The Bomber: (Jack Beckett Book Four)

By D.G. Baxter

A bomb explodes in a crowded restaurant district in Chicago. Jack Beckett's childhood friend is killed. Is it domestic terrorism? Before the answer arrives, another bomb goes off in City Hall. The FBI has very few clues. But to catch a bomber you have to think like a bomber, and Beckett is the man for the job. Beckett desperately wants to find the people responsible for killing his friend. He sets a trap and makes himself the target. But will it be enough? Bodies fly everywhere in a bloody shoot out near the airport that leaves more questions than answers. The clock is ticking. Will Beckett find the bombers before the next bomb goes off?

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.G. Baxter
• Release date: Feb 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386733256

Book preview

1

The Uber drivers may have outnumbered the cabs, but the cabs still cruised Randolph Street in Chicago’s River North neighborhood, a place where one could find a choice of trendy eateries. All of them were quite busy on a Thursday night. Jack Beckett was there to meet an old friend, Katie Hudson. He stood on the curb in front of the restaurant Katie had picked. Since Jack was visiting and Katie lived in Chicago, that made sense. When in Rome, the old saying goes.

Katie was running late, and she had just called Beckett's phone with the news. She had a 13-year-old daughter, and that often made her life unpredictable. She promised she would be there in ten minutes. Beckett was good at killing time. He took in the sights as people paraded by his post in front of the restaurant. Most were young and professional, at least by their appearance. Which made sense because the restaurants on this street were not cheap.

The mood on the street was festive as the weekend approached. It was summer evening, a great time to be out at night enjoying the warm breezes coming off the lake. Thinking of Katie caused Beckett to think back to when they first met. He was still an elementary student, a sixth grader. Jennifer, his closet friend, sat on a bench at school and cried. Beckett tried his best to console her, and he finally succeeded. But it was short lived. Jenny ran in front of a train a week later. They said it was suicide. And that was almost unheard of for someone as young as Jenny. Later Beckett found out that Jenny was under great stress at home. Later still, he learned the real reason involved her dad and things no dad should ever do. That was a pivotal moment in Beckett’s life. From that point on, he would cut no one an inch of slack if they proved to be a bully. If you were strong and you picked on the weak, Beckett would make you pay dearly.

Katie was Jenny’s friend, too, and that was their initial connection. When Jenny died, they mourned together. They cried on each other’s shoulder. And now all these years later Katie and Beckett were still friends. He hadn’t seen her for a few years, and he looked forward to having dinner and catching up. He didn’t mind the wait. He would have waited as long as it took for her to arrive.

A horn blast somewhere on the street brought Beckett out of his thoughts. He had drifted into picturing Jenny today, as she might be as a young woman. It wasn't the first time that had happened. She would be tall, he thought, maybe just under six feet. He hair would be long and curly, light brown with honey-colored highlights from being active outside. Her big brown eyes would sparkle with amusement, and she would even have a few laugh lines by now. Beckett often wondered if he would have fallen in love with her as they grew older. But she would forever be that young girl crying on a bench, and she would always be someone who needed his protection. If only he could go back, he would.

Beckett looked up and saw a cab pulling up to the curb not far from where he stood. He saw a woman alone in the back seat, and as she moved to open the back door, the light caught her face. It was Katie. She looked great. She must have seen Beckett because she wore a smile as she handed the driver the fare. Then she opened the back door. A moment later the bomb went off. Beckett had only the briefest sensation of something so powerful that it could not be imagined. He was sent flying backward as the world seemed to spin out of control. Adrenaline rushed through his body even before he hit the sidewalk ten feet from where he had been standing. He was stunned. Time stood still as if a video was placed on pause. He eventually heard the screams of others around him as he struggled to regain his senses. He smelled the residue of an explosion as he tried to get up. Someone kneeled next to him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

You better lie still for a few minutes, buddy, someone said. Help is on the way.

He closed his eyes. He tried to make sense of what just happened. He began to say something, and then the world went dark, and he passed out.

