Free Red Dawn Rising (Red Returning Trilogy) by Sue Duffy

swelled into a heroic passage that hushed the crowds and almost thawed the bitter pall. Cass leaned into the music as if it were a roaring fire. Next to her art, music—no matter its timbre—soothed and empowered her as little else could. And in the hands of this particular performer, the music sprang from something Cass found inexpressible. From a depth Cass herself had never reached, though longed for.
    “Look at Noland,” Jordan said. “The man of the hour, frozen stiff, I’ll bet. No hat. No scarf. Smiling like his face won’t move in any other direction.”
    Cass dropped her gaze to the first level of the platform, watching the president she’d come to admire for his humility. Just below him was the ground-level assembly of the Marine Band, which had performed first on the program and now waited—anxiously, no doubt—for the conclusion.
    The moisture in the air further amplified the sound of the piano. Cass trained her binoculars back on the lone pianist in the long black cape, her arms swathed in something soft and clinging, her hands clad in half gloves that left her fingers free to dance along the keyboard. That dance was coming to an end, Cass sensed, its intensity building to such a pitch that the sudden explosion seemed part of the performance—until screams erupted behind them and the music suddenly stopped. All heads turned from the ceremonial platform to see a burst of smoke in the opposite direction, near the reflecting pool.
    It was the frantic shouts from the platform, though, that made Cass turn back in time to see a swarm of Secret Service agents descend like a collective cloak over that small, elevated assembly. But not before Liesl Bower sprang from the piano as if it might devour her. What was happening?
    Cass saw a hulk of a man in a dark coat lunge for Liesl and haul her to the floor, covering her body with his. Other Secret Service agents did the same with those closest to the piano. Some guests ran from the platform into the Capitol. Those who couldn’t move as quickly were physically lifted and whisked away.
    Simultaneously, a platoon of agents surrounded the president and vice president, manhandling them out of their seats and up the stairs into the building.
    Just then, Jordan grabbed Cass’s arm and pulled her against him, his eyes searching the grounds. “I don’t know what just happened, but we’re getting out of here,” he shouted over the rising cries of the confused and frightened crowd. “If we aren’t blown up, we’ll be trampled.”
    He turned to their friends. “Let’s go!” They fell in behind Jordan, his arm tight around Cass’s shoulders, and they all moved as one unit, forging a narrow exit line toward the perimeter of the Capitol grounds. When they cleared a line of trees, they broke into a full run toward the C Street apartment where they’d spent the night. Others ran alongside, wild-eyed and headed down random avenues of escape—no longer spectators but potential targets.
    Now came the sirens, confirmation that something, indeed, had happened. But unlike the terrified witnesses fleeing the Trade Center disaster, those who now ran from the Capitol had seen very little. A small explosion. Pandemonium on the platform. And nothing else but the surge of a frenzied crowd.
    Something, though, had made Liesl Bower jump from the piano bench and whip around as if confronting an attacker. Is that what had happened? Besides the explosion on the Mall, had someone targeted the inaugural party? An attempt on the president’s life? No one spoke as they ran, as if their silence would hide them from an unseen enemy.
    Cass was the first through the door of the apartment, its owner a friend of the Brockmans away on business. She went immediately to the television and turned on the breaking news, a barrage of sound bites.
    “A malfunctioning explosive device discovered inside the piano … first detected by Senator Brad Campbell, who saw smoke seeping from under the lid of