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“Good. Because this is where I get to the point. This really is going somewhere. Haight is in the spotlight because two known terrorists contacted him. Now DHS just got a hit on Haight’s computer. Connor Grant e-mailed Haight and he wrote back.”
“Really?”
“Really,” said Jacobi. “This is the key fact. Grant thanked Haight for his support. Guessing that the support was for Grant’s attack on Sci-Tron. Grant says to Haight that he’s leaving town. Didn’t say when, and we don’t know where Grant is, but DHS wants to pick up Mr. Flower Power and question him. He could be a co-conspirator in a terrorist act that killed twenty-five citizens of our city.”
I was stunned. I’d just about given up on Grant, and now it sounded like he had finally left a virtual fingerprint on the Sci-Tron disaster and had implicated an even bigger catch.
Jacobi said, “SWAT is out front waiting for you. Conklin is on the way. I wish I could go,” said Jacobi. “Now get out of here.”
CHAPTER 91
HAIGHT WAS IN his studio watching the sky go cobalt blue beyond the reinforced glass. After his brief exchange with Connor Grant, creator of the Sci-Tron bomb, Haight changed his IP address. It had been a mistake to write to Grant, the first time he’d ever written back, but he had to say good-bye to his prize pupil. He’d always enjoyed Grant’s clearheaded intelligence, his scientific mind.
He finished cleaning up his hard drive and he planned his evening. He was baking root vegetables, and while they cooked, he would post a podcast. Some audacious lone-wolf bombings had taken place this week in New York and several cities in Europe.
It was very important that he cheer on the loyal soldiers everywhere. It was important to send out a message to motivate others.
He was making his notes, gathering his thoughts for his podcast, when he saw a line of cars coming down Twentieth Street toward his factory.
Oh. Shit.
Haight heard the chopper blades as cars filled the parking area below. He ran upstairs to the roof and put up his hands, yelling ineffectually, “Don’t shoot.”
Goddamnit. Of course he’d been hacked. No surprise but one little mistake, 122 characters, immediately deleted and cleaned to death.
And still the fucking net had closed.
“Don’t shoot.”
CHAPTER 92
I WAS RIDING shotgun in the lead car with tactical force commander William Niles as we bumped over the broken asphalt in the industrial section of Dogpatch. Choppers were lending air support, and Niles was on the radio, instructing his team.
As bright lights from the helicopters lit up an old factory, our assault vehicles pulled into a line, blocking the roadway and providing cover.
A man was standing on the roof of his factory home with his hands up, but when the blinding lights hit him, he ran back into the building.
Niles was out of the car and on the bullhorn.
“Come out, Mr. Mitchell. You’re surrounded.”
Conklin and I got out of the vehicle.
What was Haight going to do? On Niles’s go, the tac team ran forward and took positions on all exits, and two men rammed in the front door.
Flashbangs lit up the windows.
And a moment later the spear tip of our counterterrorism task force went in. I found a stunned Dylan Mitchell, a.k.a. Haight, sprawled out on his bed, barely conscious.
Niles filled a pot with water and splashed it on the man who was stirring up crazy anarchists in America and the rest of the world, then yanked him awake and into a sitting position.
“What?” the man asked.
“We’re arresting you for conspiracy in recent bombings and other acts of terrorism. I have federal warrants to search your premises and to confiscate your electronic devices, including your phone and your computer. Your ass belongs to the DHS until further notice.”
“I haven’t done anything. I posted a blog.”
“Okay, well, we say you conspired with Connor Grant in the bombing of Sci-Tron and are implicated in the deaths of twenty-five people. That’s for starters.”