Six blocks away, Leon McKinney also stood on a curb. He heard the blast a second after he used a cheap cell phone to trigger the detonator. He had gotten out of the cab at a traffic light and told the driver he had to pee at the corner gas station. He had every intention of getting back in the cab. Leon was from the country and not wise to the city. He had no idea the cabbie would only wait a few minutes before picking up another fare. Leon left his bomb in the cab, tucked under the front passenger seat. He had planned to blow it at City Hall. But now he had no choice. He couldn’t allow the bomb to be found, charged but not detonated. That would be dangerous. That might lead back to the family. So he set off the bomb, heard the explosion, then tossed the cell phone into the nearest trash bin. He walked a block and then stuck out his thumb. With luck, someone would give him a ride.

Leon had done the best he could even though he didn’t hit his target. He held his cheap suitcase in one hand and waited. His destination was St. Route 257 South and the village of Peotone, some thirty-five miles south of Chicago. Once there he would use the town's one remaining pay phone and call the special number. He would wait in the shadows of a nearby market, which had been closed for hours, until the family picked him up.

Ambulances and police cruisers now occupied Randolph Street. Sirens and confusion occupied the space where laughter and gaiety once held court. Beckett was put on a gurney and wheeled into a nearby ambulance. Its siren faded into the night as other ambulances backed into place and claimed their wounded.

2

Beckett came around inside the ambulance. It took a few seconds for him to realize where he was. A young woman in a dark blue uniform was seated next to him, and she noticed that he had regained consciousness.

She put a hand on his arm. Just relax. Don't try to talk. You've been injured, and you're on your way to the ER.

Thanks, Beckett said in a bow to her request. I need to know what happened.

The young EMT took a measure of him. He had one sign of a concussion, passing out, but she decided to see if he exhibited other signs such as slurred speech and blurry vision.

Can you read my name tag? she asked as she pointed to the badge on her uniform top.

Abraham Lincoln, Beckett said. But you don't look like an Abraham.

The young woman reacted with raised eyebrows before she realized he was most likely pulling her leg.

Beckett winked. Just kidding, Simmons. What’s your first name?

Karen, she said. Karen Simmons. Can you tell me your name and what day it is?

It’s Thursday, July 20th. The name’s Beckett.

Just Beckett?

First name Jack. But most people call me Beckett.

Have you ever had a concussion before, Mr. Beckett?

Once, about ten years ago. I was a rookie, and my opponent got me with a big uppercut. I was ok after a week or so.

That sounds like boxing. Were you a boxer, Beckett?

I was. Retired last year. So tell me what happened back there? Who else was hurt?

The EMT paused, unsure how much to tell him. A bomb went off. There were multiple injuries.

Any casualties? he asked.

Two, Simmons said."

Beckett closed his eyes, afraid to learn what he already knew.

The cab driver and his passenger, right?

Simmons hesitated again.

I’m afraid so.

Leon waited in the shadows, although no one was around to see him in the small town so late at night. Every business had long been closed, including the town’s only diner. Still, the local sheriff might cruise by or some busybody that loved gossip. Better to be unseen until Jake got there to pick him up.

Leon opened his small and battered suitcase. He used it as some people use a backpack. Inside were a few personal items, a water bottle, a worn and ragged paperback, a hard shell case that held his reading glasses, and a folded raincoat. He took out the lightweight coat and slipped it on. The air had grown damp and cold. The old suitcase had belonged to his mother, and she passed it along to Leon when she died. A backpack would have been more convenient and certainly more modern, but Leon liked the old case just fine. It came in handy, like tonight, when he carried the bomb into Chicago.

He was a creature of habit, probably more so than the average person. He was in his late 30s, thin and muscular, and had lived in the area around Peotone all his life. He had never married and only been with a woman a few times, and that was over ten years ago. He had continued to work the family farm, a small 100-acre plot after his father died, which was a little over two years ago. It was not long after his dad passed that the family began to show up at Leon’s farm. He met the family members one by one in various chat rooms on the Internet. They all had something in common. They hated the government, any government, and called themselves anarchists.

There were now ten people living on the farm. Leon was not the leader. He never wanted to be, but he did want to be part of a movement that would bring down the government and the oligarchs that it served. There was so much corruption he didn’t know where to begin. No, he wasn’t the leader. Dean was. Dean was cool and a natural leader. He was smart. He was savvy. He was organized. He knew how to get others to act as part of a team. Leon looked up to Dean, and he feared him as well. Dean could have a man killed, and no one would question his decision.

