Delusional

Book 18: A Michael Bennett Thriller

by James Patterson, James O. Born

Genres: Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

Detective Michael Bennett and army-sniper-turned-NYPD-officer Rob Trilling travel to Montana to investigate a case that crosses state borders and family lines.
 
In New York City, a series of deadly bombs explodes.
Across the river, a military base is burglarized for munitions.
In Montana, violence and arson rock a small town outside of Bozeman.
Are the incidents related? Bennett, Trilling, and the ATF investigate.
A single-minded group angry with the government keep turning up in unexpected places, insisting that they’re only trying to make the world a better place.
To law enforcement, their claims seem delusional.
Will words or gunpowder light the next fuse?
 
 
 

Release date: August 17, 2026

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 368

Sample

I ENJOYED WATCHING my partner fidget as we stood next to a complex in lower Manhattan that housed several annex offices for the city. I left my hands in my overcoat and would never admit that the wind made my face feel like it was about to crack. I’m a New Yorker, dammit. I can stand the weather.

I turned to my young partner, Rob Trilling, and said, “This cold snap isn’t bothering you, is it? I mean, aren’t you from Montana? I thought you were tough guys. Or at least acclimated to temperatures in the teens.”

My partner cut his eyes over to me. He generally didn’t bother to respond to minor jests. For a cop on the street, that saved a lot of time. But in his case it was part of his personality, not an efficiency hack.

“I’m not sure why we’re standing out here in the freezing wind,” he eventually said. “Isn’t the crime scene inside?”

“Yes, and that’s why we’re letting the crime scene technicians and the Bomb Squad guys do their jobs,” I said.

I wanted to give the local detective on scene a chance to collect as much information as possible. We’d been sent down here because it looked like the crime might be connected to another bombing almost five months ago. An NYPD patrol sergeant in Queens named Rose Vega had been blown up in her squad car, in front of her family. The brass was worried about a serial bomber. I was too. Mainly the fact that bombs had now been used on two different city employees. This wasn’t a theory they could simply ignore.

My other purpose in waiting outside was to try to get a sense of why an obscure city building like this had been targeted. Why put a bomb in the Office of Technology and Innovation? It was not even their main office. That was in Brooklyn. This was just some kind of annex closer to city hall.

There was no obvious rationale here. The building housed a few different city offices: In addition to the small Office of Technology, there was the Housing Authority, a department that handled parking fines, and a place to talk about garbage collection issues. That was it. I kept running the services through my head, trying to see how the offices might fit together. It was a little like playing the New York Times game Connections.

Just then I saw Jolynn Nelson, one of the top detectives in the recently established Violent Crimes Task Force, appear in the doorway to make a phone call. I stepped toward her, and Trilling followed. We both made sure to slip out of the biting wind and into the hallway.

Nelson gave me the universal one-finger motion to hold on a moment. It was a quick conversation with a few yeses and noes. Then she slipped her phone into her pocket and looked up at me.

“Hey, Mike. I heard they were sending you down from Manhattan North. I’m sorry the only time we get to see each other is when things are so screwed up.”

I said, “What’ve you got so far?”

“Someone went to a lot of trouble to set off a bomb inside an office that doesn’t do much. You already know there’s one dead. The clerk, a young woman named Abby Boyd. Only worked for the city about nine months.”

“Any security footage?”

Nelson shook her head. “Someone hacked the system. Then they went from high-tech hacking to basic breaking and entering. They used some kind of a pry bar to pop the rear door off its hinges. Crime scene thinks they can lift the smudge. But it looks like whoever did it was wearing surgical gloves.”

“So we didn’t get any prints or other useful information?”

“That’s not entirely accurate. We know that whoever left the smudge was missing the middle and index fingers on their left hand.”

AFTER STEPPING INTO the blast area, I wished I’d stayed outside in the cold. I took a moment to survey the inside of the office. The walls were still intact, but half the windows were either cracked or shattered. A desk and bookshelves had been blown onto their sides. The acrid smell of explosive residue still spiced the air. Along with the splintered furniture and scorch marks, there was a giant bloodstain on the floor against the wall. Presumably where the unsuspecting Abby Boyd had ended up.

I turned to Detective Nelson and said, “What’s causing the sparkly effect, Jolynn?”

“Someone put glitter in the bomb.”

That was a new one. It made me pause.

Nelson said, “The initial assessment of the device is that it was relatively sophisticated. More so than the one that killed Sergeant Vega in Queens. That device was much more crude. If it hadn’t ignited the gas tank in her cruiser, she might have survived the blast. No way anyone was living through this one.”

