The Kill Room

learned his skills abroad.
    Sachs snapped her fingers next to each ear and was pleased to find that over the tinnitus ring she could hear pretty well.
    What had saved her life and those of the coffee drinkers had at first made her laugh.
    She and Jerry, the inked manager of Java Hut, had gone into the small, dimly lit office, where the store’s computer was located. They’d pulled up chairs and he’d bent forward, entering a passcode on the old Windows system.
    “Here’s the program for the security video.” Jerry had loaded it and then showed her the commands for reviewing the .mpg files, how to rewind and fast-forward, how to capture stills and write clips to separate files for uploading or copying to a flash drive.
    “Got it, thanks.”
    She’d scooted forward and looked closely at the screen, which was divided into quadrants, one scene for each camera: two were of the floor of the shop, one of the cash register, one of the office.
    She had just started scrolling back in time from today to May 11—the date the whistleblower had leaked the STO from here—when she noticed a scene of a man in the office where they now sat, walking forward.
    Wait. Something was odd. She’d paused the video.
    What was off about this?
    Oh, sure, that was it. She’d laughed. In all the other scenes, because she was scrolling in reverse, people were moving backward. But on the office video, the man was moving forward, which meant that in real time he had been backing out of the office.
    Why would anyone do that?
    She’d pointed it out to the manager, who hadn’t, however, shared her smile. “Look at the time stamp. That was just ten minutes ago. And I don’t know who he is. He doesn’t work here.”
    The man was trim, with short hair, it seemed, under a baseball cap. He wore a windbreaker-style jacket and carried a small backpack.
    Jerry had risen and walked to the back door. He’d tried it. “It’s open. Hell, we’ve been broken into!”
    Sachs scrolled back farther, then played the video forward. They saw the man come into the office, try to log on to the computer several times and then struggle to pick it up, only to be stymied by the steel bars securing it to the floor. Then he’d glanced at the monitor and must have noticed that he was being filmed. Rather than turn and face the security camera, he’d backed out of the office.
    She knew it had to be the sniper.
    Somehow he too had learned about the whistleblower and had come here to see if he could find the man’s identity. He must’ve heard her and Jerry approach. Sachs had run the tape again, noting this time that before he left he seemed to place a small object behind the computer. What—?
    Oh, hell, no!
    He’d left an IED— that’s what he’d planted behind the computer. He couldn’t steal it; so he’d destroy the Dell. Try to disarm or not? No, he’d have set it to detonate at any minute. “Out, everybody out!” she’d cried. “Bomb. There’s a bomb! Clear the place. Everybody out!”
    “But that’s—”
    Sachs had grabbed Jerry by his ideogramed arm and dragged him into the restaurant, calling for the baristas, dishwasher and customers to flee. She’d held up her badge. “NYPD, evacuate now! There’s a gas leak!”
    Too complicated to explain about bombs.
    The device had blown just as she’d shoved the last customer out the door, a contrary young student whining that he hadn’t gotten his refill yet.
    Sachs had still been inside when she’d felt the detonation in her chest and ears and, through the floor, her feet. Two plate-glass windows had shattered and much of the interior flew into pieces. Instantly the place had been enveloped by that vile, greasy smoke. She’d leapt through the door but stayed upright, sure that if she’d dived to the concrete—à la that clichéd scene in thriller movies—her knee would never forgive her.
    Now the Bomb Squad officers made their way through the front door. “It’s clear,” she heard, though it sounded like the lieutenant was speaking through cotton. The bomb had really been quite loud. Plastic explosives detonate at around twenty-five thousand feet per second.
    “What was it?” she said and when he smiled she knew she’d been shouting.
    “Can’t tell for sure until we send off details to the bureau and ATF. But my guess? Military—we found some camouflaged shrapnel. It’s primarily anti-personnel. But it works real good for blowing up anything nearby.”
    “Like