“Where are we going?” Kate Williams said.
“You’ll see,” Mickey said, his head swiveling all around.
He looked at me, then back toward the front. When he did, I moved my hands and phone forward toward the back of his seat where I hoped he couldn’t see them. The second time his head swung away from me, I glanced down to text Bree and Mahoney: Bomber taken D-8 bus hostage. Headed south on—
“What are you doing?” Mickey yelled.
I looked up to see him glaring at me.
Unzipping his jacket and hoodie, he exposed the vest, festooned with wires leading into opaque green blocks of C-4 bulging from pocket sleeves.
“Do you think I’m kidding here?” he shrieked.
“Why are you doing this, Mickey?” I said, thumbing Send.
“You’ll see why,” he shouted. “Have a little patience. And keep your hands where I can see them.”
I palmed my phone and rested my hands on my thighs. “Your game, Mickey.”
Gordon Light yelled, “Almost to Union Station.”
“Keep going,” Mickey directed. “Take a left on Mass Ave.”
He looked back at me. I said, “Pretty difficult to get old Yugoslavian C-4, Mickey.”
He smiled. “Sometimes you just get lucky, Dr. Cross.”
We reached Mass Ave, and Light took the left. Kate was studying Mickey intently. I looked out the windows, searching for the flashing lights and sirens I hoped would somehow appear. If Bree or Mahoney got the text, they knew we were on the Hospital Center Line heading south. Metrobus had GPS trackers on them, didn’t they?
But other than the rain and the nearly deserted sidewalks, it looked like any other evening in the District of Columbia.
Mickey stepped over onto the seat in front of him, then jumped down in the aisle with his back to me. “Take a right!”
I punched 911 into my phone.
“I can’t!” Gordon yelled. “It’s one way there!”
“Do it, or your bus blows up!”
“911, what is your emergency?” I heard the woman say.
The driver slammed on his brakes and cut right through a small parking area off Mass Ave. The bus hit a curb with a jolt. People screamed. My chin hit the back of Kate’s seat and I dropped my phone, which went skittering across the floor before the bus smashed down onto Northwest Drive along the boundary of the Capitol’s grounds.
I was dazed for a moment, hearing cars honking and swerving to get out of the way of the bus, which went careening uphill. As I shook off the daze, Mickey moved forward toward Gordon Light, his cell phone held high.
Passengers shrank from him as he advanced, yelling, “Turn on the lights in here. Open your window. And take the next right, Driver. Go right on up to the barrier!”
“The next right? I can’t! It’s—”
“Do it!”
Mickey ran up beside the driver. Light glanced at the cell phone Mickey held before pressing a button that opened his window, and another that lit up the interior of the bus. He downshifted and swung the bus right, following the curve of a short spur road that led to a bunker-like guard shack and a solid-steel gate.
Ahead, through the windshield, I could see the lights of satellite media trucks blazing across the small plaza in front of the steps of the Senate. A Capitol Hill Police officer armed with an H&K submachine gun stepped out of the shack.
“What the hell are you doing!” she shouted at Gordon. “Back the hell up! This is a restricted—”
“I’m wearing a bomb!” Mickey Hawkes yelled. “And I’m going to explode it and kill you and all these people unless I get to talk to those senators. Right here. Right now.”