Pete couldn't believe what he was hearing. The Prophet had gotten to his man and outsmarted them all. Cooper walked into his airplane without even taking a second look at it, convinced that he had escaped and was out of danger. According to reports from the news, Cooper's plane went down about an hour after it flew out of the small, private air field. The RPG was a decoy; the real attack was attached to Cooper's plane. Another thought crossed Pete's mind, and he ran back out to his desk and desperately dialed the number for the small airport. He waited for a few moments before the line finally was picked up on the other side.

      "This is Detective Gibbons." Pete started, "Yes, that detective... we spoke earlier today. Can you let me know how many private planes have left in the last three hours?"

      Gibbons never got a response, just a clicking sound. After what happened earlier that day, there was no doubt they weren't willing to speak with them about anything, especially after one of their jets just went down.

      "What's going on?" Grosse asked as he saw the look on Gibbons' face after that airport hung up on him.

      "The private airfield is giving me the cold shoulder," Pete replied, "We've got to ground all of those jets right now. We suspect there might be an explosive on one or more of them."

      "I'll make a call," Grosse said, "I suggest you do the same if you know anyone."

      Pete slammed the phone down and then picked it back up. He dialed his friend from the FAA and waited patiently for the line to pick up.

     "Alan, it's Gibbons."

      "Jesus, Pete," Alan replied, seeming stressed. "This is not a good time to call in another favor."

      "This time I'm doing one for you," Pete replied. "That plane that went down less than twenty minutes ago, we suspect it was a bomb."

      "So do we," Alan confirmed. "Tell me something I don't know."

      "That man in the plane was the same guy the Prophet fired an RPG at less than six hours ago," Pete informed him. "We think he planted the bomb."

      "Son of a bitch!" Alan said, sounding like he was running down a hallway.

      "It gets worse." Pete took a deep breath. "We don't think that's the only plane he wired to blow."

      There was a long silence on the other end. "Are you sure about that?"

      "There were at least a dozen private fliers who were at the same airport this morning, all trying to get away from the Prophet," Pete answered. "They all got letters, just like Cooper. I'm willing to bet their planes are going to disappear very soon if nothing is done."

     "Thanks for letting me know, Pete," Alan said, "We'll handle the planes still in the air. I've gotta go."

      The line went dead, but Pete had an idea of what was going on. Just the thought of multiple bomb-laden planes flying along the East Coast was more than enough to ground every plane in the area. A bit extreme, but if there were more bombs, they had to get those planes out of the sky as soon as possible.

      Pete crashed into a chair beside his desk and sighed. "He's escalating faster than we could have predicted. He's upgraded to bombs. With that in his arsenal, there is no telling who or what he's going to target next. He's a man with a plan, and we're way behind this guy. We have to find a way get ahead of him."

      "What we need is one of those bombs, in one piece, so we can trace parts and try to zero in on this nut ball," Grozza replied. "The feds are going to take the scene of Cooper's plane."

      "Let them." Pete scratched his four-day-old beard. "We have plenty of leads to follow up here."

      "What about the other planes?" Jones asked. "Aren't they in danger?"

      "Not for long." Pete knew exactly what Allan was going to do. It took the FAA less than an hour to shut down all air traffic in their state as well as two others. All planes were grounded, and flights cancelled until further notice. People at airports were going to be pissed, but it was their safety everyone was looking out for. Police dogs all over the city were called out to all airports and would be sniffing for bombs on planes all night, just to be safe.

      Pete had a feeling that all airports in the area were going to be shut down; there was no way they'd focus on just one airport and tip off the press to what they were really concentrating on. Gibbons sent the K9s to the private field first, to look for more bombs attached to private planes. He was sure there were bound to be a few. Not every rich man was going to run on day one, so he was confident that they'd find at least one unexploded device. Pete was working at his desk after sending Jones down to forensics to get an update with the nerds when his cell went off. It was an unknown number but he answered it anyway.

      "Detective Gibbons," he quickly said, distracted by his work.

      "Can you help us?" a voice replied.

      "Who is this?" Pete asked. "Please identify yourself."

      "My name is Gerry; we spoke earlier at the airport," the man said. "You gave me your card, and I gave you the letter the Prophet sent me."

      Pete finally realized what was going on: it was the old man from the private airfield. "Where are you right now?"

      "We're in the air," Gerry answered. "My wife was watching television, and we're very scared."

      "Sir, you need to land your plane as soon as possible," Pete ordered.

