I groaned and turned over, seeing her silhouette sitting up in bed.
“Bree Stone,” she answered groggily.
Then she stiffened. Her free hand reached out and tapped me as she put the call on speaker.
“A city on edge,” the voice purred. “A third bomb found. Fears of more to come.”
The diction and tone of the bomber’s voice was as Bree had described it. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman talking.
“Are there more to come?”
“Every day until people start to feel it in their bones,” the bomber said. “Until there’s a shift in their mind-set, so they understand what it feels like.”
“What kind of shift? Feel like what?”
“Still don’t get it, do you? Look in Union Station, Chief Stone. In a few hours it will be packed with commuters.”
The connection died.
“Shit,” Bree said. She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed, already making calls as she moved toward the closet.
I was up and tugging on clothes when central dispatch answered her call, and she started barking orders as she dressed.
“We have a credible bomb threat in Union Station,” Bree said. “Call Metro Transit Police. Clear Union Station and set up a perimeter outside. Get dogs and bomb squads there ASAP. Alert Chief Michaels. Alert FBI SAC Mahoney. Alert Capitol Police. Alert the mayor, and Homeland Security. I’ll be there in nine minutes, tops.”
She stabbed the button to end the call and tugged on a blue sweatshirt emblazoned with METRO POLICE on the back. I was tying my shoes when she came out of the closet.
“What are you doing?”
“Going with you,” I said. “Mahoney will be there soon enough.”
Bree hesitated, but then nodded. “You can drive.”
Eight minutes later I slammed on the brakes and parked in front of the flashing blue lights of two Capitol Hill Police cruisers blocking Massachusetts Avenue and 2nd Street in Northeast.
Bree jumped out, her badge up. “I’m Metro Chief Stone.”
“FBI bomb squad and a Metro’s K-9 unit just crossed North Capitol Street, heading toward the station, Chief,” one officer said.
“The station clear?”
“Affirmative,” another officer said. “The last of the cleaning crew just left.”
Bree glanced at me, said, “Dr. Cross is an FBI consultant on these bombings. He’ll be coming in with me.”
The officers stood aside. We hurried along deserted Mass Avenue toward the now familiar vehicles of the FBI bomb squad, and two Metro K-9 teams parked out in front of the station. Three men walked toward us wearing workmen’s coveralls.
“You with the cleaning crew?” I asked, stopping.
The men nodded. Bree said, “Catch up.”
I asked them a few questions and found Bree at the back of the FBI’s Bomb Squad vehicle, where Peggy Denton was suiting up.
“Do we have a deadline?” Denton asked.
“It wasn’t put that way,” Bree said. “Just a suggestion to look in Union Station because at six a.m. the station will be packed with commuters.”
“Awful big place to sweep in two hours and twenty minutes,” Denton said, checking her watch.