Mark Casey wanted very little out of life.

   He had never wished to be a CEO, comfortably rich with a nice house in the suburbs and 2.3 kids and a dog. No, Mark Casey’s request was much simpler than that. He wanted to be remembered.

   For most of his life, Mark had been fascinated by the infamous. Serial killers, assassins, and as of late, suicide bombers. In his mind, they had it made. Long after they were gone, their names were spoken daily in households across the country and the world. They were hated; so what? They were remembered, because, as Mark had discovered, society had an odd obsession with those it deemed unspeakably evil.

   The events of September 11 and the following days, with names and faces of the hijackers plastered all over the news, had firmed Mark’s resolve. He had never been particularly bright, popular or good-looking, but soon everyone would know his name. Death, he felt, was a small price to pay for such a legacy.

   On the morning of February 19, Mark Casey put his plan into action. Within hours, the world would know who he was.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   The phone. The phone was ringing.

   Satisfied that she had identified the source of that irritating noise, but not happy that it stubbornly refused to go away, Marissa Clark finally sat up in bed and groped for the telephone on the bedside table. “Hello,” she mumbled, more asleep than awake.

   “Marissa.” Gary Hobson’s voice awakened her as surely as if she had been drenched in ice water. She didn’t like his tone, the same tone he had used after Jeremiah died, the tone of voice that said he was lost and scared but too stubborn to admit it.

   “Gary! Is something wrong?”

   “No,” he said too quickly. “No, nothing’s wrong. I’m sorry to wake you, I just … just wanted to … talk for a minute.”

   Gary knew he wasn’t fooling anybody. Since when did he call Marissa at 6 AM just to talk?

   “Gary … ” Marissa was about to head into her ‘I’m your friend, please talk to me’ speech. While Gary appreciated her concern, he didn’t have time for this, not now. He probably shouldn’t have even taken the time to call her, but he couldn’t reach his parents and he wanted … needed … to hear a familiar voice, if only for a few brief moments.

   “Listen, Marissa, I really have to go.” He cut her off. “I just … I love you. Be careful, okay? And, uh … don’t go near the Hancock Building today. All right? Tell me you won’t.”

   “Gary, please. I need to know what’s — ”

   “Just tell me you won’t go there! Please.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Please do this for me.”

   “I promise.” Marissa forced the words out past the lump in her throat. She wanted to demand that he tell her what was going on, why he sounded so frightened, but there was a click and a dial tone, harsh and abrupt after the soft cadence of Gary’s voice.

   Marissa sat alone in the silence, holding the telephone in both hands and wishing she had told Gary she loved him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   When the paper came an hour early, Gary was initially very disgruntled. He complained all the way to the door, but his words died in his throat when he saw the headline, accompanied by pictures too horrific to believe.

   And then, before he had a chance to do anything more than stare in open-mouthed shock, the paper changed before his eyes. An ad faded away and was replaced by a new article.

   The bombing was still going to happen, but now, 35-year-old Gary Hobson was doing to die attempting to stop it.

   Gary had called everybody he knew and a lot of people he didn’t. He had begged, pleaded, threatened, and cursed — heck, a couple of times he had almost cried from sheer frustration. Every phone call ended the same way — he got hung up on, with strict instructions to never call again, and nothing changed in the paper.

   Hancock Building bombed; thousands dead or missing. Local bar owner Gary Hobson, his all-American face smiling boyishly from a crisp black-and-white photo, fatally shot in a heroic attempt to stop the tragedy.

   Gary had the feeling that this was not going to be his day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   Turning up the collar of his black leather jacket to protect against the icy wind, Gary headed down the sidewalk, re-reading the article about the bombing for the hundredth time. The chill he felt today wasn’t just from the cold weather.

   At 7:33 AM, a delivery truck would pull up in front of the Hancock Building. Its driver would sit quietly for a moment, watching the people walking by — husbands and wives, mothers and sons, fathers and daughters. At 7:36, with the flip of a switch, he would incinerate them all, as well as himself.

