“I want you to wear it tonight.” He forced aside his grim thoughts and concentrated on the present. “We’re going to Galatoire’s.”
The name of her favorite restaurant brought an involuntary smile, but then her lips tightened. “If you think taking me somewhere fancy is going to make things okay, you can forget about it. Crab cakes and deviled oysters won’t do the trick this time, Quinn.” She shook her head. “And I mean it.”
She’d said these words last night and he’d heard them before, as well, but a new resolve seemed to be growing behind them. Someone else might not have noticed, but Quinn had picked up on it instantly.
Sometimes he hated his instincts.
Life would be much simpler for him if he was more like Hannah. She didn’t intuit things or emotions—if it wasn’t before her in black and white, it simply didn’t exist. Everything had hidden nuances for Quinn; he could read the tension in a room by simply walking into it. Hannah’s way was better. What she didn’t know, she didn’t worry about. What she didn’t accept, she changed.
Until she’d hooked up with him.
He leaned close enough to smell her shampoo and see the freckle on her right cheek that she always tried to hide with makeup. Being this near was all it took to make him want her. His concern over their fight evaporated.
“This is more than just dinner. A lot more.”
She arched one blond eyebrow. “Like what?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises,” Hannah said flatly. “And I think we need to talk about last night. I’m not going to let this drop, Quinn—”
“No talking.” He stopped her words with a light kiss and shook his head, saying, “Tonight. Dinner.” Then he walked away, his surprise intact.
He’d given the evening ahead a lot of thought. When Quinn told Hannah his news, he wanted to do it right, not blurt it out in the middle of the bullpen. Bill Ford, their boss, had told Quinn that morning he’d been selected to be the new team lead. Bill was moving on to Washington. The announcement would be made next week, but for the moment, no one knew about the promotion except Quinn. And Bobby Justice.
Quinn made his way down the hall to his office, the tall, black tech on his mind. Bobby had been the only other serious candidate for the job. Well-respected and just as competent as Quinn, Bobby had been on the team even longer, fourteen years to Quinn’s twelve. He was a quiet, steady man whose life revolved around his wife and children, but he—and everyone else on the team—lacked the one essential Quinn had in abundance.
He had a mysterious, indefinable touch. However much he downplayed the ability when others mentioned it, Quinn couldn’t deny the truth to himself; he had a sixth sense about bombs. The others on the team were all terrific, especially Hannah, whose strength was analysis. But Quinn’s skill was unique. Consequently no one really understood it. Including him.
He reached his office, stepped inside and went to work. The mundane details always piled up—reports to read and file, examinations to be studied, fragments to examine… This was his least favorite part of the job and he tended to put it off. That technique might have worked in the past, but as the boss, he’d have to be better at dealing with it all. He worked steadily until noon, then stopped for lunch.
The call came in right after one.
Bobby appeared at Quinn’s door, every line in his face drawn with worry. “There’s a problem off the Central Business District,” he said. “CBD dispatch caught a suspicious package and sent out a coupla uniforms. It looks bad.”
“They all look bad,” Quinn said.
“Not like this. It could be Mr. Rogers….” Bobby paused. “That’s why they called and gave us a heads-up.”
“Oh, man…are you sure?”
“The box is propped up against the back door of a day-care center, adjacent to a school. Kids everywhere. Metro’s dogs alerted on it…all the pieces are in place…”
At Bobby’s words Quinn felt his stomach roll over. EXIT had been tracking a serial bomber for what felt like ten lifetimes. They’d linked him to three bombings across the South, each occurring every two years for the past six; one in Georgia, one in Mississippi and one in South Carolina. Day-care centers in run-down neighborhoods were his targets, hence the “Mr. Rogers” nickname. The team had been on edge for the whole month. The bomber didn’t always strike on the exact same day, but the month—January—never changed. His devices were frighteningly potent, and it’d been a miracle that no one had been killed. Yet.
Hannah came up behind Bobby. She already had on the black leather jacket they wore when they were called out, with EXIT embroidered across the back in bright yellow letters. Right behind her was Mark Baker, the newest member of the team. Baker grated on everyone’s nerves, making up for his lack of experience with bluster. Without conscious effort, at least on Quinn’s part, a rivalry seemed to be developing between the two of them.
Bobby ignored the other techs and focused on Quinn. “I’m going over there. If it’s him, we need to know. I can take a quick look, then tell the rest of you what’s up with it.”
Quinn understood the reaction—he’d like to do the same, but he held up his hand. “Hold on. Did Central request our help? I thought you said it was just a heads-up call.”
A federal agency, EXIT primarily dealt with two situations: explosions at government facilities or cases that proved to be unusual in some way, such as the serial bomber. With five offices nationwide, they only went to local sites as a courtesy, and even then, their expertise had to be formally requested.
“Well, it was but—”
“Then it’s their baby until they want to give it up.” Quinn spoke calmly, sending Bobby a look that only the two of them understood. Before now they’d worked by loose consensus, Ford more intent on getting to Washington than forging a team. Quinn wanted something different. “Let’s wait. I don’t want to piss off the guys over there—”
Hannah spoke up, disregarding them all. “We’ve never had a potential site this fresh. I’m going now.” Interagency rivalries were meaningless to her. She only wanted to get the job done. She zipped her jacket, then looked at the men expectantly. “Who’s coming with me?”
Baker spoke instantly. “I’m ready.”
Bobby hesitated. He obviously wanted to go, but he just as clearly didn’t want to upset Quinn.
Hannah headed for the door, then paused at the threshold. “You in or out, Bobby?”
The big man sent Quinn an apologetic look and shrugged. “She’s goin’, I’m goin’.”
Quinn cursed, then he jumped up from his desk and grabbed his own jacket. What the hell, he thought. Monday I’ll be a big-shot manager. I’ll make this call and it’ll be my last one.
He had no idea how right he was.
FIVE MINUTES LATER, striding through the parking lot of EXIT’s headquarters, Hannah asked herself the question that had plagued her ever since she’d joined the team.
What kind of sicko would leave a bomb at a day-care center?
The very idea made her want to simultaneously throw up and shoot someone. They were just little kids, for God’s sake! How could anyone be so twisted, so evil? And now it’d happened here in New Orleans, right under their noses. The fact that one day she might have to put her own children in a facility like the one they were headed for made the whole situation even more difficult for Hannah.
If she ever had any children of her own…
Quinn jumped behind the wheel of the response vehicle, and Hannah climbed in the back with Mark, leaving Bobby to go up front. She didn’t