Jenna was giving her statement to the police—for the fourth time—when the call about another bomb came in. “I know that address,” she told the detective, a middle-aged guy named Burroughs. “It’s a nursing home. My partner’s there, visiting his great-grandmother.”
“I think you better come with me,” he said, not giving her any choice in the matter as he escorted her to his unmarked white Impala.
They followed the bomb squad’s mobile command RV, careening around the curves and through red lights as they headed from Regent Square to Squirrel Hill. Older neighborhoods like these had narrow roads, often with a only thin sheet of blacktop plastered over cobblestones, stalwart relics of a time when carriage houses meant horses and carriages and there was no need to leave space for parked cars. The RV was wide enough that it had to stick to the main thoroughfares, but Burroughs peeled off, heading down narrow alleys that had no names, zigzagging past brownstones and yellow brick houses perched above steep concrete steps leading down to the street, speeding behind storefronts shouldered together, and dodging delivery trucks threatening to block their path. He had a heavy foot on the gas and an even heavier hand on the horn, but Jenna didn’t mind—not with Andre still not answering his phone.
They were almost there when the radio crackled to life, and the dispatcher urged all first responders to stay clear because there was a confirmed IED inside the premises and to wait until the bomb squad arrived. Burroughs skidded the Impala into the drive leading to the parking lot in front of the old yellow brick building. Dozens of residents and staff were congregating around two marked police cars, the fire truck, and the rescue vehicle that had parked on the lawn. The first responders had their hands full managing the crowd of confused and frightened elderly residents.
“Wait here,” Burroughs told her as he left the car.
As if. Jenna waited until the detective’s back was to her and he was busy talking with one of the firefighters, and then she ducked out of the car. The bomb squad’s arrival provided extra camouflage as she scoured the crowd for any signs of Andre, Morgan, or Emma.
No sign of them. And no one was answering their phone. Until finally a call came through from Morgan.
“What the hell is going on?”
“We’re fine,” came Andre’s voice. And suddenly Jenna felt light-headed. She leaned against a car, hugging the phone to her ear. “But I need to talk to one of the EOD guys.”
Explosives, ordinance, and demolition, or something like that. She remembered the acronym from when Andre had told her about his time in Afghanistan. Clutching the phone, she jogged over to the bomb squad’s RV. “Why are you still inside? The bomb squad’s here—let them take care of things.”
His pause made her stomach clench. “We’ll be out as soon as we can. Morgan’s working on it. In the meantime, I’m texting you photos of the device.”
A shout from the crowd brought her focus back to the building. Someone—Morgan—had climbed out of one of the sixth floor windows and was standing on the ledge. Jenna quickly counted windows. It wasn’t Emma’s room, but one a few doors down. What the heck?
“Stay back, ma’am,” a uniformed officer told her when she approached the bomb squad’s RV.
“I have information,” she told the officer, raising her voice to reach the men in tactical uniforms behind him. “Photos of the bomb.”
That got their attention. Two of the bomb guys turned around and gestured to the cop to let her through the cordon. She showed them the phone with the photos. “My partner’s inside. He was a Marine, Force Recon. He says he needs to talk to one of the EOD guys.”
“Get her in here,” called a man’s voice from inside the RV.
Jenna climbed the stairs and found herself inside a command center where every inch of space had been put to good use. One guy wearing shorts and a tee was climbing into a bulky bomb suit while two others were working on a robot and a fourth sat at a computer. The man overseeing it all turned to Jenna and gestured for her phone.
“Andre, I love you. Now get the hell out. Here’s the bomb guy.” She relinquished the phone but ignored the man’s dismissive wave. Instead of leaving, she stepped closer so she could listen as he placed the phone on speaker while he swiped through the photos Andre had sent. In a few moments they popped up on the computer monitor, and the other men leaned forward to examine them.
“I ran into something similar in the sandbox,” Andre said. “Guy had secondaries rigged to nail the first responders. You guys need to be careful.”
“We always are,” the bomb squad leader assured Andre. “Son, you just work on getting those people out of there. Let us handle the device.”
“We’ve got two in wheelchairs, and one guy’s pretty bad off. Are the elevators clear?”
“Not by us. But the administrator said there’ve been no recent repairs or outages.” Meaning, Jenna interpreted, that the bomber hopefully hadn’t had a chance to infiltrate and plant a device there. They hoped.
“Understood,” Andre answered, his tone formal, clipped. Not at all the Andre she was used to. “Morgan’s got the doors open; we’re moving.”
“We’re watching for you. As soon as you’re clear, we’ll move in.” He nodded to the guy now fully encased in the bomb suit except for his helmet. The other two had already lowered the robot to the ground and were moving it toward the building’s front entrance via its remote control.
Jenna grabbed the phone back. “Andre, be careful.”
Too late; he’d already hung up. She left the RV and fought her way to stand as close to the building as the police would allow. One of the windows in the sixth floor was now shattered, but there was no movement inside that she could see. Please, God, she prayed, closing her eyes for one brief moment.
As if in answer to her prayer, a noise like thunder sounded and the ground quaked. Her eyes popped open. People around her cried out. More windows were now broken, and smoke billowed from the top floor.
But there was no movement from the front of the building. No one was leaving. No sign of Andre.
Jenna’s vision darkened. She became blind to the men around her as they moved into action; didn’t hear the shouts and cries as they pushed the civilians back; ignored the stench of burning plastic. Her entire being was focused on the small square that was the building’s open front doors. Please… Her mind froze, unable to move past that single plea.
Finally, movement: Andre carrying an old man in his arms, Morgan and Tim pushing Emma’s wheelchair—the old woman waving triumphantly—and a tall woman straggling behind, appearing stunned.
He was alive. She breathed in the fact, the sight of his face more necessary than oxygen, and ran to him. “Andre!”