Detective Danny Cavanaugh 01 - The Brink

and green lines.”
    The squealing brakes signaled Evan, along with the rest of the standing passengers, to shift toward the train doors. When the train finally stopped, Evan allowed himself to get swept along with the flow of people through the train’s open doorway. It was only after he stepped a few feet onto the platform that he broke free from the crowd.
    He walked along the platform toward the set of stairs that would take him up to the main level of the L’Enfant Plaza station. Once there, he strode over to the center and plopped his briefcase down on the same empty concrete bench that he used every weekday for the past month. He glanced down toward the other end of the platform and saw the face he expected to be there. They held each other’s eyes for only a second—a nanosecond—same today as they had for the past month. But today was no longer just practice.
    A new confidence washed over Evan. It worked its way into his shoulders, down his back, and energized his core. He knew that nearly every inch of the station was being watched by cameras, the eyes in the sky. But that still couldn’t stop them. Their plan was sheer genius, and it was being carried out with exacting precision, careful patience, and swift timing.
    Evan kept his head down as he opened his briefcase. He concentrated on hearing the activity around him: the endless clicking and clacking of hard-soled shoes striking the floor, the occasional voices of people engaged in conversation as they rushed by him, the sliding fabric that covered passersby as it stretched and rubbed against moving skin.
    Evan pulled the newspaper out of his briefcase, just like he had done every weekday for the past month. But today, he made sure the device was safely tucked inside it. He had practiced this part of his mission every night in his apartment since he first moved in. Practice makes perfect. He closed his briefcase, slung it back over his shoulder, and started down the platform with a death grip on his copy of the Washington Post.
    Evan saw his colleague coming toward him. He noticed how much they were dressed alike. Both had department store overcoats covering single-breasted, charcoal gray, off-the-rack suits. Underneath that, they both wore white shirts and conservative ties. They clapped toward each other in their polished black cap-toed shoes. The message they were sending spoke loud and clear. Each one was a young man on a budget trying to act the part of a D.C. player: typical $30,000-a-year millionaires. There were thousands of them in this city, and each one just as anonymous as the next.
    They passed each other without a word or glance. But Evan couldn’t help looking around the platform to quench his insatiable thirst to be in the know. The others would be there, but he wasn’t privy to their part of the plan. Would they be wearing disguises? What exactly were they going to do? When would their part of the plan begin?
    Evan stopped the guessing game as he continued heading for daylight. On his way out of the station, he sidled over to the recycling bin near the exit, just like he had done every weekday for the past month. Evan waited behind a middle-aged black man to deposit a copy of the Washington Post before he did the same.
    As he made his way through the exit turnstile, Evan increased his swagger toward the up escalators. When he finally reached the light of day again, crisp wind engulfed his face. Evan had to smile. It really was that easy.
    -
    Evan Pruitt had just slipped into line to order his usual extra hot, no foam, hazelnut café latte in the Liberty Place Starbucks on 7th Street when he heard the sirens. He looked behind him and saw a fire truck rocket by. Then another. They were followed by an ambulance.
    Evan exited the store before ordering and followed several other Starbucks patrons down the block, following the commotion. He could tell what was going through their minds. Ever since 9/11, sirens made people uneasy. Especially in favorite targets like Washington, D.C.
    As the street calmed and life in this part of the district returned to normal, Evan could only imagine the chaos ensuing only blocks away; chaos that he and his colleagues had engineered.
    Evan turned back toward the Starbucks and thought about adding a hunk of coffee cake to his usual drink order. What the hell? he thought. He could deviate from his routine a little now. Call it a reward for a job well done.

Chapter 8
    The shower loosened Sydney Dumas’s