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  A muted thump struck the window. The Asian woman stared up through the transparent lab walls, still secure in her airtight suit, pounding on the glass.

  Lopez turned back to the breaker panel. He hefted the breakers for the HEPA filters and oxygen supply to off.

  The Asian woman hammered on the glass, her eyes wild. Her mouth moved, but two layers of bulletproof glass and her own safety suit muted her screams.

  The Texan fell to the floor, twitching, and retching.

  The Asian woman ran to the oxygen panel and reconnected her hose. A moment later, she jerked her head around to stare up at Lopez.

  Realization dawned.

  Her choice was to suffocate or expose herself to the contaminated air.

  The Texan’s twitching stopped. He remained still.

  Lopez checked his stopwatch and wrote in a notebook, Forty-nine seconds from exposure.

  The Asian woman mouthed obscenities. At two minutes she struggled for air and sank to her knees. At three minutes, she cracked open her helmet, eyes filled with burning hatred. She panted and gulped.

  Exposed.

  Lopez pressed the button on his stopwatch. He watched until the Asian woman’s body stopped moving. He recorded the time in his notebook. Fifty-three seconds from exposure.

  He shook his head. The Texan’s prediction had been wrong after all. “Forty-nine and fifty-three seconds,” he said. “Reducing the concentration isn’t going to improve that.”

  Sánchez kept quiet.

  “I need a new strain.”

  “The American one?” Sánchez asked.

  He nodded and sent a message. It was the middle of the night in the US, but the reply arrived within seconds.

  Everything was planned and ready. He nodded with satisfaction. “We will be back in business in a couple of days.”

  “What about more scientists?”

  “I have that covered as well.” He picked up his notebook. “Get a cleanup crew. The next shift will be here soon.”

  Sánchez offered a warm smile that reached her eyes. “My pleasure.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Four months later

  Monday, August 15

  6:30 p.m. MDT

  Denver, Colorado.

  Jess Kimball’s office was on the top floor of the Taboo Magazine tower block, situated in central Denver at Broadway and Colfax. The view from her floor to ceiling window swept from the State Capitol, across the Civic Center Park to the District Courts.

  When she finally glanced up from the article she’d been writing, shadows had lengthened and faded into the dark as the sun set. Street lamps had come on. The Art Museum was a beacon of sharp corners and odd angles bathed in spotlights.

  Bright squares set in the side of tower blocks marked the late-night office workers.

  Like her.

  People who lived alone and had no reason to go home to an empty apartment. Jess had lived alone a long time, but she’d never get used to her son’s absence. She’d find Peter one day. When she found him, then she’d go home earlier, with joy in her heart every day.

  But for now, she stretched her arms over her head to work the kinks out of her neck. Which was when she noticed the small red light flashing on her desk phone. Voicemail.

  Invariably, messages this late in the day were the most difficult.

  Morning calls came from people who knew what they wanted. They’d spent the night agonizing over worst-case scenarios, real or imagined. In the cold light of dawn, they made the decision to reach out to the media. To call Jess Kimball.

  But late messages often came from people who had suffered for many hours that particular day. Pressure weighted their uncertainty until they could wait no more. Not much could be done after business hours, no matter what the problem. They knew as much before they called. But they wanted to hand off the worry. Move the relentless pressure from their lives to hers.

  Jess was a lifeboat for such people. She depended heavily on Taboo Magazine’s readers to support her constant search for her son. And for many of them, she was the lifeboat they clung to when life’s uncertain seas became overwhelming.

  She leaned back in her chair, stared unseeing through her office window, and pressed the play button on the voicemail.

  The recording’s time and date were announced by the machine, and then a woman spoke. Jess recognized the voice immediately.

  “Jess, this is Marcia McAllister. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I didn’t know who else to call.”

  Marcia McAllister’s daughter, Melinda, had been living in Paris when she disappeared a while ago. Jess had reported the case, but the crime was never solved, and her daughter was not found.

  At least, not yet.

  Jess never gave up on the families who came to her for help. Giving up on their cases would be too much like giving up on Peter, and she simply would not do that. Not ever. No matter how long it took her to find her son.

  Marcia McAllister was no exception. Jess had worked hard for Marcia, and she’d keep working hard until Marcia’s daughter was found. She had no plan B. No alternatives. She simply would not quit.

  Jess hoped that Marcia was calling with new information on the case. The situation was, like so many others, heartbreaking. But through it all, Marcia had been a rock. She’d suffered the torment of not knowing what happened to her child, a torment Jess understood all too well. Marcia McAllister handled everything with more grace than many others Jess had helped over the years.

  Marcia had pushed and cajoled and encouraged US and French authorities to investigate her daughter’s disappearance, but never once had she publicly lost her equanimity. She was a woman to be reckoned with as well as the kind of determined female Jess always admired. She simply didn’t have it in her heart to fail.

  She leaned forward and turned up the volume.

