THIRTEEN
The distant toll of the Chatham County, Georgia, clock tower rang twelve noon as Amber Talbot left the Safe Harbor Counseling Center and headed down River Street to her car.
The forecast had called for late-afternoon thunderstorms here in Savannah, but already dark clouds hovered low in the sky. A rising breeze swept the tree-lined streets, rustling spring foliage and delivering a sudden chill to the air. Turning up her collar, Amber eyed the murky waves that boomed against wooden docks. Boats tied to their posts bobbed like corks in the water. Curling whitecaps crashed over their bows.
Amber pulled in a breath of humid air and picked up her pace. Perfect weather to snuggle up with a good book. Exactly what she needed. After weeks of being bogged down at work, she was treating herself to a restful weekend.
With those thoughts echoing in her head, Amber jogged up a short flight of steps to the parking lot. Lengthening her strides, she dug out her key fob and unlocked her car with a click.
“Ma’am, did you drop this?”
Amber spun in the direction of the male voice and found an older gentleman waving a manila envelope with her name sprawled across it.
She glanced at her open messenger bag, crammed full with her purse, client files and notes for her fund-raiser. How careless, she chastised herself, for forgetting to zip it closed.
Tucking the bag under her arm, she started toward the man. “Thank you, sir—”
A deafening blast filled the air.
Amber flew backward, landed hard on the pavement. Black smoke plumed in front of her. The ground shook as glass and metal rained down like a hailstorm. Scrambling to her knees, she hurled her arms over her head to protect it from the shower of stinging objects. A whoosh sounded, then she heard crackling as heat blanketed her. She willed herself to move but couldn’t.
I’m going to die!
“Lady, are you okay?” The man’s distant shriek filled her ears. “You need to get away from the flames!”
Amber’s body pulsed with pain. Smoke raked across her eyes like claws. She squeezed them shut as coughs racked her lungs. She pulled herself forward, crawling in the direction of the man’s voice. Shrapnel bit into her palms and knees, but adrenaline kept her moving until the man grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.
“I called 9-1-1. Help’s on the way,” the older man screeched between hacks. “Was that your car?”
Amber’s lungs burned. She worked to breathe. On shaky legs she managed to turn.
The smoke had subsided some, but the car was engulfed in flames. Panic grew; her mind spun with shock.
“Yes,” she said, disbelieving. “That was my car.”
* * *
“Possible car bomb off River Street,” the police radio blared.
Detective Patrick Wiley forgot about the lunch meeting with his boss, swung his SUV around and headed that way.
His years as a navy SEAL had taught him one thing: get to the scene when the evidence was fresh. Facts and data meant a lot when he put his senses to the test.
Pulling a small siren from under his seat, he slapped it on the roof of the vehicle and sped onto the Talmadge Memorial Bridge. Cars swerved out of his way, and in moments he was over the Savannah River and nearing River Street.
He knew about car bombings—shrapnel, flying debris, collateral damage, innocent bloodshed. A coward’s weapon of destruction.
Unlike his days in Afghanistan, this, he surmised, was likely faulty mechanic work resulting in an engine fire.
He came to a stop at the scene and leaped from his car. His positive rationale faded, and a dire feeling settled in his gut. Dark smoke blanketed the sky, the smell of destruction in the air. Rescue vehicles crammed into the small parking lot. Lines of fire hoses snaked every which way from multiple trucks.
Fortunately the parking lot hadn’t been full. The tourist season had yet to take off, due to the looming storm and cooler-than-usual spring temperatures. A blessing in disguise, as it turned out.
Patrick wove his way around rescue and police vehicles, moving closer to the scene. Firefighters battled the last of the flames biting at the charred skeleton of the small sedan. A dozen yards away, paramedics tended to a young woman sitting in the back of an ambulance.
He gave another assessing glance of the area. No other casualties came into view.
Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a clap of thunder. Hopefully the forensics team could collect any evidence before the storm hit.
Officer Bill Robinson hurried toward him, stepping around the tangle of hoses. “That was some explosion. We got calls from folks who felt it ten blocks away.” He jerked his head toward the woman sitting in the back of an EMS vehicle. “Somebody really wanted that girl scared, or dead.”
By the looks of the damage and scattered debris, Patrick didn’t doubt it. “Is she the only victim?”
“As far as we can tell,” Bill said, taking off his hat and shaking his head. “She was fortunate. If she hadn’t dropped something and went back to get it...” He didn’t finish, just wagged his head.
Patrick got the picture. “Did she give you any information about who might be responsible?”
Bill shook his head again. “Shocked and confused is all I got out of her. She’s pretty cut up, too. Probably needs a little time to