Leon hoped tonight’s mistake would not get him killed. The bomb went off, and that counted for something. It just didn't go off where it was supposed to go off. Nothing Leon could do about that now. It was an honest mistake. He was shocked when the cab took off without him. That was perhaps the second time he’d ever taken a cab in his life, and so he didn’t know how things worked. How could he? He lived on the farm most of his life. Big city ways were a mystery. Surely Dean would understand, and maybe even give Leon a chance to redeem himself. That would be good.

He saw headlights approaching from the south. They moved slowly, then turned into the market’s parking lot. The headlights flashed off, then back on. It was Jake. Leon walked out of the shadows and climbed into the passenger seat of the waiting car.

They rolled Beckett into the ER at Mercy Hospital. Abraham Lincoln, aka Karen Simmons, wished him luck and returned to her ambulance. He laid there with the curtain drawn for a few minutes until a harried ER doctor pulled back the curtain and walked over to his gurney.

He looked at a chart. How are you feeling, Mr. Beckett?

Not so bad considering I lost a dear friend tonight.

The ER doctor looked up from his chart.

I’m truly sorry to hear that. You were down on Randolph Street, correct?

Unfortunately, yes, doctor. Wrong place, wrong time, I guess.

Can you tell me how you feel? Physically that is?

Sore, but nothing more than I’ve felt a hundred times before.

The doctor cocked his head, as in please explain.

I’m a former heavyweight boxer. Ended up on my back more than a few times."

The doctor looked at his chart again.

The EMT wrote that you had a concussion about ten years ago.

That’s right. I took an uppercut that rang my bell.

The doctor studied his chart again.

I believe you have a concussion, Mr. Beckett, although it may be mild in that you have not exhibited other symptoms that would indicate the more severe designation. Unfortunately, we were hit hard tonight due to the explosion on Randolph plus two other situations, bad car wrecks, actually. Running other tests on you would require a long wait, perhaps up to six hours or more. We would need to move you to a hallway while you waited, or…

I was hoping to hear the or, Beckett said.

Or, the doctor continued, I could release you with orders to get as much rest as possible. Rest is mandatory for recovery. You may recall that from your first concussion. That means no reading, TV, computer activity…anything that would require concentration. You need to put your feet up and relax or spend time in bed. Get as much sleep as you can.

I’ll take the ‘or’ doctor.

I thought you might say that. If other symptoms develop, come back here, or choose one of our neighboring hospitals. They may not be as busy. How does that sound?

That sounds agreeable, doctor.

Very well. Give us a few minutes and the nurse will be in with some papers to sign.

The doctor smiled and quickly turned and left through the curtain room divider.

Jake drove south with Leon in the passenger seat. He had been quiet since Leon got into the car back in Peotone. Finally, Leon said something.

Aren’t you going to ask me how it went?

Jake glanced at him and then back to the road ahead.

We know how it went. It was all over the news.

It didn’t go as planned, that’s for sure, Leon said. Where did the bomb go off?

In one of the fancy restaurant districts. On Randolph Street. Killed two people.

That’s good, right? Leon asked.

Not according to Dean, Jake said. He’s steaming mad.

Why? I don’t get it.

I’m sure you’ll hear all about it when we get to the farm. You might want to enjoy the peace and quiet for a few more minutes.

They rode in silence for the next four miles along a two-lane road that weaved its way through fields of corn now more than knee high. Leon began to worry. Leon began to think what he would do if Dean came after him.

The hospital released Beckett after he signed some forms, one of which was financial responsibility. There was a problem with the fact that Beckett no longer had a physical address, just a PO box number. He solved that by giving them a credit card and telling them that they could bill the charges to the card and it would be covered. He still had most of his dad's $5 million in the bank, and the credit card reflected his assets.

Easing back into the real world, and this was but one example, made dealing with the events of the past few hours come rushing at him like a runaway semi-truck barreling down a mountainside. Knowing Katie was dead brought up both sadness and anger. Someone killed her. Sure, it was a bomb. But someone was behind that bomb and that someone would pay for the life they took. This was now a personal matter for Beckett. He would track the bomber to the gates of Hell. It was only a matter of time.

He made his way to the lobby and was about to walk through the double glass doors when a voice rang out.

Hey, Beckett.

He turned around to see a familiar face. Riley O’Connor, an FBI agent out of San Francisco. She wore a big smile