Derek stood in the operations room while Cross and McManus fast-forwarded through hours of security cam footage, rage like too much caffeine in his blood. He would find the son of a bitch responsible for this—and end him.
It had been a close call. Whoever had built the explosive device had fucked up, directing the blast downward. It had left a crater in the road and damaged the front gate, but it hadn’t broken through the compound’s concrete walls.
Then again, Derek couldn’t be sure that Cobra had been their target. Their side of the street was blocked off with concrete Jersey barriers and razor wire. No one could park there. Did the driver park there because it was the closest he could get to Cobra—and Jenna—or was this act of terrorism completely random?
Derek had already gotten a call from Kazi’s security secretary asking whether anyone had been injured or Cobra needed help. Derek had thanked him for the offer and reassured him that no serious damage had been done. “Just a few broken mirrors and some shrapnel damage to the front gate.”
That wasn’t the truth, of course. Jenna and the two men who’d been on duty inside the gate had minor injuries, but Derek didn’t want to share information that might make Cobra seem vulnerable, especially not if Kazi was behind this.
“There!” McManus stopped the film. “Och, you bastard.”
Derek leaned in. “I want to see the fucker’s face.”
Cross blew up the image. “He’s just a kid. I don’t recognize him.”
Neither did Derek. It wasn’t Qassim or Hamzad or any number of terrorists on the U.S. government’s list of most-wanted assholes whose faces adorned the walls. “I want this image sent to Corbray and run through every database we have.”
“Yes, sir.”
Elizabeth looked up from her computer. “Afghan media is saying that the Taliban took credit for the blast. Fifteen people were injured, two of them seriously. There’s no word yet on the intended target.”
“That’s obvious, isn’t it?” McManus asked. “They sure as hell weren’t tryin’ to blow up the rug shop, now were they?”
“Shields, keep monitoring the media. Cross, McManus, see what you can get on that vehicle and its driver. Call me if anything pops.” Derek started toward the door.
“How is she?” Elizabeth asked.
Derek did his best to keep his reply neutral. “She’s got a concussion, and she needed some stitches. She’ll be fine.”
He went to Grant’s office. “Pull up our evac plans. I want every member of the staff briefed on procedures in case we end up having to evacuate. I’d also like a report on our response efficiency today. Get it into my hands by sixteen-hundred hours.”
“I’m on it.”
Derek went back to his quarters, stripped off his bloody shirt, staring down at it. He’d had Jimmy’s blood on his clothes and body once, and now he had Jenna’s. “Goddamn it!”
It was his job to keep Jenna safe, and she’d been hurtinsidethe Cobra facility.
Not good enough.
He threw the shirt into his laundry pile, jerked another off the shelf in his closet, and pulled it over his head. Then he went back to the infirmary, where he found her sleeping. “How is she?”
Doc Sullivan looked down at Jenna. “She’ll be fine. I gave her some anti-nausea meds and an analgesic for the headache. None of the other lacerations needed stitches. What she needs most right now is rest. She can go back to her room whenever it’s safe again, but she shouldn’t be alone for the next twenty-four hours.”
“Thanks, man.” Derek walked over to stand beside her.
She had changed into scrubs, her bloody clothes folded and tucked beneath the gurney. A dressing covered the wound on her temple, and she looked like she might end up with a black eye. A dozen little nicks and cuts covered her face, arms, and hands.
She said she’d been standing in front of the mirror when the bomb went off. The blast wave had shaken the building, breaking a few mirrors but doing no permanent damage.
It could have been much worse. If the fucker who’d made that IED had known what he was doing, he could have taken out all the shops across the street as well as the compound’s perimeter wall and the front gate.
Jenna’s eyes fluttered open, and she smiled. “Hey.”
“How do you feel?” Aware that Sullivan was standing there, he did his best to act like his interest was professional.
“I’ve got a nasty headache.” She held a hand gingerly to her temple. “This hurts.”
“I bet.”