This is the stuff of nightmares, come to life.

The dozens of uniformed cops posted up and down the sidewalks are bravely springing into action. Barking orders, shouting commands, gesturing manically, straining to keep some semblance of order, as people race, bump into one another, trip and fall down, trampling one another underfoot.

My pistol is still in my hand and I feel utterly useless.

Failure.

I failed, the NOPD failed, the FBI failed.

And Billy has succeeded.

I flatten myself against a brick wall as the crowds surge by. Pushing. Shoving. Shouting. Crying. Mass hysteria begins to unfold as thousands of terrified spectators desperately try to flee. Many have their phones out, snapping pictures or recording videos as they go. But most don’t dare look back. Or slow down for one second.

As for myself, I get shoved left and right. Shouldered. Rammed into. Even as flat as I am against the warm brick wall.

I’m nearly trampled in the mad stampede—because I’m not going anywhere.

Instead of joining the flow of evacuees, I’m battling against the current, struggling with all my strength to hold my ground.

The reason is simple.

As awful as these three initial explosions seem to be, Billy’s plot was too elaborate, too expensive, too expansive, to be just three bombs.

I’m sure of it. I’d bet my life on it.

I have a terrible feeling that this is only the beginning.

CHAPTER 78

I grip the handle of my pistol, ready to shoot. Crouching low, I scan the chaotic scene.

Gotta stay cool, I tell myself. Eyes open. Stay alert. Trust your training.

If there’s another concealed explosive device somewhere in the vicinity, I know I won’t be able to spot it. Everywhere I look, there are hundreds of hiding places. Trash cans, discarded backpacks, overturned coolers. And there’s no time and no resources to search these hiding places.

But I might be able to pick out a human threat.

I take a deep breath, an attempt to stem the adrenaline rush that’s making my body tremble.

Then I start searching for anyone who looks out of place.

Anyone acting suspiciously calm.

Anyone not in uniform carrying a gun of his own.

And anyone I recognize. Like one of the monsters who terrorized Vanessa. Or anyone who showed up at that scrapyard meeting.

Or of course, Billy Needham himself.

Seconds tick by. Nothing.

The air begins to take on the bitter smell of a cocktail of gunpowder, smoke, and the stench of human fear. Sirens wail in the distance.

I can feel something coming, but there’s still no sign of what it might be.

Another bomb? A sniper? A chemical attack?

I stay low. Knees bent. Head on a swivel.

Scanning. Scanning.

Until … I hear it.

The revving of an engine. As loud as an Indy stock car.

What the hell?

My eyes focus on the source.