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?