Baggage Claim (Tru Exceptions - Christian Romantic Suspense Book 1) (2 page)

"What's a bomb doing in my suitcase?" Rachel shrieked, thoroughly freaking out.

"Rachel, you need to stay calm," Dawson ordered, not even looking her direction. "Remember our audience. Keep pretending to be infatuated with me."

Rachel was tense and quiet as Dawson carefully touched and inspected the contraption. Other than the display, it didn't look like a typical bomb you would see on TV. There were no multicolored exposed wires. Instead, the display was mounted on some kind of large metal case. A small screen, about the size of an iPad sat on the case beside the display monitor. Standard looking electrical wires connected the screen to both the case and the display.

After quickly, yet gently inspecting every square centimeter of the contents of the suitcase, Dawson took his cell phone out and pushed a button.

"We've got the girl and the suitcase. It's as bad as we thought, maybe worse. I've never seen a bomb like this before. It's all computerized with the explosives and wiring encased in a box. I can't get into the box, but I'm pretty sure everything is rigged with trip wires so that if you were to attempt to get inside, the bomb would go off. I'm fairly certain that it's also rigged with an internal tracking device. How else would they know when the girl had the bomb in position? I see no clear way to disengage the tracking device or disarm the bomb."

After listening a minute, Dawson said, "I'll do better than that, I'll send you a picture."

Using his phone, he took a picture of the bomb and sent it. His phone rang about twenty seconds later.

"Okay, and you're sure turning the screen on won't trigger it?" Dawson asked. "Alright then, I'll just try not to push the wrong buttons."

As a blue screen came up, Dawson removed a small wireless keyboard from where it had been nestled between the bomb and the side of the suitcase. As he listened and typed for the next two minutes, Rachel had to fight the strong urge to bite her fingernails. Apparently, finding what he was looking for, he rattled off a bunch of letters and numbers that were displayed on the screen.

"Okay, but get it done fast," he said. "We have no idea how strong this thing is or how much patience these guys have. It doesn't matter where in New York we are. If this thing goes off, we're talking about major damage and lots of people dead."

Disconnecting the call, he leaned forward and spoke to the driver in a cheery voice. "Well, Joe, the bottom line is they don't know how to disarm it or even disable the tracking device. We've got to buy them some time while they try to hack in and figure it out remotely. I guess you're our tour guide. It's not like there's a less populated area of Manhattan to take this thing to. We should stay away from Times Square, obviously, since that was the target. We should probably also avoid the Financial District. How does a trip around Central Park sound? That way they'll think we're just doing a romantic sightseeing trip, and if it goes off, the blast won't be entirely absorbed by buildings and people."

"Are you sure we shouldn't head north and try to get it as far away from Manhattan as possible?" Joe asked.

Rachel couldn't help feeling a little surprised that Joe was with Homeland Security as well. He looked to be in his forties and was a smaller man than Dawson. His face had the rough stubble of a few days break from shaving, and a Yankees baseball cap covered what Rachel thought was probably a receding hairline. All considered, he looked the part of a typical taxi driver.

"We can't leave Manhattan until they have the bomb disarmed or at least the tracking signal disabled. The minute the terrorists think it's leaving Manhattan, they'll detonate it. If we even cross a bridge, we're goners."

"Got it," Joe responded. "We're still leading a bit of a parade. I've spotted at least two vehicles who are following a short distance back, but, right now, they don't seem to be insisting on an interview."

Dawson put his arm around Rachel. "Good, maybe we've got them fooled for now, or at least a little off-balance. They don't know who we are and are probably hoping Rachel will eventually make it back to her hotel."

"Why?" Rachel asked, finally feeling like she could interrupt the conversation to get some answers. "Why do they want me to go to the hotel? What is their plan? Oh, and who exactly are
they
?"

Dawson used his arm to pull her close and touched his forehead to hers. Rachel fought the urge to squirm out of his embrace. Her romantic history was rather sparse. She knew that she tended to be very picky. But, to her credit, the selection in rural Montana was quite slim. Now, having a stranger show more physical affection than Rachel had ever experienced was more than a little disconcerting, despite the necessity. Rachel realized that anyone following them would think the two shadows in the back seat were having a loving and intimate conversation.

"
They
are a group of highly organized, highly intelligent, highly determined terrorists. Their plan was for you to take the bomb in your suitcase into your room at the hotel, at which time they would detonate it."

"But why would they want to blow up my hotel? I would think some tall skyscraper in the financial district during the day would have been the target, like on 9-11."

"There are some high level political figures staying at that hotel right now. They're here for some meetings, but their lodging was supposed to be kept secret. Obviously, the terrorists found out about it. Also, the hotel is the InterContinental Times Square. It's one of the best hotels and located in the heart and cultural center of the city, if not the country. A bomb at that time and location would be devastating economically, politically, and emotionally, not to mention the lives lost and the damage to the morale of the entire country."

Rachel closed her eyes, trying to wrap her mind around this unbelievable, nightmarish situation. It seemed straight out of one of those futuristic disaster movies. And those movies never had a 100% character survival rate.

"But why me? Why was I the mule? I'm from Montana, for Pete's sake! The population of my hometown is less than 1,000, and that estimate probably includes a few cows rather than people! Why would they use me? I'm a nobody!" Rachel groaned and put both hands on her head. "This feels so surreal. I don't understand how
I
could get mixed up in a terrorist plot."

"You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, Rachel. Or, from the perspective of these terrorists, you were headed to exactly the right place at exactly the right time."

Rachel pinned Dawson with a mildly accusing gaze. “I recognized you as the rude man from the airport. Why didn't you stop me there?"

"I really wasn't that rude. I had a bad feeling about the way things were going. I was kind of hoping, for your sake, that if I made you mad enough, you'd leave or hurry things up and get out of there."

