“One explosion could be a crazy man,” said Lipsky. “But a conspiracy of war veterans? Complete with a video manifesto declaring war on the American financial system? The media will go apeshit. And the fear of the next attack? It will be like ten bombs, or twenty.”
More than that, thought Peter. It would be another great crash. The financial system, still reeling from the last disaster, would shut down in self-defense. Maybe for only a week, maybe longer. It didn’t matter. It would do a lot of damage either way, and someone who knew it was coming could make an enormous amount of money.
“You are such an asshole,” said Peter.
Lipsky gave Peter a kindly smile. “It’s your parents I feel the most sympathy for. Their son the Marine become a domestic terrorist.”
Peter felt a surge of rage, and he strained hard at the plastic handcuffs. The static rose up as the cuffs bit painfully into his wrists, but nothing changed.
Breathe in, breathe out. Push it down, push it down. “They won’t believe it,” he said.
Lipsky jerked his thumb at Felix on the laptop. “He’s fine-tuning the video now. We found your old e-mail address. You really should have a better password. Before we go, Cas will use your e-mail to send a copy to your mom, as well as The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal.”
Peter felt that one in his gut. He thought of his mother opening the e-mail. His parents seeing his face on the national news. His father would have a stroke right there. It would kill them both.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
“What’s the point?” he said, although he knew already. “Why me?”
“Because you’re perfect,” said Lipsky. “Homeless vet, no job, post-traumatic stress. History of violence. Look at you. Sweaty and pale. Trying to hold in whatever demons have taken root. Practically a ghost already. You’re a walking time bomb. Much better than the last guy we had.”
“The last guy,” said Peter. And found that he already knew that, too.
“Your friend, Mr. Johnson. He was going to be our co-conspirator, although he never made it past the planning stages.”
Peter clenched his jaw. “Who killed him? You?”
“It was an accident,” said Lipsky with a shrug. “There’s a reason cops don’t use that choke hold anymore. I was just trying to get him under control.”
Now Peter understood. “The bullet under his chin was to prevent an autopsy.”
“A good choke doesn’t leave bruises,” said Lipsky. “That’s a murder investigation. But I knew the coroner wouldn’t think twice about another veteran suicide.” He shook his head. “As it was, him dying already screwed everything up. We lost track of the contents of that suitcase.” He smiled at Peter. “Until now.”
“I know what you wanted the plastic for. But what’s with the money?”
“Payment,” said Lipsky. “Services rendered. I worked hard for that money. It’s not easy to bury a murder charge. I’m going to want that back, too, by the way. It’s not much compared to what we’re expecting, but it’s nice to have hard cash in hand, just in case. Always have more than one exit strategy, right?”
“So it’s all about the money.”
Lipsky raised his eyebrows. “Ten years in the Army, fifteen as a cop. My life on the line every day. Getting paid shit. And this is it? A pension promise that might get revoked the next time the governor gets the hiccups?”
Peter ignored Lipsky’s whining. You signed up for it, you knew what you were getting into. “So what’s the target?” he asked. “How many people are you planning to kill?”
The phone in Lipsky’s hand chimed again. Lipsky glanced down. “Right on schedule. In about two minutes, you’ll tell me where to find the C-4.”
The scarred man walked through the big rusted iron door from the veterans’ center. He wore the same black leather car coat and Kangol cap worn backward. His face was a collection of mottled bruises, the skin split and raw at the lip and left cheek. He saw Peter cuffed behind the table and sauntered toward him with a cruel smile.
“Boomer.” Lipsky’s voice cracked like a whip. It made Peter want to stand at attention, and he was handcuffed to a chair.
Boomer’s mouth bunched like a fist, but his step faltered. “I’m just gonna hit him once.” The man’s face really was a mess.
“What happened to you?” asked Peter with an innocent expression. “Fall off a bicycle?”
Boomer started toward Peter again. “I’m gonna hit you so fuckin’ hard—”
“Stop,” said Lipsky, his voice an edged weapon. The scarred man froze in his tracks. “You can have him later, Boomer. Right now you’re still working for me. So show me.”
“Fine.” Boomer’s mouth twisted up farther, but he turned away from Peter and pulled a phone from his pocket to show Lipsky. “We’re all set up.”
Lipsky looked at the screen. “You’ve only got one kid here. Where’s the dog?”
Boomer shrugged. “There was only the one kid. And no dog.”
The static flared into Peter’s brain. His arms strained against the cuffs, his gut clenched, and his chest was wrapped in steel bands. Breathe in, breathe out. I hear you, old friend. Just hold off for a few minutes.
Lipsky gave Boomer a sour look.