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He didn't wait for Butters to skid the car to a stop—didn't wait for either of them to join him—darting into the crowd. Nash left the door hanging open in his wake. He felt like he was running in slow motion. Like wading through jello, he thought. The number of people getting in his way increasing his alarm. Thoughts, worries that he would not reach his team in time, charged through his mind.
He chided himself as he ran up the museum stairs—it was his fault if something happened. The press release had been his responsibility, and he had laughed about it after passing it off onto McCann and threw one of his own to the wolves. His call had been acted on swiftly, like any bomb threat should.
But there was pandemonium—the roar of a panicked crowd, officers shouting orders to evacuate. Bullhorns calling out orders, but also cautioning for calm—foolishly. People tumbled down the steps in their mad dash to clear out of harm's way. Not caring who was in front of them, as long as they could get far away. Panic would have taken hold almost as soon as someone started clearing the area. People understood—could figure out why an event was suddenly being canceled.
He hopped up and down, looking for his own people. When that didn't work, Nash scrambled up the side of a statue, clinging to an appendage above his head. Using his tiptoes, he perched precariously on the too thin lip of stone.
Nash searched the sea of faces until he saw them standing together near the makeshift stage. They had erected a podium in the middle of the stand. There! He thought to himself, thinking it was an obvious place for Adams to put the device. Either in the wooden box with the microphone or directly under that section of the floor.
He jumped from the pedestal, with the fleeting thought of crowd surfing to his destination. The mob, however, didn't seem to be receptive—the throng of people pushing and cursing him as he collided on his descent.
Why wasn't his team moving? Why were they just standing there when there was a threat of an explosion? A bunch of freaking idiots, Nash thought, waving his arms and trying to shout over everyone else. Trying to catch their attention and ensure they were out of harm's way as well.
He finally popped out at the other end of the crowd, taking the steps two at a time. His body tensing in anticipation of the collision, tackling both McCann and Burgess when he was close enough. He wrapped both arms around their bodies and used everything he had to push, to dive. The momentum sent everyone over the edge, flying and landing in a twisted pile on the pavement.
Nash tried to untangle himself—to answer their shouting questions, to check for injuries, to haul them up so that they could flee, but smashed into the concrete again as Butters landed on him. The makeshift stage behind them burst into a million pieces, and Nash's body screamed in warning as the beam of flames once again seethed over their bodies.
Twice in a matter of months he had been set on fire—someone tried to blow him to smithereens. Well, the same someone, but still. It was horseshit! He thought and kept his body tucked against the heat of the blaze.
He could hear Butters' cursing above him. The man cringed trying to mold his own body around Nash's, making himself smaller. Withdrawing from the fire that was eating away at his back.
The ensuing debris rained from above, some of it with flickering embers clinging to the edges. They caught any exposed material instantly on fire. Casualties screamed—a high-pitched squeal of pain and fear. While others shouted for them to stop, drop, and roll. Even more brave souls rushed to the aid of those around the blast radius, using water bottles and jackets to smother any lingering hot spots into smoldering remains.
Half aware, he noted feet running not past but towards them and people calling out, then he became drenched once more in sticky fire extinguisher foam. "You okay?" Butters rumbled above him, discomfort coloring his tone.
"Yeah. Get off me. You're fat. Yeah, thanks." Nash pushed against the mountain of the man and rolled to a sitting position. "Let me see your back. Let me see!" He tried to pull at the man that was sitting in the same position in front of him.
Butters kept pushing him away, other arm hanging uselessly in between his legs. "I'll wait for the medics. Go check on your people," he whispered.
Nash stood then, calling and waving madly to prompt someone into coming their way. All he needed was the attention of one of the blue clad medical officers who raced around with stretchers, bags and stethoscopes banging against their bodies. When he eventually got someone to come in their direction, he turned and stared at the two still sprawled on the ground.
"What about you two?"
"We're fine." Burgess and McCann spoke at the same time, being pushed to a sitting position too.
McCann spoke to the pair when he said, "We have looked better. One of you is alarmingly heavy."
Butters chuckled as he stood. He hauled each to their feet against the advice of the EMT, who was squawking at him to sit on the gurney behind him. Nash eyeballed it and said, "Son, that will never hold him. And if it does, you'll never be able to push the thing."
A bark of surprised laughter escaped from Butters, which caused the rest of them to start belly rolling with him. The tension—fear, everything from those intense moments melted away. It helped them to snap into their professional roles.
Burgess, now able to dust herself off, denied the workers access to patching up her wounds as she went in search of video evidence in the nearby buildings.
McCann left to talk to the reporters who were still standing, who hadn't fled in the wake of the disaster, looking over the hero with his wounds and injuries as he addressed the public.
"Let's get you walked over to the ambulance. They can handle all of this for now," Nash said, lightly steering the bodyguard by an elbow to the waiting white van, the boy sprinting ahead to jump in the back. Blue was waiting to fuss, and he left the two of them alone.
More EMTs were now on the scene, caring for bystanders' injuries. The bomb squad had also arrived and was busy sifting through the pieces. Orders came from on high for the medics to clear everyone on the team before they could go back to work. They had a few complaints, ranging from dirty and sticky to achy, but at least the injuries were minor.
"I doubt they’ll ask us to come back to the museum," Nash mused, staring at the scorched mark that marred the once pristine landing outside the building.
McCann snickered and rolled his eyes. "Did you want to come back?"
Nash smiled, then turned to watch his partner gingerly step over the pieces of evidence to join them. "Adams is in lockup. She's bellowing for an attorney and refuses to talk to any of us. I personally think that woman is bat-shit crazy. I’d like to think she will go to jail—first degree murder all the way—but I also know that if she’s able to get a good lawyer, they can use that insanity defense. She could end up at a state mental hospital because there really isn’t any justice when it comes to it. If it helps, she's pissed that she didn't hurt anyone." he told them.
"I am glad I screwed up her plans. It was the primary goal," Nash said.
"Guess it was an excellent thing that you are a chicken shit and didn't do your press release," Cam mused, a small smile of humor tugging on his own lips as he surveyed the damage.
"I'm not hurt enough that I still couldn't beat your ass," Nash growled.
McCann snickered again. "I guess I should thank you. You solved the murders, despite almost ending up in teeny tiny pieces—twice. Now we should be able to collect the Heart of Eternity. I will be a hero."
"Savor your hero status while you can. Cam and I don't plan on working with you ever again," Nash said.
"Speak for yourself," Cam shot back.
"I'll send over everything we still have so you can wrap it up." He held out his hand to shake.
"The hope is the next time it'll be... less deadly," McCann added.
"You're not so bad for the glitter police." Nash returned the man's handshake.
"I will take that as a compliment coming from you." He shot them a salute. "Catch you later," he said before walking around the side of the building, Another entrance was being used as the firefighters barred the front to assess for structural damage, leaving the FBI team standing on the top stair alone.
"He's kind of smart-ass. I like him," Nash mused.
"So what's the plan for Marco Cruz?" Cam asked.
"Charge him, what else?"