Chapter 2

The first thing Tory noticed was the smell. Sharp, acrid smoke burned the lining of his nose and throat, forcing him awake. Then, wracked by coughing, he came to the realization that he was no longer in his bed—not that he even knew where that was, given his current vantage point. His best guess was that there'd been an earthquake or something like that. Regardless, all he could see at the moment was his desk and bookshelf—or at least shattered parts of them—pressing him to the floor.

Pushing away the wreckage, however, didn't help much with visibility. The thick smoke—laced now with the strong smell of sulfur and diesel fuel—hung in the air and, given the lack of light, made it difficult to see much more than basic shapes. Another smell—that of burning wood—was also getting stronger. Feeling quite dizzy, Tory could now see a worrisome light emanating from the hallway—a flickering, orange glow. Add to that a persistent shower from the sprinklers, soaking him to his skin, and the sum total was a very desperate situation.

Panic clamored to overwhelm him, but he pushed back. The thought of his little sister trapped in her room across the hall, waiting for him to come, pushed back as well. Crawling across the debris-strewn floor, he worked his way to his own doorway, appalled by how much damage there had to be. His brain ran through the likely scenarios but could only come up with one—a bomb of some kind, like what was used on their dad.

A deep dread washed over him, sickening him with the thought that all he loved had finally been taken away. It tore at his heart, threatening to paralyze him. But rather than give in, he crawled on all fours to his sister's door, calling her name as loud as he could. The view from her doorway, however, brought him to a complete stop. Truthfully, most of the room was just plain gone and what was still there was covered in several feet of debris. Much of the outside wall was simply not there, with flakes of snow drifting in the giant opening. Flames were lapping up one remaining wall and across some of the debris, seemingly unabated by the sprinklers.

He called to Miri ... but there was no answer ... just the crackle of the flames, the hiss of the sprinklers and the wail of sirens in the distance. He called again—screamed really. Finally, a moan and a whimper ... then nothing. Portions of the roof and walls had collapsed, really, were still collapsing. The voice—his sister's voice, a little stronger now—came from the pile where he thought her bed used to be.

Struggling, Tory crawled toward her on his knees. Pushing, pulling, digging, and clawing, he was able to move enough of the debris so that he could finally see her hair. His sister's body was face down; her head turned the other way, not moving. Terrified, he leaned over to see if she was breathing. She was, but just barely—her face reflecting the pain she was in. Tory was puzzled, however, when splotches of red suddenly appeared, one after the other, on her cheek. Wiping at them with his finger, it was clear that it was blood but there was no cut there. When another drop fell, he knew its source: him.

Miri stirred and murmured something, but Tory could not make it out. Brushing away the blood that was dripping into his eyes now, he moved more pieces of wall and ceiling to try and get her out, but it wasn't enough. A large piece of concrete with several metal beams sticking out from it—maybe part of the missing outside wall (he wasn't sure)—remained. He tried to lift it, but his reward was only pain—pain from the hot metal but also a sharp, piercing pain in his side and hip. Biting his lip, he tried again, but this time he only succeeded in causing more wreckage to fall.

Knowing little more than a hopeless desperation, Tory grabbed one of the scalding hot beams with both hands, one more time.

Groaning, Whit partially rolled to his left, until he could sit up. The blast blew open his apartment door, slamming it into him and then propelling him into the half wall that was behind him. Doing a quick once over, he noticed he had some significant bruising, as well as a cut on his right arm, but otherwise no major injuries. He felt for his ear, but the Bluetooth was gone. After a pat down of his pockets, he located the still intact cell phone and immediately called Mike.

"What happened?"

"Car bomb. Typical yield. It shredded the north exterior of the building, spawning spot fires—possibly fueled by ruptured gas lines. 911's been called. Two unfriendlies have been subdued and detained. JJ's looking for the third. What's your status?"

"More or less intact. Smoke's starting to pour in from the hallway. Probably those fires you mentioned. I'm heading to Marisa's now."

"Be careful, commander. Things are looking really unstable from this side. The bomb blew out a lot of the lower supports, so use the southeast stairwell. Sid and Cynthia are there right now getting people below you out."

"Will do. Be sure to call Foster and..."

Suddenly Mike broke back in. "Hey, Whit! I can hear someone yelling up there. It might be Hector."

"I hear him, too. Gotta go."

"Right. Take care, sir."

Concerned with the possibility of fire, Whit snatched his leather gloves and wool bridge coat out of the closet and put them on. The smoke had really thickened but he disregarded it for the moment. He knew he didn't have much time. Stepping out into the hallway, he couldn't help but notice the northward lean of the walls and the buckling of the floor.

In a matter of steps, he was in Marisa's apartment—or what was left of it. The air was cold, as was the spray of the sprinklers on his scalp and face. "Marisa! Hector! Miranda!" he called, but there was no reply.

It took him a few moments to get his bearings. The devastation was one thing, but the ice build up from the freezing water made it look like some bizarre movie set. Suddenly, he realized the issue. A huge chunk of the ceiling was blocking access to the hallway to the bedrooms. Grabbing an edge of the debris, he leveraged it out of the way and let it fall away from him to the floor.

He could hear movement and grunting from the doorway to his left. Stepping into what was left of the frame, the nightmarish scene unfolded before him. The outer wall had been blown in, while the ceiling had been blown up and then came right back down, on top of the other wreckage. And it was precisely under that debris that tiny little Miranda was pinned. Poor Hector was not far from her, doing his damnedest to get her free but to no avail.

The floor groaned under Whit's feet as he moved to help the boy. Grabbing him by the shoulders, he pulled Hector back from the steel beam. "Go by your sister," he yelled. "When I lift this, you pull her free, okay?"

The boy was an absolute mess. Blood was streaming from a cut somewhere in his hair, his night clothing was in shreds, especially at the knees ... and then there were his hands. Whit didn't get a close look but he didn't need one either. He instinctively knew Hector could very well lose one or both of them.

The powerfully built man turned his attention back to the offending slab of debris. The beam was hot—no doubt a result of a natural gas fire below them—so this would have to be quick. Grabbing it with his leather clad hands, Whit channeled all his energy into his legs and back. Grunting loudly and in one clean motion, he lifted the hunk of steel and concrete and flipped it away from himself.

Tory was very careful as he pulled his sister out, which was a good thing considering the condition of her hips and legs. Squatting down, Whit rapidly assessed her status. She was unresponsive and both legs were broken—though, thankfully neither were compound. He wasn't sure about her hips, though. Judging from her shallow breathing, he also suspected significant internal damage—which was backed up by a low pulse rate. No stranger to the grim reaper, Whit knew death for this little girl was imminent unless he did something.

Turning to her brother, he began to talk to him until he noticed Tory wasn't listening, only staring wide-eyed at his sister.

It was happening again. Kneeling there with his sister, he watched in horror as she struggled for breath. She was going to die, right here, right now, and he can't stop it. It was happening again. Why hadn't he let her sleep with him? She hated being away from him but he sent her back to her room anyway. And now she's here, dying.

Watching her, he could see his sister Esmeralda—Merri—her broken body lying there on the floor where the guard had dumped her. He could see his mother ... all that blood ... he shook his head at the awful visage, and began to cry.