  Marcia cleared her throat. “I…well, not me, but a friend of mine. Nicola Cole. She’s worried sick. It’s her son. Good kid. Not that he’s a kid anymore. Ph.D. and all that. But he’s got himself into some trouble. Well, it’s not right, of course. He wouldn’t do that. A good kid. Oh, did I say that?”

  The message rambled in a way that Marcia never did in person. Which was enough for Jess to conclude she must be completely distraught.

  “Anyway, I’m sure it wasn’t Alex. Really.” Marcia coughed before she continued. “He’s a scientist working at that insecticide place here in Chatham. The one in the news.” Her voice became shakier with each word until she reached the end of what she was determined to say. “And, well, they’re blaming him for that explosion.”

  Jess knew what she was referring to. The Kelso Products bombing had been all over the news around the globe since it happened Thursday afternoon. She’d have had to be living on another planet to be unaware of events in Iowa.

  She’d worked with Marcia closely every day after her daughter disappeared two years ago. The case was cold, but still open, and they’d stayed in touch. Simply put, Jess trusted Marcia implicitly. Alex Cole could very well be innocent if Marcia believed it so.

  She also knew the law had its own momentum and wasn’t easily swayed from its path.

  Jess’s experience had proved time and time again that justice for crime victims depended on action.

  Jess felt more than a little guilty, too. She’d hit a wall in Marcia’s daughter’s case. She’d let Marcia down. Maybe she could help now and make up for it, at least a little bit. The very least she could do was try.

  She pulled up two large monitors covered with articles and pictures of the explosion and subsequent fire at Kelso Products before she returned Marcia’s call.

  Explosions like this one were too often caused by terrorism, and the big news outlets covered potential terrorist attacks like ants covered picnics. Which meant there was plenty of video reporting already available over the past five days.

  CHAPTER THREE

  She watched the Kelso Products security camera footage first. The time stamp in the corner of the
images established 12:42 p.m., Thursday, August 11, as the moment so many lives were changed. The images horrified her.

  Five days ago, a massive powder storage tank exploded. The kind of explosion that didn’t happen out of nowhere.

  The deafening pressure wave fanned out, smashing windows for hundreds of yards.

  The explosion’s force rippled through the pipework to another tank. From there, it ran swiftly into the half-mile long production facility.

  Flames burst from windows.

  Sections of roofs collapsed.

  The second tank split along one side, spewing burning contents over a line of trucks parked too close to the side of the building.

  Jess moved to the next series of videos covering the new information as it became available.

  Three workers at the plant had died. Each face was displayed in photos from family members during happy times, which made the losses more poignant.

  Thirty-seven employees were injured. Most were treated and released, thank God.

  Seventeen remained in Chatham General hospital.

  Three were in critical condition, not expected to survive. If they died, Marcia’s young friend could be charged with no less than six murders. He would be sentenced to death. No wonder his mother was distraught. How could any mother cope with that?

  The explosion and its implications brought FBI power to work alongside the local Chatham Police Department and other state agencies.

  Ethan Remington was the lead FBI Investigator. Jess watched his most recent press conference. He told reporters the bomb had been planted in the first storage tank. The valves between the tanks were opened, and the bomb was detonated remotely, he said.

  The FBI hadn’t formally released details of the explosive material, but the media had figured it out themselves.

  The bomb had been small, which ruled out a fertilizer bomb, and the explosion massive, which meant it had to be a powerful material. There was only one common explosive that fit. Triacetone triperoxide, or TAPT.

  Jess knew that terrorists used TAPT in bombs across the United States and Europe, including Paris and Manchester. But the Kelso Products bombing probably wasn’t a terrorist incident. Terrorists were quick to claim responsibility and grab publicity for their twisted causes, and no group or individual had claimed responsibility for this one.

  A reporter was explaining now that ingredients to make TAPT were easy to obtain. TAPT didn’t burn like most explosives, either. The molecule simply burst apart and expanded fast, from a dense solid to a gas occupying a couple of hundred times more volume. Which caused a massive explosion and propelled a pressure wave comparable to dynamite.

  “The ingredients to make TAPT are readily available,” an expert said, “but preparing TAPT is extremely hazardous. TAPT is detonated by shock. Sometimes even the stress inside the crystals formed during the production process can detonate the compound. Only someone with experience can make enough TAPT for a bomb as destructive as what we’ve seen at Kelso Products.”

  The last video news report Jess found announced that one man had been charged today with detonating the bomb. Alex Cole. The same Alex Cole that Marcia McAllister had pled with Jess to save.

  But could Jess really help? The evidence against Cole sounded formidable.

  Remington’s sound bite said the bomb’s triggering command had been traced to Cole.

  Corroborating evidence located thus far included emails, internet search histories, even the computer records from a coffee shop Cole frequented.

  Jess shook her head. The media scrutiny was intense. Until something more exciting came along to fill the twenty-four-hour news cycle, they weren’t likely to let up on the pressure, either.

  In response to questions, Remington said Cole had the means and the opportunity to commit the crime, but he admitted they’d found no motive for the attack. A motive wasn’t necessary to convict Cole, but in Jess’s experience, a missing motive was certainly odd.

