the pyre is sometimes called a cenotaph. That’s what you heard. It’s got to be the place where they intend to hit.”
“You researched all that stuff?” I said.
“Somebody has to do our homework,” she said with a grin.
“Nice.” In the midst of a crisis, Angela was still the homework police.
The cruiser screamed up Houston Street, heading east as we approached the intersection of Alamo Plaza Boulevard. The crowd was thinner now that the concert had begun and the traffic had lightened on the streets near the plaza. But as we drew nearer, Angela and I both saw it at the same time.
A white SUV was coming directly at us from the west. If it reached the intersection it would turn and head directly toward the Alamo Memorial.
With nothing to stop it.