      "We can't," Gerry replied. "We're halfway across the Atlantic. Going back will take even longer to land. We'll be in England in less than an hour."

      Pete took a deep breath. "Besides the news, do you have any other reason to believe you're in danger?"

      "You mean besides the bomb someone planted in our overhead cabin?"

      Pete paused to let that sink in. There was another bomb, but it hadn't gone off yet. "How did you find the bomb?"

      The moment Pete said bomb out loud, Grozza put down his phone and hung up on whoever he was talking to.

      "It started a digital countdown less than ten minutes ago," the old man answered. "We heard the sound but it took us a few minutes to discover where it was coming from."

      "How much time is left on it?" Pete asked.

      "Less than twenty minutes," the old man answered.

      Pete knew that wasn't anywhere near the amount of time they would need to land somewhere. "I want you to stay on the line. I'm going to find someone who can help you."

     "Thank you," Gerry replied.

     Pete covered the receiver and waved Grozza to come over. "We need an expert from the bomb squad, right now!"

     "On it," Grozza said as he bolted to find someone.

     Pete took another long deep breath and then went back on the line. "Gerry, we are going to find our best bomb guy, and he's going to talk you into defusing it."

     "Are you sure that's a good idea?" Gerry asked.

     "It's your only chance," Pete replied. He waited patiently for Grozza to come back but then the line went dead. Since it was coming from an unknown number, Pete had no way to call the old man back. He just hoped that Gerry would call him back.

     Detective Grozza came back with his expert from the bomb squad, and Pete waved his hands up. "I lost him."

     "Did the bomb go off?" Grozza asked.

     "I'm not sure," Pete answered. "It might just be a lost cell signal."

     Seconds later, Pete's cell phone started to ring again from an unknown number. Eager to speak to the old man, Pete picked up the line. "Gerry, how are you guys doing over there?"

     "I'm sorry, Pete," the man on the other ended answered. "I'm afraid Gerry and company aren't available to take any calls. I saw them fiddling around with my bomb, and I just don't like it when people play with my toys. You can look for him, but I'm afraid that might take a while. I hear the Atlantic Ocean is a rather large body of water."

     Pete paused for a moment. The voice on the other end was being scrambled, which led to only one conclusion. "Is this the Prophet I'm addressing?"

     "As a matter of fact, it is," he answered. "It's nice to meet you Detective Gibbons."

     "So you know who I am," Pete said as he kept talking. "Shouldn't I know who you are? You're not going to make me call you Prophet every time we talk, are you?"

     "I guess that wouldn't be very nice," the Prophet replied. "So I'm going to let you call me Geronimo."

     "Fascinating how you would choose that name," Pete observed. "Is that how you see yourself; a native rebelling against an oppressor?"

     "You could say that," Geronimo replied. "But my oppressor isn't the government, though they have been rather complacent of the crimes being committed on the people who built this nation."

     "Seriously?" Pete chided back. "You're going to lecture me about unfair labor practices? I know things are shitty for a lot of people, but does violence really solve anything?"

     "Not really," Geronimo admitted. "But it's a pretty good start."

     "I happen to disagree," Pete said as he tried to stall by playing devil's advocate. "How can violence be the answer? Wasn't it Ghandi and Dr. King who proved to us all that non-violent protest is clearly the way to go if you want to be successful?"

     "I'm not sure that's a good example," Geronimo replied. "Considering that both of them were assassinated by gunmen to silence them."

     "That might be true," Pete said as he watched techs in the background try to trace his call. "But their protests did create change in their respective nations. Why do you think the ninety-nine needs your help?"

     "Because, unlike the examples you presented, the people I'm fighting have never been open to change of any kind," Geronimo answered. "Our government is being controlled by the elite."

     "Let me guess," Pete pondered. "The illuminati?"

     "Do not mock my cause," Geronimo snapped back. "It's about time they paid for their sins. Their treatment of the workers who make them rich is appalling. When the workers try to fight for their rights, their jobs are transferred overseas. All this time, they also continue to collect tax breaks for ruining our economy by laying off workers; this practice needs to stop."

     Pete continued to listen to Geronimo speak about the workers and how badly they were being treated, and he couldn't help but feel it was rehearsed, created to put on a show.

     "So what's next?" Pete suddenly asked.

     "That's for me to know, Detective Gibbons," the madman answered. "And for you to find out at a time of my choosing."

     "Is there some way we can bring this to an end?" Pete asked. "What can these fat cats do that would stop this?"

