6.
 Chief Special Agent Roberto Herdaez was a tall, dark skinned Cuban-American. He briefed his five special agents, including Jack, in his office. On a flat screen, Herdaez played bomb scene surveillance video—jerky, grayscale footage, snowy and sun blinded. “You see the street. Nothing going on. Here you see a guy coming up the sidewalk carrying a backpack. FBI calls him Dancer because of his flowing gait. Maybe an aikido expert. Can’t make out his face. Now look to the side, almost off-camera. That smoke is a car blowing up—a distraction. Dancer saunters into the data center. He has fifty pounds of Italian T4 military explosive in his backpack—wrapped tight, scrubbed, well enough shielded from detection devices and sniffer dogs. Seconds after he leaves, a timer blows the building to hell. That’s Dancer, jogging away.” Herdaez added: “He lives to strike again. I’m pulling you off your current cases. We must catch Dancer before he bombs again.”
IT set up a string of surveillance cameras along both sides of the street, the entrance, and the main stairwell. Jack and a partner were to guard the street entrance. Nigerian-American Robert Bobula and Jack took turns sitting in the front lobby, with security cameras and an ID-scanner. They swapped hourly, checking people’s ID and handbags, then patrolling outside.
The city was on edge. Tension electrified the air.
Days passed.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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