   The fact that the crazed bomber was going to die in the explosion told Gary that he had his work cut out for him. Mark Casey had nothing to lose. He was not going to be persuaded to change his mind. Pleas to reconsider would have no effect, and he would willingly kill anyone who tried to stop him. Gary’s own face still smiling from the front page of the paper was proof of that.

   The article about Gary’s death was too short, left out too many details. No time of death, no location, just that he had been rushed to the hospital and had died minutes after arriving, but not before warning the paramedics that the man who had shot him was going to blow up the Hancock Building. It was too late by then.

   The paper has more important things to concern itself with , Gary thought a little bitterly. Things more important than the failed attempts of a wannabe hero. Still, a little warning about the time and place would be nice.

   Fortunately — or unfortunately, depending on how one wanted to look at the situation — the paper gave Gary the location of Mark Casey’s house. As he walked, Gary tried desperately to devise a plan of action. He’s got a gun — that’s pretty obvious, because he’s gonna kill me with it. Maybe, if there’s a pay phone near his house, I could call the police and tell them something  … anything … to get them there. I’m obviously not going to be able to stop the guy on my own.

   Oh, boy. Flipping through the back section of the newspaper, Gary came to a stop so suddenly that the tall blond woman behind him ran into his back. Straightening her immaculate dark blue suit, the woman gave him an icy glare before continuing on.

   Gary glanced at his watch, then back down at the article. “TEENAGE GIRL DIES IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT”. Time of death was given as 6:34 AM. It was currently 6:19. He had fifteen minutes to stop 14-year-old Carrie Valenzuela from skateboarding through a plate-glass window.

   It was nearly impossible to find a taxi this time of day, and even at top speed, Gary wasn’t sure he could get there in time. Then, of course, there was the small but stressful fact that he had a little over an hour to stop a homicidal maniac from destroying the Hancock Building.

   This was definitely not his day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   Carrie Valenzuela swore under her breath, falling to her knees as she landed, her skateboard skittering away and lying upside down with its wheels spinning. At least this time she was alone, with no one to laugh at her repeated failures. Practice makes perfect — isn’t that what they say? Were that cliché true, Carrie should be among the best skateboarders at school. She wasn’t.

   Carrie had made up her mind that she wasn’t going to school today; to hell with what her teachers would say. She was sick of the whole darn thing, sick of being laughed at. Today she would spend with only herself and her board, behind this old abandoned building, where no one could see her or taunt her.

   With a sigh, Carrie got to her feet, picked up her board and climbed all the way to the top of the sloping concrete walkway. This building must have once been a store or something, she observed, noting with a slight shiver that if she didn’t turn quickly at the bottom she would go through a window. Well, this time, she wasn’t going to be a coward.

   Two deep breaths, getting up her nerve. She didn’t realize until a split second too late that the voice yelling from the street was calling her name.

   She picked up speed, began to panic. Oh God, oh God, I can’t stop, I can’t turn, Oh God …

   Someone slammed into her, knocking her sideways against the wall, off her board, which continued on and went through the window. Gasping for breath, trying to take in the fact that she was actually alive, Carrie comprehended only a few details about her rescuer: he was wearing a black leather jacket, he had dark hair, and he was asking her if she was all right.

   She nodded, unable to say anything, unable to even thank this stranger or ask him how he had known she needed help. Before she could regain her breath, or her wits, enough to speak, he patted her once on the shoulder and ran off as if being chased by the devil himself.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   Gary was in good shape — Heaven knew he ran enough — but his legs were beginning to ache as he headed back toward Mark Casey’s house. He checked his watch; 6:38. Hopefully Casey was still at his house. Hopefully there was still time to call the police in on something, anything, a domestic disturbance or pet abuse, just something to get them to check Casey’s residence.

   God, please let there be time …

   It was 6:47 when Gary reached the Casey residence. There was no vehicle parked in the driveway out front, but in an alley directly in back of the house, Gary spotted a light brown van. Hands on knees, he stopped, trying to catch his breath. Casey hasn’t left yet, thank God. Now … a payphone …

   Bingo. There was a phone booth less than a block away. Trying to ignore the increasingly painful stitch in his side, Gary straightened and went to the phone, only to be met with silence when he lifted the receiver. Oh, great. Can this day get any better? The phone’s out of order.