"But if you knew about the plan, why didn't you stop them from putting a bomb in my suitcase in the first place?"

"I didn't know about the plan--at least I didn't know enough details to take any action and risk the consequences. We have been investigating an upcoming terrorist attack on New York City for some time, but we've not been able to identify any of the details of where, when, and who was involved. We just today picked up enough chatter to determine the plot was going forward immediately. From that same information, we suspected the bomb might somehow come through luggage at the airport. We still had no idea of the identity of the persons involved, the target, or the intended time frame. We sent undercover agents throughout LaGuardia, watching for anything suspicious. It occurred to me that the absolute best way to get a bomb in the right place without arousing suspicion would be to have someone unknowingly deliver it. However, I was not the only agent in that line behind you."

As they talked, the taxi wound its way around the Central Park area. Dawson would periodically point at things, trying to provide a pantomime of sightseeing for those observing.

"I guess you did try to get me to open the suitcase there at the airport," Rachel said while trying to match appropriate gestures to Dawson's performance. Under normal circumstances, Rachel's eyes would have been glued to the window, taking in everything that was New York. But, she was currently having trouble taking her eyes off the ominous suitcase bomb still perched in Dawson's lap.

"Yes," Dawson replied. "I thought that if they really had planted a bomb in your suitcase and you started to open it, they would have to somehow tip their hand to try to stop you. Then we could have taken care of the problem there. But you didn't feel like cooperating."

"No, I didn't. In retrospect, I wish I had."

"No, actually, it was probably a good thing you didn't. If we had known for sure about the bomb, all the DHS and FBI agents in the airport would have descended on that suitcase. No one would have come close to disarming the bomb before the terrorists decided a New York City airport was a good enough target."

"But I still don't understand why I was the mule. Were they just waiting for someone who was staying at the InterContinental Times Square to lose some luggage?

"No, we think you were targeted specifically in that regard. The best we can guess is that the company who is sponsoring your trip booked all of your travel arrangements through a travel agency. Those records listing the details of your travel wouldn't be difficult at all to obtain. Your bags were probably 'lost' intentionally so the contents could be replaced."

"So, have you also figured out who the terrorists are? Have they been arrested? Was that Stacy at the Lost Luggage counter one of them? She acted very strange, but I never would have pegged her as a terrorist."

Dawson laughed. "And you think you can spot a terrorist a mile away? The short answer is no. We don't know who's behind this plot. We have some suspects, but we can't make any arrests until we figure out this bomb. Right now they don't realize that we're on to them. The minute we start making specific inquiries and arrests at the airport, this thing blows sky high, literally. But, gut instinct? No, I don't think Stacy is a terrorist. I think she's probably just a pawn like you."

Rachel hated the thought that she had been a pawn. In a lot of ways, she still was. Now it was just the other side's turn to use her.

"So what do you think our chances are? Do you think they'll be able to disarm that thing before the terrorists get impatient?" Rachel asked, still staring at the bomb, expecting it to come to life at any second.

Rachel felt Dawson's eyes on her, as if he were taking her measure and wondering exactly how much truth she could handle.

"Our chances aren't good," he said finally, apparently deciding to be blunt. "This bomb uses new technology we haven't encountered before. If the expert geniuses had enough time, they could probably disarm it, but, at any moment these people could figure out what we're trying to do and blow it up. If you are the praying type, you'd better be making some intense conversation with God. I'm sorry, but it's not at all likely we'll survive this. We don't even know how strong the explosion would be, so we'll just have to do the best we can to minimize the damage. The good news is, if they detonate the bomb, you won't have time to feel anything."

"Oh, good, that makes me feel better," Rachel replied sarcastically. "How could a bomb that fits in my suitcase be such a threat?"

"As I said, it uses new technology, so we're not exactly sure what we're dealing with. If I had to guess, the bomb is using C24 as an explosive. C24 is twenty-five times more powerful than C4. The terrorists are going to be very reluctant to part with it; not only because of their ruined plan, but because C24 can be traced. It's like a fingerprint. If we have the bomb, we have them. But, if this thing goes off, we're talking massive casualties and destruction. But like I said, you won't feel anything."

Feeling overwhelmed, she leaned her head back against the seat, took deep breaths, and tried to do exactly what Dawson had suggested--pray.

"Sheesh, you're not going to cry, are you?" Dawson asked with disgust. "I should have realized you'd be the emotional type. You're probably one of those who cries at sad commercials. Do you pass out when you're under stress as well?"

"No, I do not faint. And no, I am not crying." Rachel retorted, her voice tense with anger. Apparently, Rachel was right in her first impression of him. And, in her mind, he'd just ensured himself to be the lifetime recipient of the title, 'The Rudest Man.' "You assume these things about me when, the truth is, you know nothing about who I am."

"I know a lot more about you than you think. When you left La Guardia, we still didn't know for sure there was a bomb in your suitcase. But, given the fact that your suitcase just seemed to magically appear after being lost, I was fairly certain there was. We still had no idea what the intended target was, though, so we followed you. By the time we intercepted you at the hotel, you had been fully researched, and I knew more about you than I ever wanted to know."

The jerk!
Rachel thought. Before Rachel could tell him exactly what she thought, Dawson began a recitation, as if he was reading from a file.

"Rachel Leigh Saunders. Born and raised in Justice, Montana, a small town about 50 miles outside of Helena. Uneventful life, good kid, no trouble with the law. Obtained a Bachelor of Arts in Biology. Was registered for a Physician's Assistant program, but, when father had a heart attack, she decided to step into her father's shoes and run her family's ranch. Regarding a personal life, it does not appear as if she has one. No males have been linked to her name in any records, and, according to Facebook, she has never changed her status from 'single.' "