How long had the phone been ringing? Hard to say. She fished it out, opened it, and it nipped her thumb again. She juggled the two phones long enough to remove the cracked plastic’s hold on her skin, then she lifted it to her left ear. She snapped photos as she talked. Two more black vans had arrived.
“Agent Otto,” she said, into what sounded like silence. Maybe a satellite delay, or maybe her hearing was more impaired than she thought.
“Damage report?” her boss asked. Was there concern in his tone? Perhaps he was relieved to hear her voice. In which case he should have said so. What would he have done if someone else had answered because she’d died in the blast? Dumb question. If she’d died, no one would have answered. The phone would have died, too. Its vibrating insistence would have been permanently stilled. And the phantom cell was untraceable, dead or alive. If someone found its parts eventually, it would have made no difference; the boss would never have been officially involved. She was under the radar. She could be dead now. Did he care?
“Agent Otto?” he asked again, louder. More insistent this time. “What is your status?”
“No physical damage,” Kim said, answering the question he should have asked.
“And Gaspar?”
“Gaspar’s fine, too. Thanks for asking.” Cheeky response. Too defensive. Maybe she was just tired. Or still a little hysterical.
“No damage at all?” She thought he sounded relieved. So he had known. About the bomb. When he ordered them away from the Chevy this morning.
“Not to us,” Kim said.
“That’s good,” he said, as if he actually believed it.
Uniformed teams approached from vehicles parked on all sides of the disaster site. She had to move. She put her personal phone back in her pocket and walked away from the Chevy, still holding the phantom cell to her ear.
“What else is going on out there?” he asked.
“It’s difficult to hear you, sir. The noise is overwhelming. Fire’s controlled. Injured transported. Casualties processing. Local professionals doing their jobs. Federals moving in on schedule. Atlanta FBI either here on the way, most likely.” She added the last sentence to make him sweat.
“How long before you can get out of there and finish your assignment?”
Finally, he gets to the point. With something like curiosity, she observed her detachment morph to anger. A normal reaction? Odd in context, she realized. She asked, “Which assignment is that, sir? The Reacher file? Or the Sylvia Black case?”
“Both,” he said, but the admission cost him.
She smiled to herself. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Maybe longer.” Oh, what the hell, she thought, before plowing ahead. “We could use some help.”
“What kind of help?”
“We need background. Access to FBI databases, at least. Someone inside to get information to us as we need it. For now, send me Sylvia Black’s tax returns, both before and after she married Harry. Include all the attachments, too.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He paused, but he didn’t promise. “When will you have a report for me?”
Flash point. Her simmering hurt triggered like another VIED. She felt the familiar millisecond sequence in her head: click, blast wave, percussion, shrapnel, massive fire, billowing black smoke, unbreatheable air.
Darkness.
She pulled the phone away from her ear. Snapped it closed. It bit the skin it had damaged twice before. She held the beast away from her body. She squeezed hard to release its grip. The crack separated, pinched and pierced her skin, refused to release her. Blood trickled across the phone’s surface and down her wrist.
She threw the damn thing down and crushed it with the heel of her FBI regulation footwear. She left its pieces on the hard ground and walked away.
She was through the barrier, to where she stopped worrying and did what needed doing. She had been there before. She welcomed the feeling, slipped into it like an old leather jacket.
Gaspar was waiting for her twenty yards ahead. Behind him were the four old burned-out warehouses that Reacher had somehow wrought.
Death begets death.
More was coming.
She picked up her pace.