   Okay, time for plan B. Dropping the dead phone without bothering to replace the receiver, Gary stepped out of the phone booth and made a beeline for the nearest house. Trying to figure out exactly what he was going to say, he knocked on the door, waited, then knocked again. No answer. Damn it, this just wasn’t going to work.

   Trying to stay out of sight, Gary circled around Mark Casey’s house and watched as the future bomber walked out of his house and got into the van. Casey didn’t look like a maniac — medium height, slender, with glasses and thinning dark hair — but Gary knew that looks could be deceiving, and in this case, were.

   Just as it seemed Casey was ready to drive off, and just as Gary was entering the throes of helpless despair, the psychopath suddenly seemed to realize he had forgotten something. Leaving the keys in the ignition, Casey went back into the house, giving Gary a very brief, but precious, window of opportunity.

   Shoving the newspaper inside his jacket, Gary ran to the explosives-laden van, jerked open the door, and removed the keys, fumbling in his haste. God, please don’t let him have a spare set, at least not one he can get to right away. I just need time to call the police, time to get them here, if I can just delay him …

   A flicker of movement, caught out of the corner of his eye, was the only thing that warned Gary. Perhaps he wouldn’t have ordinarily noticed it, but knowing you’re destined to die offers pretty good motivation to keep an eye out. He had only a split second to move aside, and it wasn’t quite fast enough.

   Mark Casey lowered his gun, his lips pressed together angrily. He had been so careful. How had his plan been discovered? It didn’t matter, unless this dark-haired man had called the police. That didn’t seem likely, because if the police were involved, he would have waited for them, wouldn’t he have?

   Casey took his keys from the man’s limp hand, then rolled the body away from the van with his foot. By the time they discovered his unknown adversary, it would be too late, Casey thought with a smug feeling. There would be much more important things to worry about then — things like a smoking crater where the Hancock Building used to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   The ground beneath him was hard and cold. For a moment, Gary couldn’t remember where he was or how he had gotten there. Then memory returned and his eyes snapped open.

   Oh no. How long had he been lying there? Was it already too late? Gary tried to lift his left arm to look at his watch, and was unprepared for the pain this simple act evoked. As unreal as it seemed, he had been shot. There was a hole in the left shoulder of his black leather jacket and he could feel the stickiness of his shirt. He was bleeding.

   Unable to suppress a groan, Gary rolled over and got to his knees. Careful to not move his left arm too quickly, he checked his watch. 7:01 AM. He couldn’t have been out for more than nine or ten minutes. Maybe … maybe there was still time.

   Though light-headed and sick to his stomach, Gary managed to stagger to the back door of Casey’s house. Mercifully, he had left the door unlocked. Gary opened it with his right hand, sending up a silent prayer that it wasn’t rigged with explosives. It wasn’t.

   Once inside, Gary staggered drunkenly into the living room, tripped over a chair, and let out a yell of pain when his shoulder was jarred. Across the room, he spotted his goal: a telephone sitting on a coffee table. He’d call the police. If he could just talk to Brigatti … surely she’d know he wouldn’t lie about something like this. Please God, he thought, let her be at the police station now.

   An overly cheerful young woman answered the phone at the police station. “I — ” Gary cleared his throat, trying to raise his voice above a whisper. “Listen, I need to talk to Toni Brigatti, D-Detective Toni Brigatti. It’s urgent, there’s gonna — some guy’s gonna — ” He realized he wasn’t making a lot of sense, but he was having a hard time getting his thoughts together. The room swayed around him and he grabbed the wall for support, almost dropping the phone.

   “Can I ask who’s calling?” The girl sounded justifiably uncertain; she probably thought she was talking to a raving lunatic. I would too if I was her, Gary thought, but couldn’t for the life of him slow down and speak like a normal human being. You’re going into shock, some collected corner of his brain informed him, and he told it to shut up.

   “Listen, a bomb — there’s — it’s — somebody’s gonna … blow up a … I’m … ” Dear God, now his head was starting to hurt. Could things get any worse?

   “Mister … ” The girl was beginning to get exasperated. “Listen, if this is a prank call, I don’t have time for this kind of thing. It’s a serious offense to make a false report.”

