Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(60)

His voice echoed throughout the concourse as the nearest handler came over with his German shepherd. Elizabeth pointed. We all pointed at the garbage bin. The handler never broke stride.

Within seconds, though, he was turning back to us and shaking his head. We could already tell. His dog wasn’t picking up anything.

“Maybe it’s the metal?” asked Pritchard, referring to the bin. “Is it trapping the scent?”

“Not at all,” said the handler, pointing to the gaps along the side panels. “Plenty of places where air is getting through.”

“And the smell of the garbage itself?” asked Foxx. “It wouldn’t mask the scent?”

The handler thought for a second, which was clearly one second too long for Pritchard. “Dog!” he yelled again. “ALL OF THEM!”

It was shades of Westminster as a parade of canines made its way past the bin. Mostly German shepherds, a few rottweilers, and one Belgian Malinois. I knew for sure what my father was thinking, especially since there was no vizsla in the pack. He was wishing Diamond were here.

We all kept waiting for at least one of the dogs to sit—what they’re trained to do when they smell an explosive. If there’d been any C-4, they would’ve all sat immediately. Of all bomb components, C-4 gives off the strongest scent. After that comes dynamite and Tovex. No dog could ever miss any of those.

But not a single dog sat.

“Screw it,” said Pritchard, stepping forward. “Everyone clear the area.”





CHAPTER 84


THE DOG handlers were as well trained as their dogs. They immediately pulled back, as told.

Foxx turned on his heel to Pritchard, staring at him sideways. “What do you think you’re doing, Evan?”

“I’m seeing if the damn backpack is in there or not,” said Pritchard.

“The hell you are. EOD will be here any minute.”

It was typical of Foxx that he would choose explosive ordinance disposal over bomb squad. But it didn’t matter either way what Foxx had said. Pritchard didn’t care. “I don’t feel like waiting,” he said.

“I’m sure you don’t,” said Foxx. “I’m also sure you don’t feel like dying.”

We listened to them go back and forth a few more times. This wasn’t the argument I’d been thinking about with Pritchard. That argument I knew was still coming—the kind of moral dilemma that haunts all law enforcement in the war on terror. The sooner we got to it the better.

Tick-tock, I kept hearing in my head. But not from any backpack.

“There’s no bomb,” I announced. Apparently not loud enough, though. Everyone was still tuned into the Foxx versus Pritchard jabberfest. I tried again. “THERE’S NO BOMB!”

That did the trick. Everyone turned to me. Huh?

“How do you know there’s no backpack in there?” asked Pritchard.

“Yeah,” said Foxx. “How do you know?”

“I didn’t say there was no backpack. I said there’s no bomb.” That didn’t clear anything up. Nor did this. “In fact, I’ll bet the backpack is actually in there.”

Foxx shook his head in disgust at me. I’d seen it before. Heard it, too. “You give your instincts way too much credit, Reinhart.”

“Then you’re really not going to like this,” I said, walking up to the trash bin. “Ten seconds for anyone who feels like running.”

The only one who didn’t flinch was my father. I was sure he’d already worked it out in his head, probably a split second before I did.

It wasn’t just that the dogs didn’t smell anything. Or that the guy originally carrying the backpack would somehow think to hit up an ATM before depositing a bomb. It was that he allowed himself to be in front of the station’s security cameras without making any attempt to conceal the backpack. That would’ve been the same foolish mistake those Al-Qaeda wannabe kids made with the Boston Marathon. They were smart enough to wait until the bomb-sniffing dogs had swept the area around the finish line but too stupid to realize there would be footage of them before and after they placed their backpacks.

Only we weren’t dealing with kids here.

As sure as Sadira Yavari did reconnaissance at the hotel without using Halo, this guy with the pointed beard never thought anyone would be watching him after the fact. Why? Because this was only a dress rehearsal. A dry run. A way to see if the backpack would stay unnoticed until all of the backpacks were planted. Just as they did in Times Square.

“What do you think they’ll ultimately use, Dad? A duffel or a carry-on?” I asked. In other words, how would they transport the backpacks with the actual bombs?

“Probably carry-ons,” my father answered. “Two wheels, pop-up handles. Standard.”

“Any chance they’ll make the same mistake the Lashkar-e-Tayyiba did in New Delhi?”

“You mean, at the Karim Hotel?” My father grinned.

Lashkar-e-Tayyiba, the Islamic terrorist group that mainly attacks targets in India, had attempted to blow up the famous Karim Hotel but inexplicably used red suitcases. A half dozen of them, no less. The CIA, working in conjunction with India’s Intelligence Bureau, already had been tracking the bombers, but the red suitcases made spotting them almost comically easy.