Ocean Boulevard, right; Atlantic, north. No bus. Horns honked at them on several occasions.

“Time?” she asked.

“Nine thirty-seven.”

“Come on! Come on!”

Sam backtracked. When they hit Third again, the light was red and cars blocked the intersection. A bus numbered “6453–17” rumbled by, headed west on Third Street. Wrong bus. The car was stuffy. Sweat beaded their foreheads. The intersection cleared and Sam shoved the accelerator down. “Come on, baby. Where are you?”

She’d cleared the intersection by fifty feet when she slammed on the brakes.

“What?”

She jerked her head around and stared back toward Third Street. She frantically grabbed her cell phone, hit the redial button.

“Yes, could you tell me which bus runs down Third Street?”

Kevin heard the deep male voice from his seat. “The Third Street bus. You need—”

Sam slammed the phone shut, yanked the wheel around, and pulled directly into traffic. She pulled through a screaming U-turn, cutting off a white Volvo and a blue sedan. Horns blared.

“They call the buses by their street names, not their numbers!” Sam said.

“But you don’t know if Slater—”

“We know where the Third Street bus is. Let’s clear it first and then go for twenty-three.” She squealed onto Third Street and honed in on the bus, not a hundred yards ahead. Obviously dispatch hadn’t reached the driver yet.

Nineteen minutes.

Sam pulled directly in front of the bus and braked. The bus blasted its horn and ground to a halt behind them.

“Tell the driver to evacuate and stay clear for at least half an hour. Tell them to spread the word to the other cars on the street. Tell them there’s a bomb—it works every time. I’m calling Agent Peters.”

Kevin ran to the bus. He hammered on the door, but the driver, an older man who must have been three times his recommended weight, refused to open.

“There’s a bomb on board!” he yelled, flinging his hands out like an explosion. “A bomb!” He wondered if any of them recognized him from the television. The kid-killer is now downtown pulling old women off of buses.

A young man who looked like Tom Hanks stuck his head out an open window. “A what?”

“A bomb! Get out! Clear the bus. Clear the street.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the door hissed open, and the same young man stumbled out. He yelled back into the bus.

“Get them out, you idiot! He said there’s a bomb on this bus!”

A dozen passengers—half by what Kevin could see—bolted from their seats. The driver seemed to catch the fever. “Okay, everyone out! Watch your step. Just a precaution, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t shove!”

Kevin grabbed the Tom Hanks look-alike. “Clear this street and stay clear for at least thirty minutes, you hear? Get them all out of here!”

“What is it? How do you know?”

Kevin ran for Sam’s car. “Trust me. Just get them clear. The police are on their way.” The passengers didn’t need any encouragement. Cars stopped and then sped past the bus or backed away.

He slid into the car.

“Hold on,” Sam said. She sped off, took an immediate right on the next street, and headed back toward Atlantic.

“One down. Fifteen minutes left.”

“This is nuts,” Kevin said. “We don’t even know if Slater’s—”

The cell phone went berserk in his pocket. Kevin froze and stared at his right thigh.

“What?” Sam asked.

“He . . . he’s calling.”

The phone vibrated again and this time he grabbed it. Samantha slowed.

“Hello?”

“I said no cops, Kevin,” Slater’s soft voice said. “No cops means no cops.”

Kevin’s fingers began to shake. “You mean the FBI?”

“Policemen. From now on it’s you and Sam and Jennifer and me and no one else.”

End call.

Sam had slowed way down. She looked at him with wide eyes. “What did he say?”

“He said no cops.”

The ground suddenly shook. An explosion thundered. They both ducked.

“Turn around! Turn around!”

“That was the bus,” Sam whispered. She spun the car around and sped back the way they’d come.

Kevin stared as they rolled onto Third. Boiling flames and thick black smoke engulfed the surreal scene. Three blackened cars parked next to the bus smoldered. God only knew if anyone was hurt, but the immediate area looked vacant. Books lay scattered among the shattered glass of a used bookstore’s windows. Its “Read It Again” sign dangled over the sidewalk dangerously. The shop owner stumbled out, stunned.

Sam shoved the gearshift into park and stared at the unearthly scene.

Her cell phone screeched and Kevin started. She lifted it slowly. “Sheer.”

She blinked and immediately refocused. “How long ago?” She looked at Kevin and then the bus. A siren wailed. A car Kevin immediately recognized as Jennifer’s squealed around the corner and headed toward them.

“Can Rodriguez question him?” Sam asked into her phone. “I’m in a bit of a pinch here.” She turned away and lowered her voice. “He just blew up a bus. I’m parked in a car, fifty feet away from it. Yes, I am pretty sure.” She listened.

Jennifer roared up and stuck her head out of her car’s window. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Kevin said. His fingers were numb and his mind dazed, but he was okay.

Samantha acknowledged Jennifer with a nod, turned to the side, and covered her exposed ear. “Yes, sir. Right away. I understand . . .” She glanced at her watch. “The ten-thirty flight?”

Kevin shoved his door open.

Jennifer stopped him. “No, stay put. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.” She drove toward the bus.

Sam finished her conversation and closed the phone.

“Do you think anyone was hurt?” Kevin asked.

She looked at the bus and shook her head. “I don’t know, but we were lucky to find it when we did.”

Kevin groaned and ran both hands through his hair.

“I have to go,” Sam said. “That was the call I thought I might get. They want me to question a witness. His attorney will have him out by midafternoon. Unfortunately, I can’t miss this. I’ll explain it when I get—”

“I can’t believe Slater did this,” Kevin said, staring around again. “He would have killed over twenty people if we hadn’t stumbled onto this bus.”

She shook her head. “This changes the game. Look, I’ll be back on the first flight this evening, okay? I promise. But I have to leave now if I’m going to make the flight.” She rubbed his shoulder and looked in Jennifer’s direction. “Tell her I’ll call and give her my take; she’ll take care of you.” Three marked police cars had arrived and surrounded the charred bus. “We’ll make it, my dear knight. I swear we’ll make it.”

Kevin nodded. “This is insane.”

10

WITHIN FIVE MINUTES OF THE EXPLOSION, a couple dozen law enforcement officials—mostly local police but including some from her own office and several from state agencies—isolated the crime scene and began the forensic investigation. They had quickly located the bomb. By all initial appearances it was the same as the bomb in Kevin’s car, only larger.

Jennifer situated Kevin in a coffee shop four doors down from the bus with strict instructions not to move—she’d be back in twenty minutes.

The parameters of the investigation had just changed. Bill Galager from the Los Angeles office arrived, as well as two junior investigators, John Mathews and Brett Mickales. They would work the case from an evidence angle, freeing her to focus on the psychology of it. One conclusion required no degree in criminal psychology—when Slater said no cops, he meant absolutely no cops. And he had the means to know if cops were involved.

According to Kevin, Slater had mentioned her by name. Jennifer. The maniac was drawing her into another trap, wasn’t he? By the looks of the bus, he’d graduated into a new class.

No cops. No CBI, except Samantha, who happened to be connected to Kevin by his childhood and the boy. No ATF. No sheriff or state police. Just FBI and, specifically, just Jennifer.