   “Tell Brigatti it’s Gary. She’ll talk to me, she’ll — listen, I can’t tell you how I … I know this, but I just do, and I’m telling you the — ”

   Click. Dial tone.

   “Oh, God,” Gary moaned. He threw the phone at the wall with as much strength as he could muster, which wasn’t much. On sea legs, he staggered to the front door and opened it. One option remained: get a cab, get to the Hancock Building, try to convince someone to listen to him.

   Fat chance.

   But it was the only chance he had.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   “Hey, Brigatti,” Sarah Coombs called as she passed the petite, fiery detective’s desk. “I got a really weird call a few minutes ago. Some guy asking for you. He sounded like a nutcase.”

   Antonia Brigatti rolled her eyes. “Aren’t all men crazy?”

   Sarah, blond and somewhat ditzy, giggled. “Yeah, well, this one sounded a little bit extra crazy. He said he knew something, but he couldn’t tell me how he knew it, and he kept asking for you. I think either he was calling from a mental facility, or it was a prank call.”

   Brigatti’s face had become serious. “Yeah,” She said slowly, “you’re probably right.” Still, something tugged impatiently at the back of her mind. Said he knew something, but he couldn’t tell me how he knew it …

   “Nah,” Brigatti muttered once Sarah had moved on. She leaned over her paperwork and brushed a strand of dark glossy hair out of her face. “It couldn’t be.”

   “Couldn’t be what?” Paul Armstrong, a tall, good-looking African-American detective, asked conversationally. He handed Brigatti a cup of coffee and received a grateful smile in return.

   “Oh, it’s nothin’, Paul. Just … Sarah said some nut called for me. She thought it was a prank call, but one thing the guy said made me wonder a little.”

   “Oh?” Armstrong’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “And what would that be?”

   “He said he knew something, but he couldn’t tell her how he knew it.”

   Armstrong’s eyebrows shot up this time. His lips formed the word “Hobson”, but he didn’t actually say the word.

   “Yeah.” Brigatti exhaled slowly, lying down her pen on top of the page she was currently unable to concentrate on. “That’s just what I was thinking. If it really was him, I wonder what he’s gotten himself into this time?”

   Armstrong smiled a little. “It probably wasn’t him, Toni. Probably just a prank call or something. I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” He gave her a little wave and headed off toward his own desk to take care of some thrilling paperwork.

   Brigatti waited until he was out of earshot before replying. “Yeah,” She mumbled under her breath. “I’m sure you wouldn’t, but you’re not me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   Gary’s ride to the Hancock Building was torturous, made doubly so because the cabbie wouldn’t leave him alone. The small, dark-eyed driver kept insisting he should take Gary to a hospital. “Man,” He said in slightly broken English, “you don’ look so good. I think you maybe need some help.”

   “No!” Gary insisted, his barely coherent speech not reassuring the cabbie by any stretch of the imagination. “I’ll be fine, I jus’ need to get to … the Hancock Building.” Gary hoped he wasn’t getting the concerned cabbie killed by going there, but if he wasn’t successful, a lot of people would be dead — probably including himself.

   He had attempted to check the paper once, only to find it so blood-soaked that most of the print was completely illegible. Painfully, he tucked it back inside his jacket and hoped the cabbie hadn’t seen it. If he realized how much Gary was bleeding, the cabbie would certainly insist on going straight to a hospital.

   They reached the Hancock Building at 7:13 AM. Gary thanked the cab driver, paid the fare and unsteadily stepped out onto the curb. He didn’t see Mark Casey’s light brown van, and there was so little time left. He would have to try to convince someone inside to call the police.

   Once inside the towering Hancock Building, Gary headed for the first person he saw — a dark-haired, pretty Hispanic receptionist. She looked up with a friendly smile when she saw him coming. Her smile dimmed a little when she took in the haggard appearance of this handsome dark-haired man. He was pale and his gait was unsteady.

   “Miss, listen.” Gary knew he was standing right in front of the young woman, but for some reason her face seemed hazy and very far away. “You have to call the police. Please. It’s urgent.”

