The Danger That Lurks Within

By Ernest Morris

DR. E.J. MORRIS, is a well respected psychologist. After being suspended from his previous job, he decides to go back to practicing in the basement of his home.

When a bombing hits close to home, he is asked to consult his wife Chief Sharon Stone, and the FBI on how to catch a terrorist that's threatening to destroy the city.

Sometimes danger comes in the form of the unsuspected. Will they be able to stop this maniac before there's too many casualties?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good2go Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jan 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005538798

Ernest Morris

Many who know him call EJ Morris The Urban Fiction Literary Guru . EJ made his first entry into the literary world in 2014 with his debut novel, Flippin Numbers. Growing up on the hard streets of Pennsylvania, his urban writing skills came natural. He found the love of writing at an early age when he started using it as an outlet to relieve some stress. It wasn t until later in life that he realized that his passion for writing was his destiny. He then took a leap of faith and signed with Good2Go Publishing. He is appreciated for his story-telling throughout the entire state of Pennsylvania where he currently resides. His mission is to take the urban literary world by storm one reader at a time. Email him at [e-mail]. Join his group on Facebook at facebook.com/groups/ErnestMorris.

Book preview

THE DANGER

THAT LURKS

WITHIN

Ernest Morris

GOOD 2 GO PUBLISHING

THE DANGER THAT LURKS WITHIN

Written by Ernest Morris

Cover Design: Davida Baldwin, Odd Ball Designs

Typesetter: Mychea

ISBN: 978-1-947340-68-8

Copyright © 2021 Good2Go Publishing

Published 2021 by Good2Go Publishing

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quot-ations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters, businesses, places, and events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

About The Author

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Chapter 1

Sharon Stone was thirty minutes into her morning exercise and breathing hard as she ran south along a path by the Tidal Basin in Washington, DC. It was a gorgeous spring day in late March, warm with a fragrant breeze. The trees that lined the path were in full bloom, attracting early birds. Sharon had to dodge a few people who were also out getting their morning jog in, but it was so nice of a day that she didn’t mind.

She was in her late thirties, but her legs felt stronger than they had when she was just out of college, so did her breathing, and that pleased her. The daily exercise was working. Leaving the Tidal Basin, Sharon cut past the statue of John Jones and jogged in place, waiting to cross Seventeenth Street SE beside a DC bus discharging and loading passengers.

When the bus sighed and rolled away, Sharon looped around the pedestrians to cross the street, toward the National Sylvan Theater and another grove of blooming cherry trees. The cherry blossoms only peaked once a year, and she intended to enjoy them as much as possible. She’d just passed a knot of Japanese tourists when her cell phone rang.

She plucked the phone from the small fanny pack she wore, but did not stop or slow. Sharon glanced at the unfamiliar phone number and let her voicemail take the call. She ran on and soon could see a team of National Park Police raising flags surrounding the base of the Washington Monument. Her phone rang again, same number.

Irritated, she stopped and answered, Sharon Stone.

Chief Sharon Stone?

The voice was male. Or was it? The tone wasn’t deep.

Who’s calling, please?

Your worst nightmare, Chief. There’s an IED on the National Mall. You should have answered my first call. Now you only have fifty-eight minutes to figure out where I left it.

The line went dead. Sharon stared at the phone half a beat, then checked her watch: 7:28 a.m. Detonation would be 8:26 a.m.? She hit a number on speed dial and surveyed the area, swallowing the impulse to get well off the Mall as fast as possible. DC Metro Police Chief Jim Probes answered on the second ring.

Why is my chief of detectives calling me? I told her to take a few days off.

I just got an anonymous call, Jim, Sharon said. An IED planted on the National Mall, set to go off at 8:26 a.m. We need to clear the area as fast as possible and bring in the dogs.

In the short silence that followed, Sharon thought of something and started sprinting toward the men raising flags.

Are you sure it wasn’t a crank? Chief Probes asked.

Do you want to take the chance it isn’t a prank?

Probes let out a sharp puff of breath and said, I’ll notify National Park and Capitol Hill Police. You sound like you’re running. Where are you?

On the Mall. Going to high ground to spot the bomber on his way out of Dodge.

~ ~ ~

It was 7:36 a.m. when the elevator doors opened. Sharon rushed out onto the observation platform of the Washington Monument, some 554 feet above the National Mall. She carried a chattering US Park Service Police radio, tuned to a frequency being used by all FBI,

US Capitol Police, and DC Metro Police personnel rapidly responding to the situation.

She had a pair of binoculars lent to her by the officers guarding the closed monument. Balking at her initial demand to be let in, they had given her a hard time while checking her story. Then the sirens had started wailing from all angles, and their commander came back with direct orders to open the monument and let her ride to the top. Sharon had lost eight minutes in the process, but pushed that frustration to the back of her mind.

They had fifty minutes to find the bomb. Sharon went straight to the high slit windows cut in the west wall of the monument and peered through the binoculars toward the Lincoln Memorial and the long, rectangular pool that reflected its image and that of the Washington Monument. When she’d started to run toward the towering limestone obelisk, she’d hoped to get high enough to catch sight of someone fleeing the Mall or acting strangely.

But too much time had passed. The bomber would have beat feet, gotten as far away as possible, wouldn’t he? That was the logical thought, but Sharon wondered if he might be the kind of sicko to stick around, admire his explosive handiwork.

Even at this early hour there were scores of people running, walking, and riding on the paths that crisscrossed the Mall and paralleled the reflecting pool. Others were standing as if transfixed by the chorus of sirens coming closer and closer. Sharon pivoted, strode across the observation deck to the east wall where she could look out toward the US Capitol, and triggered the radio mic.

This is Metro CoD Stone, she said, scanning the open park between the Smithsonian museums. I can see hundreds of people still on the mall, and who knows how many more that I can’t see because of the trees. Move officers to Seventeenth, Fifteenth, Madison Drive Northwest, Jefferson Drive Southwest, Ohio Drive Southwest, and Seventh Northwest, Fourth Northwest, and Third Northwest. Work civilian evacuation from the middle of the mall to the north and south. Keep it quick and orderly. We don’t want to cause panic.

Roger that, Chief, said the dispatcher.

Sharon grew up in Philadelphia. She moved away to Washington for college, because she wanted to get out of there. She studied journalism and wanted to be a great reporter someday. When her parents died in a home evasion, she decided to change occupations and become a cop. Since she was still living in Washington, she joined their force.

She waited until she heard the dispatcher call out her orders, then said, Block all traffic through the Mall north and south and Constitution and Independence Avenues from Third to Ohio.

That’s already been ordered, Chief, the dispatcher said.

Status of K-9 and bomb squads?

FBI, Metro, and Park Police K-9’s en route, but traffic’s snarling. Metro’s ETA on Fifteenth is two minutes. Bomb squads say five minutes out, but could be longer.

Longer? She cursed inwardly. She looked down at the flags fluttering and noted their direction and stiffness. She triggered the mic again.

Tell K-9 patrols that the wind here is south-southwest, maybe ten miles an hour. They’ll want to work from northeast angles.

Roger that, the dispatcher said.

Sharon checked her watch. 7:41. They had forty-five minutes to find and defuse the IED. Gazing out, her mind racing, Sharon realized she