The rain poured relentlessly, drenching the windshield of the Acura as it drove through the darkened streets of Washington, D.C. The city lights shimmered on the wet asphalt, creating an eerie glow. Tim Holland yawned from the front passenger seat of the sleek black sedan, his tired eyes gazing out at the serene Potomac River flowing gently beside them. After a couple of months away helping his friend Logan take care of his fiancée, Darby, in Maine, Tim was finally heading home. The anticipation of returning to his apartment filled him with a sense of peace and contentment. “I’m feeling like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. There’s no place like home.” “I’m no Toto,” his driver joked. Len “Buck” Rodgers, in charge of Tim's personal security and a nationally registered advanced care paramedic, sat with a focused expression on his face. Len was a former SEAL and combat medic. He had been Tim's trusted companion since Tim took his position as the clinical facility director for the D.C. branch of Chase Care, ensuring his safety and well-being. “Woof,” Tim teased. “Smart ass.” Len hit the signal to turn onto the now quiet Virginia Avenue. “I figured you’d want to stay with Willow.” “Mmm. I want to more than I’m willing to admit.” He stared out the window. “Her family lives in D.C., but she’s been working for a traveling nurse agency for three years. She has wings beneath her feet. I don’t know if she wants to stay long enough to form a relationship.” “You’re sweet on her.” Len smiled. “Yeah.” Tim nodded and smiled too. As they neared Tim’s apartment, a deafening explosion ripped through the night, shattering the calmness that had enveloped the city. The ground shook violently, causing Len to swerve uncontrollably. Adrenaline surged through Tim’s veins as he and Len exchanged a quick glance, their eyes !lled with a mix of fear and determination. “Son of a bitch, what the hell was that?” Tim cried. “Hold on.” Using his evasive driving tactics, Len pressed slowly on the brakes and brought the car to a rolling halt. The acrid smell of smoke filled the air, and, through the windshield, they witnessed a towering inferno where a commuter bus had once stood. Flames danced hungrily, devouring everything in their path as black plumes of smoke billowed into the sky. Len's eyes darted toward the source of the explosion. “Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas anymore.” Without another word, he reached for his radio. “This is Chase Care D.C. Medic 1 declaring a mass casualty event. Requesting immediate Fire, EMS, and law enforcement response to Virginia Avenue Northwest between the Sunshine gas station and the Globe gas station. We have multiple injuries and fatalities. Advise all units to take caution approaching. A secondary explosive device may be in play. Will attempt to shut down the gas pumps and begin triage.” Tim groaned as they both stepped out of the car and the true horror of the situation unfolded before their eyes. A municipal bus lay in ruins on its side, its twisted metal carcass engulfed in flames. Smoke billowed into the dark night sky, mingling with the cries of the walking injured and the wails of sirens in the distance. The street was littered with debris, shattered glass, and body parts. The haunting sights and screams were broken only by the sound of rain hitting the street. “Chase Communications, this is Buck, identifier Alpha-Bravo-O ne-Charlie-Charlie-Lima-Romeo. Notify night supervisor we are involved in a mass casualty event with explosion.” He followed it with their location. Tim and Len moved as a pair to secure the scene by first hitting the emergency shutoff switches for the nearby gas pumps. Then they moved toward the bus carcass. Tim tamped some of the flames down with the fire extinguisher from his car. “This is as effective as spitting on the fire,” he told Len. “The rain isn’t touching it either. It had to be an explosive.” “Boss, we are it until they clear the scene for secondary explosives. We shouldn’t be here either.” Tim cocked his brow, which was now dripping with water. “I will begin triaging patients and assigning tags while you coordinate with the rest of the emergency responders." Using his muscle memory, Tim let his training and experience take over. He grabbed the medical bag from the sedan’s trunk and rushed toward the injured, his mind focused on saving the lives he could. At this point, there were only the two of them equipped to render aid. Any others were caught up in the explosion. Tim was haunted by the thought, You can’t save them all. The scene grew more chaotic by the minute, with people screaming in pain and confusion, demanding attention. “Hang on. Help is coming.” The words came out in Tim’s patient, relaxed style. Blood stained the pavement, and broken glass littered the ground. Tim's gloved hands moved with precision and purpose as he assessed each victim. He checked for breathing and circulation, stopping the bleeding where he could, and offering words of comfort to those in agony. “Hang in there; help is coming,” became his mantra. That was easier than assigning triage tags to the ones he couldn’t help. His breath grew tight in his chest. A woman wearing remnants of a white linen suit soaked with blood was one of those patients. Her dulled green eyes turned listless. Tim managed to slow the bleeding and ease some of her pain with an injection of morphine. “I’m Tim.” He slipped a black tag around her wrist. Black meant expectant