CHAPTER ONE

Spotsylvania County, Virginia
Thursday, April 28
7:50 p.m.

He was coming for her, and he was close.
He’d parked on the driveway and would soon head for the pump house, taking long strides. Spaced evenly, methodical, as she knew Mr. Perfectionist would take, his footsteps rustling over dead grass, bringing him closer.
At the door, he would twist the rusty knob. Step inside. Spot her. She could almost hear his thoughts when he did.
I was sloppy. Now she knows. Do I let her live? Kill her? How can I dispose of the body?
The body. Ha! Her. He was going to kill her. She’d grown up with him. Lived next door for years, but he had no choice now. He had to know she wouldn’t keep quiet about this…this what? She didn’t even know what to call it.
She swept her gaze over the rough-hewn table, pausing at neat piles of white blocks covered in green cellophane. Explosives—military grade, like she’d seen in briefings in her job as a government translator. The blocks sat solidly among triggers, wires, pipes, and items she couldn’t identify. Items for a bomb. Maybe several bombs. Pages and pages of diagrams, maps, and other papers were scattered beside the equipment.
Recent television news stories raced through her brain. Explosions on the first of every month. The destruction. Chaos and confusion. Nothing more than burned-out shells left behind. Death. Muslim women. Always women.
Oh my gosh! Oren. Her childhood best friend was a killer. A terrorist. The Lone Wolf Bomber. No…no. Couldn’t be, right? But the evidence…
His car door slammed in the distance, the echo reverberating through the quiet.
He’s coming.
She had to escape, but how? The only door and window in the tiny building led to the path he’d take.
Think, Tara, think. Hurry! Hurry!
She reached for her phone. The smooth case slipped through her fingers and tumbled to the floor.
Father, please. Help me!
She dropped to her knees, her fingers crawling over the dirt floor until they curled around the cool metal. She woke it up and lifted a finger to tap in 911.
No. She should call the FBI’s hotline. The bright red letters, 1-800-THE-BOMB, had scrolled across the television screen nearly every newscast for the last few months. They were better prepared than local police to deal with a lunatic bomber. She punched in the number and the phone rang.
“Hotline, this is Special Agent Cal Riggins,” the deep male voice said.
Good. She’d gotten an actual agent.
“My aunt’s tenant, Oren Keeler.” Her words tumbled out, rushing over each other. “He has…oh my gosh…this can’t be happening. I’m…I’m in the pump house. Behind my aunt’s home. There are bomb-making materials here.”
“Calm down,” Agent Riggins said. “What’s your name?”
Calm down? Was he nuts? “I can’t calm down. Oren just drove up. Once he finds me here, he’ll kill me.”
“It would help if I had your name,” Agent Riggins said evenly when her body revved on high octane.
He was so infuriatingly composed, Tara wanted to shout at him to take her seriously, but Oren would hear her. “My name’s Tara. Tara Parrish.”
“Hello, Tara.”
She didn’t have time for pleasantries. “I need you to get someone over here now. Before he comes inside and discovers me.”
“What’s your address?”
She rattled off the farm address in rural Virginia about an hour and a half from her home in Washington, D.C. “I’m down the drive. In the pump house. It’s not more than a shed behind the hired hand’s house Oren rents. He grew up next door, but his mother died last year and he recently lost the farm. My aunt invited him to live here.”
“Why are you in the pump house?”
“My aunt…She wasn’t getting any water at the main house, so she asked me to check the pump. The door was locked, but I broke in and found…oh, no…no. I can’t believe this is happening.”
Her heart rate skyrocketed, and she shot across the room, putting as much distance as possible between her and the door.
“Where is Keeler now?”
“He just got out of his car and will be here soon. He wasn’t supposed to be home, but he came back early. He’s gonna…oh my gosh…he’ll…” She couldn’t say the words aloud, as everything suddenly seemed terrifyingly real.
“Is there another way out of the shed?” Agent Riggins asked, that infuriating calm remaining in place.
“Nothing he can’t see. I can’t…” A sob stole her words, and tears pricked at her eyes, itching, burning for release. She swallowed hard to fight them off.
“Hey, hey, now, Tara,” he soothed.
She heard clicking on the line, then silence. Terrifying, horrible silence.
“Are you still there?” she cried out.
“Don’t worry, I’m here. I’ll get you through this. My team is already dispatching a sheriff’s deputy.”
What? He was passing her off. Unbelievable.
Tears gave way to anger. “But what about you? You’re the FBI. You should be here, too. To arrest Oren. He could be the Lone Wolf. The bomber you’re looking for. I thought you’d make this a priority.”