   “Sir, what’s — ” Gary heard that same slightly exasperated tone in this woman’s voice. He wasn’t having much luck with receptionists today. I’m going to fail, he thought numbly. I’m going to fail and we’re all going to die.

   “Please, lady. Just call police, security, somebody. There’s a guy outside … gonna … blow the place up. You gotta call. Oh, God, please!”

   The receptionist realized that this odd man’s last plea was not directed to her, and for the first time she saw the raw desperation in the man’s brown-green eyes. A chill swept over her and, not quite sure why she was doing it, she reached for the telephone.

   Gary’s reached out and grabbed the edge of the counter for support, swaying on his feet. Dimly he realized that the dark-haired Hispanic woman had finally heeded his warning and was dialing the telephone, looking at him with wide, concerned eyes. He didn’t know whether she was concerned about him or about the threat of a bomb; it didn’t matter.

   Gary’s mouth was dry and he had to try twice before he managed to say, “Ask for Brigatti. Detective Toni Brigatti.”

   The young woman followed his command, still uncertain why she was trusting this strange man who had staggered in off the street. There was a brief silence, then a woman’s strong voice came on the phone. “Detective Brigatti.”

   “Tell her there’s a man outside in … a light brown … van,” Gary instructed, closing his eyes briefly, telling himself that he absolutely could not faint right now, not if he wanted to live to see tomorrow. “His name is Mark Casey. He’s got his van loaded with explosives and he’s planning something like Oklahoma City.”

   The receptionist’s dark complexion paled slightly, but she dutifully relayed the message to Brigatti. The Italian detective asked the young receptionist a question, which she started to relay to Gary, but he shook his head. “Tell her the license plate number is … 6RH 93C.” He had hoped it would come in handy when he memorized the van’s license plate number.

   Oh God please, he thought, she has to believe me …

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   “Paul!” Toni Brigatti placed the palm of her hand over her phone and waved Paul Armstrong over to her desk. “I’m talking to a receptionist from the Hancock Building,” She whispered. “She says there’s a nutcase outside in a light brown van loaded with explosives.”

   Armstrong looked slightly skeptical. “She knows this how?”

   Brigatti asked the young woman a question, and when she heard the answer, her eyes widened. “She says a guy showed up begging her to call the police. He gave her the information. He’s a little over six feet tall, dark-haired, in his thirties … ” Her voice trailed off as she and Armstrong came to the same conclusion at the same moment.

   “Don’t worry — we’re on our way,” Brigatti said into the phone, then hung up. “My God, Paul, you think it’s for real? You think it’s really Hobson?”

   “Who else would call asking for you and predicting something that hasn’t happened yet?” Armstrong asked grimly, following Brigatti as she headed for her car. Just to be safe, he called in backup, then got in the passenger seat of Brigatti’s car. “I just hope he doesn’t know what he’s talking about this time.”

   “He even gave me a name and license plate number,” Brigatti said as she headed for the Hancock Building. “Said the guy’s name is Mark Casey and the license plate number on the van is 6RH 93C.”

   It was 7:26 AM when Armstrong and Brigatti pulled up in front of the Hancock Building. Brigatti checked her gun. “I’ll go this way, you go that way,” She told Armstrong in a tone of voice that said she was not in the mood to be argued with. Paul Armstrong didn’t argue.

   Brigatti almost missed the van — part of the license plate was hidden from her, but when she saw the light brown color and a “6H4”, she stopped. Sure enough, it was the van she had been warned about, and the driver looked nervous. Drawing her gun, Toni walked toward the van, trying to calm her rapid heartbeat.

   “Oh my God,” She whispered in disbelief, spotting an ominous bundle of wires hooked up to a large red switch. Mark Casey’s head was turned away from her, but just as she came even with the van he looked at her, saw the gun, and immediately realized what was going on.

   “Chicago Police — freeze!” Brigatti shouted, startling the people around her. She raised her gun and pointed it at Casey with both hands.

