The Speed of Sound (Speed of Sound Thrillers #1)(36)

Stenson had three lieutenants who reported directly to him: Caitlin McCloskey, Daryl Trotter, and Jason Greers. McCloskey was the eldest daughter of one of the Foundation’s original partners. She wasn’t the visionary her father had been, but Caitlin was both extremely sharp and completely committed. She was also damn good in a crunch. The woman shined in a crisis. There was never any question she would be a Foundation lifer.

Trotter was the deep thinker of the three. He was a chess player who had achieved a FIDE rating over 2600 and the rank of Grandmaster by the age of nineteen, which only 123 other people in the world had ever accomplished. Had he not found a much better game to devote his considerable faculties to, he almost certainly would have gone on to reach the status of a Garry Kasparov or Magnus Carlsen. But from the first moment he got to play with real pawns and real rooks in the real world, from inside the confines of the American Heritage Foundation, Trotter knew he’d found his game. He never played competitive chess again.

Jason Greers was the most well rounded of the three. He was also the most ambitious. There was never much question as to which of them would get Stenson’s office when he decided to retire. The other two seemed to have accepted it—a good thing, because a fluid transition would be important when the time came.

All three were already seated at the conference table, waiting for Stenson, as he entered the room and tossed the three newspapers on the table. “Talk to me.”

Jason Greers spoke first. “It’s peculiar.”

“Why?” Stenson knew why, of course, but wanted to hear what they were thinking, just like his mentor, Walters, used to do with him.

McCloskey spoke matter-of-factly. “It was a well-coordinated strike. Well planned. Well executed. This was not the work of an amateur.”

“If it was a professional, everyone in that station would be dead.”

Trotter jumped in. “Suicide bombers are not professionals.” His thoughts were often so far ahead of what he was saying he would forget to complete a statement.

“This was not a suicide bomb.”

Trotter snapped himself back to the present. “No, it wasn’t. Which means we can rule out an amateur.”

Greers helped connect the dots that Trotter was leaving out. “Whoever the guy is, he’s good. Undoubtedly, someone we know knows him. The question we should be asking is why a professional would go through all this trouble for such a nominal result.”

Bob Stenson stated the obvious: “You’re assuming he achieved his objective. He may not have.”

“He accomplished exactly what he set out to,” McCloskey said with a degree of admiration.

“What makes you so sure?”

“There wasn’t a single useful witness description of him, and not one clean image on any surveillance camera. You have to admit that’s impressive.”

Stenson nodded. It was.

Trotter continued. “We’ve found nothing to suggest that anything went wrong. Therefore, whatever was achieved was his objective, as nominal as it might seem.”

The boss was perplexed, which was rare. “What was achieved?”

Greers smirked. “He got everyone’s attention.”

“Which could mean this was a preamble.”

Trotter shook his head. “No. Someone with this skill set acts, and then disappears. They do not draw attention to themselves before a major play. It takes away the element of surprise.”

“So if this was a one-off, what could the objective possibly have been?”

“To show that he can,” McCloskey replied. The room went quiet, because her reasoning was sound. McCloskey sat up a little straighter.

Stenson considered the thought. “You think this was a demonstration?”

“I’m saying it could have been. We don’t have enough information to know what it was. But we certainly cannot rule it out.”

Stenson nodded in agreement. One of them always came up with something he hadn’t considered. “Keep it back burner. Something’s going to turn up that will make it all make sense. It always does. Until then, focus elsewhere.”





CHAPTER 30

Jacob Hendrix’s Apartment, Greenwich Village, New York City, May 27, 7:55 a.m.

Skylar didn’t leave the apartment for over forty-eight hours. She watched the developing news coverage of the subway gas attack in mind-numbing repetition. No legitimate terrorist organization was stepping forward to claim responsibility. The determination that the gas released in the subway was not lethal sarin or VX or ricin, but only common tear gas, explained why. The news was a relief, but also infuriating. Jacob didn’t die because some group of extremists was attempting to wage war on the United States. He died because some crazy asshole in need of attention decided he didn’t care who got hurt in the process. Selfish bastard.

Eventually, she turned off the television. Nothing new was being reported. The police still had no leads, and it didn’t look like they would anytime soon. Skylar already knew all she needed to know. Jacob was gone. She would never have the opportunity to make things right with him. She would never be able to reassure him like she knew he wanted her to. She would never be able to say yes, that deep inside, she wanted the same things he did, but was just too damn afraid.

She would never be able to admit to him her deepest fears. The ones that kept her away from him and everyone else. She couldn’t tell him that it was her, and not him. She loved him; she really did. At least, as best she could.