“It is a priority, and I’m on my way. But even with a chopper on standby, it’ll take twenty minutes or so for me to arrive.” She heard activity in the background of the call, and his breathing picked up as if he was on the move. “The deputy can arrive sooner. Until then, I need you to take proactive measures.”
“What can I do other than blow up one of his bombs?” Hysterical laughter bubbled up, and she swallowed it down.
“Does the door open in?” he asked, ignoring her panic.
“Yes.”
“If you’re not by the door, go over there.”
“But that’s where he’ll be.”
“Just trust me, Tara. Go to the door. Stand behind it so when he pushes it open he doesn’t see you.”
He sounded so certain, so sure, that she did as he asked and crossed the room.
“Okay, I’m there,” she whispered, but didn’t have peace about moving closer to Oren.
Agent Riggins might be able to give directions that he thought would help, but he didn’t know Oren. Didn’t know his tenacity. She did. Had experienced it when he declared his love three months ago, and she’d let him down not too gently, but he still needed a giant stick upside the head to get a clue.
“Now find something big and hard that you can strike him with,” Agent Riggins continued. “If the deputy doesn’t arrive before Keeler enters the building, you’ll have to disable him.”
She looked around the room and found a thick, jagged piece of wood. She almost laughed, as it was looking like Oren would get that whack upside the head he sorely needed, but there was nothing funny about her situation.
She lowered her voice to keep Oren from hearing her. “Okay. I found a board. It should work.”
“Good. Now you’re ready to take action if needed,” Agent Riggins said over the sound of his footsteps pounding in the background of the call.
“I…he…” She lost her voice. Lost her breath. Concentrated but couldn’t seem to draw in enough air. She was suffocating.
“Let’s not focus on Keeler,” he said. “Why don’t you describe the items on the table?”
Right. Forget the man who walked up the path ready to kill her.
“Come on, Tara,” Agent Riggins commanded. “Breathe deep and look at the table. Tell me what you see.”
She could at least give it a try. She glanced at her aunt’s old potting bench with chipped and peeling green paint. “There’s a cardboard box. It’s labeled ‘Explosives Dangerous Handle Carefully.’ Next to it are white blocks. They’re wrapped in green shrink-wrap.”
“How many packs?”
“I don’t know. Fifteen. Maybe more.”
A low whistle came over the phone.
“That’s bad, right? I knew it. Really bad.” She moved her focus farther down the table. “There’s also a bunch of PVC pipe connected with elbows to look like a C.”
“C,” he mumbled.
“Yeah. Is that bad?”
“Can be.”
“Does the Lone Wolf use pipes like these?” she asked, knowing reporters had never revealed specifics of his bombs.
“Sorry. I can’t discuss that with you.”
Translated, yeah, the Lone Wolf used PVC pipe and odds of Oren being the bomber were growing by the minute.
Panic finally won out, and she clutched a corroded pipe to stay upright. “With the way Oren changed, I should have known something like this could happen. We were friends growing up, but he got weird in high school. Always spouting off about causes that no one cared about. Then he changed religions and tried to get us to convert to the Islamic faith. So I guess this isn’t unbelievable. Or maybe it is. I mean bombs. Who does that? Not someone in my life.”
Her thoughts traveled to her aunt waiting for her at the main house. “Oh my gosh, my Aunt June. She’s going to freak when she hears the Lone Wolf is living on her property.”
“You could be wrong about this. Maybe Keeler’s letting a friend use the space.”
“Oren? Friends? No…no, he doesn’t have any friends. He’s a loner.”
A car trunk slammed, and then footsteps crunched over gravel.
Her heart skipped a beat. “How long will it take for the deputy to get here?”
“He’s five minutes out.”
“That’s too long.” She whispered to keep from being heard. “Oren’s coming to the door. What do I do?”
“First, take a deep breath, Tara.” Agent Riggins’s soothing voice returned, serene, almost melodic, yet deep and strong.
She thought she’d like him if she lived to meet him.
“C’mon,” he continued. “Breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
She tried it. Managed two cycles before she heard Oren’s footsteps stop. Her throat closed.
“He’s right outside. I can hear him.” The words came out on an exhale.
Her hand shook so badly she almost dropped the phone.
“Calm down, Tara. Put the phone in your pocket so Keeler doesn’t know you’ve called to report him. It’ll also free your hands to take a better hold on the wood you found.”
“Hang up? What? No. No. I don’t want to hang up. Don’t leave me alone.”
“I won’t. Just put the phone in your pocket, and I can continue to listen in. We’ll stay connected. Okay?”
The doorknob turned, a click of the metal sounding like an explosion in her head. “Please stay with me, Agent Riggins. Please.”
“Don’t worry, Tara. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you.”
Right, he’d said that, but he wasn’t here, now, was he? Her life was in her own hands. Hers alone.

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