| |
Kendra looked back and saw that first responders were already establishing a perimeter around Farmers.
They were drawing up barricades and shepherding people out of the red zone.
With her heart hammering in her ears, her emotions churning, Kendra blended into the crowd. She moved past the civic centre, past Aotea Square, past the town hall.
She covered three blocks, then she peeled away from the crowd and stepped into a public restroom.
Kendra checked that it was empty before cleaning herself up. She washed away the blood and grime and dust. She finger-combed her hair, then she locked herself inside one of the stalls.
Sitting down on the toilet, she cradled her head in her hands.
She coaxed herself to breathe.
In through the nose.
One, two, three.
Out through the mouth.
One, two, three.
Straightening, hands on her cheeks, she listened to the shouts and sirens echoing from outside. It was a terrible symphony, and the gravity of the situation sank in.
Here she was, a washed-up agent caught up in a terror strike apparently perpetrated by an old boyfriend.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck.
Kendra didn’t want to believe that this was happening.
And yet... she couldn’t deny the obvious.
Ten years is a long time. Ryan could have changed. He could have been radicalised.
She felt a surge of guilt in her heart, stinging like acid.
By choosing to serve – by choosing to leave – had she hurt him that much? Had she pushed him in the wrong direction? Was she ultimately responsible?
Kendra groaned and slammed her foot against the wall beside her. Damn it, she wasn’t sure if this was love or obligation or just madness. But there was no turning back now; no return to innocence.
Get a grip. Get a fucking grip. And work with what you have.
Kendra inhaled and exhaled.
She replayed the sequence of events in her mind. She picked everything apart, moment by moment, and she remembered the briefcase that Ryan had been carrying. She remembered how uncomfortable he had looked with it.
Was that the bomb?
But, no, that wasn’t possible.
The sheer force of the blast, coupled with the scale of the damage, suggested a larger device. One packed with an incendiary like thermite or phosphorous, and that would have been too bulky to fit into a briefcase.
Which meant that the actual bomb was already hidden within the Farmers store, maybe inside a storeroom, wired to detonate beforehand.
Kendra had to assume that Ryan must have ditched the two operators, Alpha and Charlie, by slipping out the back of the store, leaving them to be caught in the blast. Vaporised.
But why?
Kendra swallowed, and she got out the wallet she had taken from the dead operator, Bravo. She thumbed through it. According to his driver’s licence, his name was Thomas Cronin, and he lived on the North Shore. And according to his business card, he worked for an investment firm, also on the North Shore.
A bullshit proposition.
Kendra knew all too well that pocket litter like this was seldom, if ever, the real thing. They only existed to solidify a legend; a cover identity.
Next, she took a look at Mr Cronin’s smartphone. She checked the data and call logs. And... everything was blank. Which meant that it had been set to self-erase.
Kendra figured it must have been Mr Cronin’s final act before he died.
She popped out the phone’s battery, along with the SIM and memory cards. Right now, she didn’t want anyone tracking her position.
Better to be paranoid than sorry.
Tilting her head, Kendra unholstered the pistol. It was a Heckler & Koch. She released the magazine and performed a press-check on the gun before racking the slide and catching the ejected round. A forty-five. Subsonic.
She worked the slide a few more times and found the action to be smooth, well-oiled.
Professional maintenance.
Kendra reloaded the gun and fitted the sound suppressor on to the muzzle. It snapped on with a click. Seamless. Completely unlike traditional suppressors, which had to be screwed on.
Custom-made. Match-grade.
Kendra removed the suppressor and holstered the gun.
Then she drew the tactical-folding knife. It was an Emerson. She thumbed open the blade. It was non-reflective black, partially serrated with a spear point. Flexing her fingers around its moulded grip, she carved lines through the air – seven o’clock and three o’clock – before folding the blade shut.
Slick. Very slick.
The fact that Mr Cronin was kitted out with subsonic rounds, a custom suppressor and a tactical folder meant that he was prepped for some serious wetwork.
But why?
Biting her lip, Kendra got out Mr Cronin’s car key. She narrowed her eyes. It had no logo, no emblem, no identifying marks of any kind. But, still, she considered the possibilities.