to die. She looked up at Tim and managed a small smile. “Tell my hus…band I love him.” She took a staggering breath. Her eyes closed and opened wide as she sprang upright. “It’s in the bottle!” she cried, then collapsed against him. She took one last deep breath, then life left her body. As the minutes ticked by, Tim and Len worked tirelessly, moving from one patient to another. The sounds of radios #lled the air, and soon a corps of #rst responders entered to assist. As the last patient was loaded into an ambulance, Tim took a moment to catch his breath. His body ached, and his head pounded. Hands on his hips, he stretched. When he returned to his full height, he saw four people, three men and a woman, moving toward him. “Feds,” he called to Len. Len picked up his radio. “Notifying Chase Security supervisor on duty.” Tim tore off his gloves and met the group coming toward him, hand extended. “Tim Holland, Chase Care-DC.” “Malachy Upton, FBI D.C. field office. Can you tell me what happened tonight?” Thankfully, the rain had stopped. Tim’s upper back and chest ached from bending over. He sat on the curb. “We were heading down Virginia Avenue when we heard a loud boom followed by the eruption of dense black smoke and flames. We stopped and insured the gas pumps were off, then began triage. Forty-six patients. Fifteen dead, twenty-four red tag—critically injured who might survive if they make it to advanced care, and seven yellow—moderately injured who could stand to wait a bit. No walking wounded. No one could stand on their own.” Malachy inhaled harshly. “We understand you believe it may have been an explosive device.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Hmm, I never said that. But I left the Air Force as a technical sergeant pararescue jumper. I think I can identify what a bomb explosion looks like.” Tim imitated the FBI agent’s snide voice. Len walked over. “You might want to stop talking, Boss. Tate’s ETA is four minutes.” Tate Webster was the chief executive in charge of the D.C. branch of Chase Security. “He advised our forensics teams are also en route.” “Who are you?” an FBI agent with Agent Upton asked. Len growled, “Chief Petty Officer Retired Len Rodgers.Senior Security Specialist, Chase Security. Who are you?” “Agent Waterhouse, FBI,” the young man said. “Upton, you can stop the pissing contest.” A man in a flamingo-patterned shirt and pink Bermuda shorts approached. “Webster, you are quite casual today.” Upton was dressed in a suit and a blue FBI windbreaker. “Some of us have lives.” Tate shook Len’s and Tim’s hands. “You two, did you give Agent Upton your particulars?” “Yes, sir.” Len raised his brow. “Good, go home,” Tate said. “Their car is in the blast zone,” the young agent said. Tate tapped a toe on the ground. “Okay, Tim, Len, take whatever is important inside. Len, give the man your keys, and I’ll take you home. Upton, call my office, and I’ll set up a time tomorrow for you to speak with them.” Tate circled his hand in the air. Two senior security specialists responsible for his safety joined them. “Help Len and Tim. We’re taking them home after Mr. Holland, in his capacity as facility director for the D.C. branch, talks to the press, along with the other fire and police officials.” Tim glared at Tate and then nodded. As directed by the chief executive, he headed with him toward the press being held back by the Metropolitan Police. “Keep it to the point.” Tim, with his calm demeanor and years of experience, knew the public needed reassurance, and it was his duty to provide it. He’d heard the short speeches by the fire and police department—both left him unsettled. Standing tall at the podium with the wreckage in the background, he began to speak, his voice steady filled with emotion. “Good evening. My name is Tim Holland. I am the facility director of Chase Care-DC. We faced a tragedy here tonight.” His eyes scanned the crowd of reporters. "Our priority right now is to ensure the health and safety of those affected, including the families of those who lost a loved one. Teams of dedicated medical professionals at our local hospitals are working to provide the necessary care." He took a deep breath and stepped back. Tate approached the podium, placing a hand between Tim’s shoulders. As they headed to the car, he heard the D.C. police chief say, “At approximately 8:47 tonight, a Metropolitan Transit bus exploded at the 18th St SW area of Washington, D.C. Forty-six people were involved. Fifteen were killed; thirty-one were injured; twenty-six are in critical condition. “In addition to our municipal first responders, clinical facility director of Chase Care, Tim Holland, and critical care paramedic Len Rodgers were also on hand to offer immediate assistance. They set up an impromptu triage area for the injured and provided medical aid until ambulances and other relief units arrived. With their help, all injured passengers were successfully transported to local with minimal time delays. Tim Holland’s and Len Rodgers’ quick thinking helped prevent further casualties from occurring.” “Nice attaboy,” Tate said. “Forgive me if I don’t feel that way.” Tim blew out a sad breath. The pair settled into the back of Tate’s Suburban. Tim rested his head against the back seat, feeling beyond exhausted. When they arrived at his apartment, he said goodnight to Tate and Len. After unlocking the door, he dropped his bags inside. He stripped off his clothing, took a shower and collapsed into bed.