The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

He was right about that. “Bartender first, then stomachs.”

Inside, the Dominion Bar was all dark wood, dim lights, and a long varnished copper bar with wine bottles lined up on shelves along the mirrored wall. There were twenty stools and six booths. It was a place for local couples on dates, or people stopping in after work before heading home, or for widowed men to feel comfortable to have human contact, and Nicholas wondered: Did the drunk live in the neighborhood?

Mike read his mind. “Mr. Hodges said he’d seen the guy before, which means he’s a regular. Since this place isn’t a dive, I can’t imagine he’s a low-on-the-food-chain roughneck. Probably he’s at least a supervisor at Bayway, otherwise he wouldn’t fit in here.”

They walked through the large room, checking out the few remaining Monday-night customers. Mike checked everyone out. “I don’t see any guy here who remotely fits Mr. Hodges’s description. Or the guy’s friend.”

Mike showed her creds to the Dominion bartender, the owner, Mr. Hodges had told them, a tiny woman who looked like a middle-aged Peter Pan. She was wiping down the bar, humming an old Elton John tune under her breath. Over a healthy right breast was a nametag: May Anne.

Mike introduced both herself and Nicholas.

They saw instant alarm. “What’s the matter? I didn’t do anything, I promise. I own this place and I’ve never had any health violations, ever, and—”

“No,” Mike said over her. “We simply need information. Do you know a Mr. Richard Hodges?”

“Dicker? Well, yes, of course I do. He comes in most every night. He always has the house merlot, tells me how his day went, asks me how I’m doing, and then goes home to bacon sandwiches. It’s a shame about his wife; she was such a nice lady. Listen, I know Dicker wouldn’t have done anything, really—”

Nicholas lightly laid his hand on her arm. “No, Mr. Hodges is fine, he’s in no trouble. He was here earlier tonight?”

“Yes, he was. Is he okay? Has something happened to him?”

“No, no, he’s fine, May Anne. We need your help. Now, we need to know if you remember a man who was sitting right behind Mr. Hodges, in a booth, a very drunk man. Tall, on the thin side, grayish hair, middle-aged—”

“Oh, yeah, that’s our local idiot, Larry Reeves.” May Anne rolled her eyes. “God sent him to punish me, I know it. He doesn’t even live in the neighborhood, but he comes here maybe twice, three times a week. He’s always pushing the limits on the weekends, drives me nuts. I was about to cut him off tonight when his friend took him out to drive him to Bayway; that’s where he works. It was odd, though, because I’ve never known Larry to get that drunk before his shift, and here he is a night supervisor. Why? What’s the fool done?”

Nicholas’s heart revved. “You said he was going on shift?”

“Yes, he’s third shift, a supervisor, like I told you. But you know, I think his friend had to take him home first, to shower and sober up. No way he could show up in that condition.”

Mike leaned over the bar. “Do you know his friend’s name?”

“Can’t say I do, he’s fairly new to the bar. Does he live in the neighborhood? I can ask Clem, he’s back cleaning up in the kitchen. He knows everything about

everybody.” May Anne turned and called out, “Clem, please come out a minute. I need you!”

The floor started to shake, rippling in waves, like an earthquake, and a muffled roar filled the bar. Nicholas’s mind registered explosion before he hit the floor, pulling Mike beneath him. He yelled, “Everyone get down!”

Bottles shimmied and dropped, glasses and bottles skidded off tables and crashed to the floor to shatter, spewing glass everywhere. The windows flexed and burst, sending shards of glass hurtling through the air. May Anne was grabbing bottles as they toppled, but it was a lost cause. The few customers were yelling, diving for cover, hands over their heads. Nicholas felt a shard of glass slice into the back of his hand. He realized Mike was struggling to get out from under him.

The shuddering stopped.

“Get off me, Nicholas, get off. What blew up?” But she knew it had to be the Bayway Refinery, as Nicholas did.

He rolled off her, yelled, “Is everyone okay?”

People started to stand, all of them clearly shaken. May Anne came out from behind the bar to help brush off her customers, soothing them as best she could. As Mike and Nicholas ran out of the bar, she heard May Anne yell, “Everyone, calm down. You’re all okay. I’ve got insurance! Drinks are on the house!”

Mike and Nicholas rushed outside to hear car alarms, loud and piercing, and people shouting, pouring out of their homes, out of the pizza parlor. Glass littered the sidewalks. Nicholas jerked open the driver’s-side door and shouted, “We can help, Mike, hurry. You drive.”

Mike was turning the key in the ignition when their cells began to ring. She floored the Vic down the street as Nicholas answered his. It was their boss, Milo Zachery.

“Sir, is it the Bayway Refinery?”

“Yes, a huge explosion. No reports in yet, so I don’t have any idea how bad it is. Where are you and Agent Caine?”

“We’re nearby, sir. We’ll be on-site in five minutes. Listen, we met with a man who tipped the hotline.” Nicholas told him about Larry Reeves, gave Zachery the description Hodges had given them, found Reeves’s home address on his laptop, and read it off to Zachery. “Sir, we need agents to be on the lookout for him. There’s little doubt he’s involved in the bombing.”

“Got it,” Zachery said. “Report back as soon as you can. And don’t do anything stupid—that means heroic—either of you. Catch these guys.”