    "I've already sent out my demands," Geronimo replied. "It's up to them to follow their individual instructions or they can prepare to meet their maker."

     Before Pete could respond to the comment, the line went dead. The Prophet had spoken and wasn't in the mood to negotiate. Pete walked over to Grozza, who was with the techs in another room. "Were they able to trace it?"

     "No, not even close," Grozza said, and Pete could tell he was pissed. "It takes time to just put this equipment together, let alone start a trace. He caught us off guard but if he calls again, we'll be ready."

     Pete was also taken off guard but that was no excuse; they should have anticipated it. The Prophet had contacted everyone short of Santa Claus; they should have suspected that he might try to contact the people working his case.

     "How the hell did that bastard get my number?" Pete asked.

     "It's clear he's monitoring everyone he's going after," Grozza explained. "He probably has a clone link to Gerry's phone and got the number when they called you first. I think he's watching everyone he's going after."

     "We need to use this to our advantage." Pete's mind was moving quickly. "Check with both victims, see if they had any security updates or people visiting to fix something. See if we can find any matches that might give us the lead we're looking for."

     "I'm on it," Grozza said as he took off.

     Jones came running back into the room. "We just got word from Boston; another private plane dropped off the radar on approach to another private airfield. We suspect it might another present from the Prophet."

    "Son of a bitch!" Pete said as he slammed his fist into his desk. "That makes three planes in less than an hour. We've got to get all of them out the fucking sky!"

     Pete dialed his buddy at the FAA again. They didn't know about the plane that went down over the Atlantic but told him that all flights in over six states were being grounded. It was going to bring most traffic around the country to a halt, but if just one more plan went down, Pete was told the entire country could be grounded like on 9/11. Pete was convinced that wouldn't be necessary, since the only planes affected were flying out of his city and nowhere else. This smaller shut down should stop the terror. He put the phone down and went to his captain to give him the update.

     "We've got at least two more planes down," he told the boss. "And the FAA is shutting down our airspace as well as the surrounding states."

     "Good God, this is getting out of control." McManus was watching the network news. "How many flights do you think he's wired?"

     "I interviewed at least a dozen executives leaving town," Pete explained. "It could be any or all of them."

     "Anything else I should know?" McManus asked.

     "Yeah." Pete took a deep breath. "He called me."

     "Who did?" his boss asked.

     "The Prophet."

     The captain slowly got up out of his chair. "Don't you even joke about that."

     "I'm not," Pete realized how delicate the situation was. "We were caught off guard but have everything set up so we can trace the next time he calls in, because there will be a next time. This guy wants my attention and will do anything to get it back. He's not done with me yet."

     "Alright," the captain said as he walked up to his window. "Make sure you get the trace next time. It's one thing to be several steps behind him, but now the prick is calling us up to gloat? That's some pair of balls he's got to do something that cocky. This guy is getting on my last nerve."

     "Well we don't want that," Pete said as he grabbed the door to close it behind him. "We'll do our best to bring him in, but you have to understand that we have a guy who seems to believe in his cause. He might even be willing to die for it."

     "Tell me something I don't know," McManus asked.

     "We also think he's watching all his potential victims," Pete added. "He could have been stalking them long before putting this plan into action."

     "Let's contact the feds and the courthouse," McManus replied. "See if there were any complaints or restraining orders filed against anyone from the airport and our vics during the last several months. Hopefully we'll get lucky, and there will be a few matches."

     "I'll get on it, boss." Pete started to leave, then stopped short of the door and paused. "There's something not right about this guy. When talking to him, his stuff about the ninety-nine seemed scripted."

     "You think he's got another motive?" McManus asked.

     "Wouldn't be the first time someone used a political issue to hide their true intentions," Pete admitted. "I just can't figure it out."

     "Let's worry about catching this guy," McManus said as he pointed back to the television screen. "Feel free to pick his brain after we get this psycho behind bars where he belongs."

     "Fair enough," Pete conceded as he turned and left the office.

     As he walked back to his desk, that conversation with the Prophet stuck with him. Was it his choice of Geronimo for his name that threw him off or his refusal to give details when he offered to negotiate? Usually most crooks, madmen especially, are eager to give out their demands, giving a grocery list for the police to take care of. The Prophet wasn't interested in putting him to work, which gave Pete the impression that this violence was a decoy, something to divert them all from the real plan. Pete had no idea what the link would be but decided to instead make the calls to the feds and the courts to see how many restraining orders were filed, hoping some would be against the same person.