  Most people had reasons for the things they did. Even if those reasons were more than a little crazy.

  Marcia was convinced the police had arrested the wrong man.

  Jess needed nothing more to check things out. She owed Marcia that much.

  She picked up the phone and dialed her favorite G-man, FBI Special Agent Henry Morris.

  They’d met and worked together on one of Jess’s investigative cases that evolved into kidnapping, extortion, and murder. A tough case that led to significant trust became an unbreakable fatal bond when Morris killed a man to keep her alive.

  Over time, she’d learned that Morris was solid in every way that mattered. He was physically and mentally strong enough to be a good match for her, unrelenting in the pursuit of justice, and brave, too. Not too old, not too young, and good looking as well.

  A while later, after she’d learned that he wasn’t married, she no longer had any reasonable excuse to reject his invitations. As he’d continually pointed out.

  And he gave her all the space she needed to do her most important job—finding Peter.

  She grinned. How’s a girl supposed to resist a hero like that?

  Despite his work ethic, Morris had a knack for keeping life in perspective and a sense of humor that didn’t solely consist of sarcasm. Later, after Morris transferred from the FBI’s Dallas Field Office to Denver, Jess found herself in the first serious relationship of her life.

  There had been another relationship she’d thought was serious at the time, with Peter’s father. She’d been wrong then, which made her wary now.

  “Jess,” Morris said when he picked up. She heard the pleasure in his voice and felt her face warming uncomfortably.

  “I’ve been looking at the Kelso Products accident.”

  He laughed. “And it’s really nice to hear from you, too.”

  She smiled again, although he couldn’t see her. “I’ve got a few questions.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Something about this whole situation doesn’t pass the smell test, Henry.”

  “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

  “Nothing yet. But so far, Alex Cole has no motive for blowing that place up.”

  “No known motive,” Agent Morris corrected.

  “Fair enough. But people who know Cole well say he’s not capable of violence like that.”

  “People who know the accused always say that, and it means nothing.”

  She nodded to herself. “Which is why I need to go to Kelso Products.”

  She heard him sigh through the wireless connection, but he didn’t object. As always, he respected her decisions.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow. First flight out of Denver. I called because I need some help.”

  He paused. “I’m not involved with the investigation, but I’ll do what I can.”

  Jess put the gratitude that sprang to mind into her voice. Dating an FBI agent had its advantages. “Can you get me thirty minutes with the lead agent?”

  “That I can do. Ethan Remington. Omaha Field Office. Good guy.”

  “Thanks, Henry.”

  “I guess this means dinner tomorrow night is off?” he asked.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” she replied. “Look on the bright side. It was your turn to pay.”

  She disconnected while he was still laughing.

  She found Taboo’s travel website on her computer and booked a ticket to Chatham, Iowa. She continued scouring the wire services for anything and everything she could learn on the Kelso Products bombing before she saw Marcia McAllister tomorrow.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tuesday, August 16

  10:00 a.m. CDT

  Chatham, Iowa

  Chatham was a sprawling medium-sized industrial city in the middle of farm country. People worked hard there. But what Jess saw as she flew into the international airport were mostly gray skies, grayer buildings, and dirty gray concrete.

  Her rental stood out against the gray like a beacon. A cheerful red Chevy Malib
u sedan with less than a thousand miles on the odometer. She put the address for Kelso Products in the car’s navigation system and pushed the button to start the engine and rolled out.

  The rental’s GPS guided her onto the interstate that looped around the city. The sedan was surprisingly quick. She eased off the accelerator.

  The radio was tuned to a local talk station. The Chatham Cubs, the local minor league baseball team, was suffering through a losing streak. The explosion at Kelso Products came up next. A rehash of what she already knew.

  The newscaster moved quickly through the national news and finished with a brief reference to the continuing effort to track down the cause of an outbreak of sepsis in Botswana about three months earlier. Jess tuned out as she arrived at the Kelso Products plant.

  The employee parking lot was only half full. Jess pulled into a space near the center in the back where she had an unobstructed view of the facility.

  A police car blocked the driveway that led from the employee lot to the management lot. His lights weren’t flashing, but the officer’s expression declared that no one would enter without authorization.

  A television crew was staked out ten feet from the cruiser. A broad-shouldered man Jess didn’t recognize spoke earnestly into a large microphone.

  Several floor-to-ceiling windows in the main building were boarded over. At the steel and glass revolving front door, four workmen struggled to replace the damaged panes.

  Clusters of flowers and wreaths and handwritten signs covered the pavement around the entrance. On the roof, Kelso’s flag hung at half-mast.

  Behind the management offices marched enormous industrial buildings. Pipes of all diameters wound their way in and out between storage tanks.

  One of the tanks had split open. Thick steel walls were peeled back like an orange. The tubes and pipes around it were twisted and mangled.

  Before the explosion, buildings, tanks, and pipes had been painted white. Now, the area’s blackened scars testified to the force of Thursday’s explosion and the ensuing fire.