Six Seconds

80

Cold Butte, Montana

Graham entered the bedroom in Jake Conlin’s house. Dim light splintered through shutters, casting the room in shadow.

A man lay on the bed; his face was turned. “Jake Conlin!”

Graham touched the man’s shoulder, his fingers found tacky wetness. Nothing moved. The darker shad ows were blood-drenched sheets.

Jake Conlin’s throat had been cut.

Graham retreated from the room, found a cordless phone. Carefully, he picked it up by the edge of its frame and used a pen tip to press 911.

“This is Lone Tree emergency, do you require police, fire or paramedics?”

“Police and paramedics to 1023 °Crystal Creek Road.”

“On their way. What is your emergency?” “White male approximately thirty-five years of age.

Deceased in an apparent homicide.”

“Homicide? Out on Crystal Creek Road?” “Yes. Are they rolling?”

“Sir, it will take a bit of time to reach your location.

Stay on the line. I need your identification, sir.” Graham identified himself with his regimental num ber, then said, “Please listen carefully. I request that you immediately alert the Secret Service detail on papal security. And the FBI. This homicide could be related to the two traffic fatalities on Highway 87 east of Lewis town and a pending attack on the pope at Cold Butte.” “Repeat that, sir.”

Graham did, then with his free hand he fished his cell phone from his pocket and tried to reach Blake Walker as he returned to the living room.

He’d glimpsed something here. What was it? Some thing repeating?

He couldn’t reach Walker.

Staying on the phone with the dispatcher and search ing the living room, he stared at the TV’s live coverage then noticed the laptop on a desk. The computer was wired with a Web cam.

The screen was lit.

The machine was running a number of programs and features.

Walking toward it, he saw pictures of Samara, the same woman in Maggie’s restaurant photograph with

Jake and Logan.

But these photos were different.

She was with another man and another boy. They were happy, smiling. Joyous. Standing in front of a palm tree, standing in a public square, the entrance to a city.

Middle East? Baghdad, maybe?

Drop by drop, the awful realization fell on Graham as he got closer to the computer.

In one corner of the screen a small video was running, repeating itself in a continuous loop.

It was Samara.

Wearing a white hijab. As she stared back at Graham, her eyes burned.

“…I am not a jihadist…”

In seconds as Samara spoke of her pain and her vengeful plan, Graham recognized what he was view ing.

The “martyr’s video” of a suicide bomber.

No!

Graham then noticed several cables wending from the back of the laptop to and through an open window. The cables continued outside to a tripod and a satellite dish. Inside, affixed to the cords just behind the laptop, there was a small box with an antenna. The box had several small blinking red and green lights, and a display window with red flashing numbers.

Graham’s knees nearly buckled as the enormity landed on him.

All the spit in his mouth vanished and his stomach quaked.

Something would be activated from this laptop!

The small box was a timer clock.

It was counting down!