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Mayhem:Federal Paranormal Agency 7(5)

By:Olivia Black





Max Lumeria needed to stay focused on the task at hand. Time wasn't on  their side, not now that there had been a second bombing. His only job  was to go through the fragments and to put the bomb back together.  Finding the signature of the person responsible was his number one  priority. He'd commandeered one of the conference rooms inside the FBI  field office.

The bomb fragments from the Silver Bullet were laid out across a long table, each item carefully placed in a plastic bag.

Max studied each fragment. He moved the bags around like a puzzle,  deciding where each piece would fit. After several minutes, he grabbed a  new pair of gloves and a bottle of glue. Max put on the latex gloves  and opened one bag at a time. He treated each item as if it were the  most valuable thing he'd ever held. Piece by little piece, Max fit the  fragments together, not gluing one in until he was positive that was  where it fit. One misplaced piece could ruin the entire dynamic of the  bomb.

He hummed the Tetris theme song quietly to himself. Time didn't exist. It was just Max and the bomb.

Once every fragment had been glued back into place, Max set the bomb  down onto the table and stared at it. A cold feeling started forming in  his gut, slowly working its way up his spine until a chill consumed him.  He had seen this particular type of bomb before.         

     



 

Max shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. He was  unable to take his eyes off the bomb as he dialed and then spoke. "We  need to talk."

"What's up?" Dylan asked.

"Not over the phone." For this, they needed to be face to face.

"I'll be there in a minute," Dylan replied before hanging up. Barely a  minute passed before Dylan walked through the door. "What do you have,  Max?" he asked as he looked down at the bomb.

"The bomber crimped his wiring with handmade vinyl connectors. He used  an optical transceiver with a remote detonator. I've seen this before.  We've seen this before. It's very specific." Max sighed, looking  directly at Dylan. "It's George Watkins."

Dylan shook his head, rejecting Max's claim. "No, no way, that's impossible. He's in prison."

"I don't know what to tell you. It's his signature. It's the same weld patterns, the same assembly, and the same thread sizing."

"Do you think it could be a copycat?" Emmett asked.

"That's a good possibility. He's got a cult following," Max said, hoping  that the infamous George Watkins wasn't involved in this case at all.  "The fragments from the mall bombing are on their way in right now. I'll  let you know if I find something different."

Emmett nodded. "I could go meet with George Watkins. If this is a  copycat, there's a good possibility that he's received fan mail or even a  visit. He could know our guy."

"No," Dylan said. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Emmett's eyebrows rose. He shot Dylan a disgruntled look, but the FBI  agent didn't say anything else. He just stared at Dylan, a questioning  look on his face.

Max had expected it, and honestly, he couldn't blame Dylan. This case,  like many others, was bringing up a lot of long buried emotions from the  past. Dylan didn't want his True Match to be around someone as toxic as  Georgie Watkins. The man may be human, but he was scum.

"I'd be happy to go question him," Max volunteered. "I probably would be  the best choice anyway. I know more about the bomb than either of you.  And I'm really good at stroking a man's ego. He'll talk to me."

Dylan sent Max a relieved nod. "Let us know what he says."

Max wasn't thrilled about going to meet with the insane bomber, but he  had been truthful when he said he was probably the best choice. George  Watkins was just as intelligent as he was insane.

Five years ago, he had set the city of Miami on edge by setting off a  series of car bombings that had everyone afraid to step foot outside  their doors. The fear had gone on for several weeks until one slip-up  had sent the master bomb maker to the hospital, a victim of his own  device.

Whether it was his belief that he was immortal or a mistake in his  handiwork, George Watkins had blown off two of his fingers and scorched  over fifty percent of his body while building a bomb in his garage. The  human would spend the rest of his life behind bars for the lives he had  taken, but Max was beginning to think George wasn't done spreading his  evil. There was a very real possibility that he'd passed his skills  along to someone else, living vicariously through another bomber.

"I need to talk to Axel," Dylan said. "I have to find out where the  college students were staying and how many others flew in from D.C.  There could be more active bombs walking around the city streets."

"I can go back to the office and see if I can find anything," Emmett offered.

Max snickered. "Nobody is as good as Axel. If he can't find it, it can't be found. Trust me."

"Well, I can't exactly sit around on my ass," Emmett snapped. "I want to find this guy as much as you do."

"It's not that we don't want your help, Flowers," Dylan said, trying to  soothe the FBI agent's ruffled feathers. "But you have people to report  to now that Homeland and ATF have taken over the case. We don't want to  put you in a compromising position."

Emmett frowned. "We're working this case together, remember?"

Dylan stared at Emmett in silence for a long, drawn-out moment before finally nodding.

"If this is the work of Watkins," Max said, interrupting their staring  contest, "then there is going to be a feeding frenzy between federal  agencies. George did a lot of damage five years ago and killed a lot of  people for his own entertainment. All of them were innocent bystanders,  in the wrong place at the wrong time. There isn't an agency out there  that wouldn't fight to end this guy's life, but if he has information to  stop our copycat from killing more people, someone might offer him a  deal."         

     



 

"Use his huge ego against him. Do what you can, but don't make any deals  and don't let anyone else make any deals with him either. That man  deserves to rot in prison for the rest of his miserable life."

"I agree."



* * * *



Emmett watched Dylan closely. It was clear that the vampire's tight grip  on his emotions was slowly breaking apart, and it was all because of  George Watkins. Emmett didn't know anything about the bomb maker, but he  assumed Dylan must've worked the case five years ago. Whatever had  happened obviously affected the FPA agent.

He wanted to reach out and lay a hand on Dylan's shoulder. Emmett wanted  to offer the same support and comfort that the other man had given him,  but he refrained, barely. He watched as Dylan stared down at the bomb,  watching the device, as if the thing might detonate again.

"Dylan?" Emmett whispered.

Lifting his head, Dylan looked over at him. Their eyes locked-Dylan's  blue clashing with Emmett's green-and held. Neither of them spoke, but  at the moment, words didn't seem necessary. A whole conversation took  place between them without a single syllable spoken. There was a  connection. Emmett couldn't deny it. He felt it deep inside his soul.

"Let's go." Emmett tilted his head toward the door. "Let's go talk to  Axel. We need to find these guys and end this before there are any more  bombings."

Dylan nodded. "Yeah. We should go."

Turning on his heel, Dylan left the conference room, and Emmett followed  along. He stared at the vampire's back, his eyes roaming over the man's  wide shoulders and down his gorgeous ass outlined nicely in a pair of  form-fitting jeans.

As soon as Emmett stepped outside, he cursed under his breath. Local and  national news vans, cameras, and reporters were lined up, surrounding  FBI headquarters.

"Dylan Aldian!" a reporter called out, surprising the hell out of Emmett  and stopping the FPA agent in his tracks. "Why is the FPA in New  Orleans? Are paranormals the target for these terrorist attacks?"

"The FPA volunteered to work with the FBI and the New Orleans police  department to find the person responsible for the bombings."

"Agent Flowers." The attention suddenly turned toward him. "Is the FBI  close to finding these terrorists? Do you think there will be more  bombings?"

"There's a press conference in a couple of hours. Homeland Security and  ATF will answer all of your questions. At this time, they're in charge  of the investigation. We're all working hard to find the coward  responsible for these bombings." Emmett grabbed hold of Dylan's bicep  and pulled him toward his vehicle.

He ignored the barrage of questions as reporters yelled out their names,  trying to get answers about the bombings. Fear was running rampant  through the city. Emmett understood it. Hell, he was scared, too, but he  didn't have any answers. How could he possibly reassure the people of  New Orleans when he didn't know anything?