   Instantly, he reached for the red switch, leaving Brigatti no choice. Mark Casey died with time for one last brief thought: he had failed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   “Detective Brigatti? Are you Detective Brigatti?” Three minutes after it was all over, a very distraught-looking Hispanic girl came running out the door, her long dark hair flying behind her. At Brigatti’s affirmation, the young woman said, “You have to get an ambulance! I — I didn’t realize. That man inside, he’s hurt badly.”

   Oh no. Brigatti’s stomach did a nasty flip-flop. “Paul!” She shouted, waving to Armstrong. “We need an ambulance here!” Ignoring Armstrong’s confused look, Brigatti allowed the young woman to lead her into the building. She couldn’t suppress a gasp when she saw Hobson lying on the floor. Someone had placed a jacket under his head. He was ashen and there was blood on the floor by his left side.

   The Hispanic girl had started crying. “I didn’t even realize he was hurt,” She said. “He was just standing there and then all the sudden he fell over.”

   The bullet hole in Hobson’s jacket told the whole story. Brigatti applied pressure to the wound, praying the bleeding would stop, praying that this bizarre dark-haired man who had confused and annoyed them all to no end would hold on until they could get him to the hospital.

   Hobson’s eyes opened and he moaned. Slowly, his gorgeous muddy green eyes focused on Brigatti’s face and he almost smiled. “Brigatti,” He whispered. “What time is it?”

   “It’s 7:41, Hobson. Why?”

   “7:41,” He repeated. “Guess that means … you … stopped him.”

   “We stopped him,” Brigatti assured him in a soft voice. “He won’t be doing anything like this again. Speaking of Mark Casey, Hobson, how did you know … ?”

   His eyebrows lowered slightly as he tried, in his muddled state, to come up with a halfway plausible story. Brigatti laughed softly. “Never mind, Hobson, it doesn’t matter. You hang on, okay? You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna get you to a hospital.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   Marissa Clark was in the office at McGinty’s, listening to 8 AM news. She was just about ready to pull out her hair, going crazy with worry over Gary. She’d called everyone she could think of, and none of them had heard from her closest friend. Gary, where have you gone? Marissa moaned inwardly.

   She froze when she heard the word “Hancock”. Turning up the news, Marissa listened intently.

   “While the details are still somewhat sketchy, the latest report from the Hancock Building is that the police managed, with the help of a civilian, to thwart a bombing. Apparently Detective Toni Brigatti got a call from a civilian who warned her about a potential threat … ”

   “Gary,” Marissa whispered, awash in relief, smiling a smile that lasted about five seconds.

   “ … Reportedly the civilian was injured, although it is not known how badly. He or she was taken from the scene by ambulance. We do not have the civilian’s name at this time.”

   Marissa sat down heavily in the closest chair, her face frozen. On cue, the phone rang, and Marissa snatched it up. “McGinty’s,” She whispered.

   “Marissa Clark?” The voice was unmistakably Toni Brigatti’s. “This is Detective Toni Brigatti.”

   “Where is Gary? Is he okay?” Marissa didn’t waste any time.

   “Gary’s in Cook County Hospital,” Brigatti explained. “He’s going to be fine, Marissa. I don’t know how he did it, but he saved a lot of lives out there today. Do you want me to send somebody to get you?”

   “No, that’s okay. I’ll take a cab.” Marissa let out a breath, which it seemed she had been holding ever since she heard the radio report. “I’m just so glad he’s going to be okay.”

   “Me too,” Brigatti said, so softly Marissa could hardly hear her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

   Several hours later, when Toni Brigatti wearily emerged from Cook County Hospital and blinked her eyes against the bright sunlight, a wave of reporters surged forward, clamoring for her attention. “Detective Brigatti! What’s the name of the civilian who alerted you to the bomb? Is the civilian all right?”

   Brigatti paused and sighed. “He’s going to be fine, but he would prefer that his name not be released at this time. After all he’s done for this city, I think we can allow him to remain anonymous.”

   More questions were asked, but Brigatti brushed by the reporters, heading for her car. She was too tired to handle this right now. She needed a warm shower and a little time to work everything out.

   In the end, Mark Casey died the flip of a switch short of his goal … and Gary Hobson didn’t die at all.

 

*FINIS*

Email the author: eternallyfaithful@juno.com
 

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