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McMahon shook his head. The agents back at the Joint Counterterrorism Center were monitoring all news outlets for mention of the attack. McMahon had been tempted to pass on what Kennedy had told him about the threat on Rapp’s life that had come in the week before, but for now he decided to withhold the information. Investigations were always tricky when they involved multiple jurisdictions, but they were never more complicated than when they involved the CIA. For good reason, the CIA didn’t like sharing its sources and methods. Especially when judges ordered them to hand such information over to lawyers who represented suspected terrorists.
The sheriff was hammering his point home to McMahon when one of his deputies came up. Two men in street clothes were following him.
“Boss,” the deputy said to the sheriff, “these two guys say they’re here to see a Special Agent McMahon.”
The sheriff jerked his thumb toward McMahon. “Here he is.”
“There’s also a news van at the checkpoint.”
“Crap,” said the sheriff.
“It’s the NBC affiliate from Baltimore,” the deputy offered. “They know the wife died. They said the network sent them down to get some footage for a tribute they’re going to run in the morning.”
“What do you think?” the sheriff asked McMahon.
One of the men who had come up with the deputy looked at McMahon and shook his head. McMahon was not surprised that the man did not want cameras around. He looked over at the smoking house and turned to the deputy. “Tell them we’re checking for gas leaks. It’ll be about another hour.”
The sheriff nodded his consent and the deputy left.
“Sheriff,” said McMahon, “if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I need to talk to these gentlemen.”
“I’ll go make sure the TV crew doesn’t weasel their way in here.”
“Good idea.” When the sheriff was gone, McMahon looked at the two men. He knew the blond-haired man, but had never met the other guy. He could tell a great deal, though, by taking a quick inventory of him. He was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a black Mountain Hard-wear fleece jacket. He had a large black rubber dive watch on his right wrist, his hair was dark and shaggy, and although he was a good seventy-five pounds lighter than the FBI agent, McMahon had no doubt the little scrapper could kill him without breaking a sweat. The guy was Special Forces from head to toe.
All of this was easy to surmise since he already knew for a fact that the other man had indeed been Special Forces. McMahon turned his attention back to the taller of the two. “Scott Coleman,” he said, “I was about to say you’re the last person I expected to see, but now that I think about it I should have expected you.”
“Irene called me.” The former SEAL was all business. “She wanted us to take a look around.”
McMahon thought about that for a second. He wasn’t so sure he agreed with the director of the CIA. “Who’s your friend?”
Coleman started to answer, and then McMahon put his hand out and cut him off. “Never mind,” the agent said. “I don’t want to know. Do I?”
Coleman shrugged. “It wasn’t like I was going to give you his real name.”
McMahon shook his head and turned toward the house. “You ever been here before?”
Coleman nodded.
“I suppose you and Mitch are pretty tight.”
“Yeah.” Coleman looked at the other man he’d come with and made a slight gesture with his head. “You know what to look for.”
The man looked each way down the road, nodded, and was gone.
“They’re saying it’s a gas explosion.”
McMahon nodded. “Propane.”
“Who?”
“The sheriff and the fire chief.”
“Can I talk to the fire chief?”
“Sure, follow me.” They walked roughly halfway down the driveway and found the county fire chief nudging a piece of debris with his boot. The man had gotten rid of his jacket, but he was still wearing his heavy boots, helmet, and fire-resistant overalls. McMahon made a quick introduction, telling the chief Coleman’s first name and nothing more.
The fire chief started by pointing back toward the left side of the charred house. “We found some traces of an accelerant over there where the garage used to be and near where the propane tank used to sit.”