I said, “Have they developed anything more on the Vega bombing?”

“Not much. Some group, claiming to be about fighting tyranny, took credit. But no one’s been able to pin that down.”

Other than grunting hello when I’d first introduced him to Jolynn Nelson, Rob Trilling had been his usual taciturn self. Now he spoke up for the first time. “Could they have been trying to get to the parking ticket office? That would be more in line with tyranny than the Office of Technology.”

Nelson said, “He’s a bright one. Doesn’t say much, but I like how he thinks.” She pulled a notebook from her rear pocket. “The office opened at 8:00 and the bomb detonated at 8:10. The video surveillance went offline at 5:45. My guess is that they used a timer, but the Bomb Squad hasn’t confirmed that yet. You’d think if they had that much time, they’d have figured out exactly which office they wanted to hit.”

Trilling’s phone chirped. He quickly dug it out of his jacket, glanced at the screen, and excused himself. That was out of character for my partner. One of his strongest attributes was his focus. Something about the way he rushed off made me anxious.

I gathered some more information and let my gaze wander around the devastated office. Sometimes taking an unhurried moment at a crime scene gave me an insight I might’ve otherwise overlooked.

A couple of minutes later, Trilling motioned me to the door.

All he said was “We need to talk.”

I STEPPED INTO the hallway with Rob Trilling. He definitely had my attention. Before he said anything, I heard someone call my name. I glanced down the hallway and saw Sergeant Paul Lester lumbering toward me. His hair was a mass of gray and black swiped to one side. Even after twenty years on the force, he looked like a pro wrestler, with a wide chest and thick arms.

I said, “I figured I’d see you around here somewhere.”

“I remember when you used to work with us in the field. You were a hell of a hostage negotiator, Mike. I guess now you just wander onto scenes once they’re safe.”

“I’m glad I never let you talk me into joining the Bomb Squad. I don’t look good in those thick padded suits.”

“You don’t look that good in tailored suits either.”

We shared a laugh, and I introduced Lester to Trilling. It was clear my partner was antsy to talk to me privately.

Lester said, “It’s probably not related, but I just got a call that someone burglarized Picatinny Arsenal over in Jersey. I heard they took some C-4 and black powder the CO used for hunting. You might want to look into it.”

“Thanks, Paul. I’ll see how my day unfolds.” I made it sound casual, but it was something I couldn’t ignore.

Finally, I turned my attention to Trilling. “What’s up?”

He was momentarily hesitant to speak, then said, “I hate to ask this, because I don’t want to leave you shorthanded, but I was wondering if I could take some time off.”

“Everything okay?”

Trilling looked down at the floor, kicking a piece of debris that had found its way into the corridor. Then he looked up at me and said, “It’s a family problem back home. My brother needs help with his business.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Trilling shrugged. “My brother, Gary, runs a car lot outside of Bozeman. My grandfather started it. Someone is trying to buy it, and Pops is adamant about not selling. My brother is a little freaked out by the guy trying to buy it.”

“Sure, you can take some time. I hope it all works out. Don’t worry about this case. The Bomb Squad and Sergeant Lester are top shelf. He’ll bust my balls, but he’s really sharp and will help out any way I need.” I paused, foolishly thinking Trilling would say something else. To fill the silence, I said, “When did you last take some time off?”

“Not counting suspensions, I haven’t taken any time off since I came on the PD almost two years ago.” He gave me a sly smile. “It’s probably nothing too serious. But the car lot is in a little town my great-grandfather incorporated back in the fifties. He named it Palm Island just because he wanted to see the look on people’s faces when they found out it wasn’t an island and there were no palm trees.”

I chuckled. “Sounds like your great-grandfather had a sense of humor.”

“And a pretty good business sense. The town now has a handful of establishments, including my brother’s car lot, a water tower, and a few dozen residents.”

“Maybe it’ll be a new Manhattan one day.”

“I know that’s a joke, but to the people in the area, that’s the one thing they don’t want. With all the Californians moving into Montana, the locals hate the idea of urban sprawl.”

I patted Trilling on the shoulder and said, “Go.”

I MADE THE solo trip from Manhattan to Picatinny Arsenal in Wharton, New Jersey, in record time. I may have had one of the older Chevy Impalas in the NYPD fleet, but I’d developed a deep attachment to the vehicle. An electronic key chain that rotated photos of my kids hung from a little hook on my dashboard. A titanium Saint Christopher medal my first wife gave me on our first anniversary had never left my rearview mirror. Little things from home were stashed all over the car to make me feel better on those days that dragged into nights. Every cop I knew with a take-home car did essentially the same thing.

I’d sent Trilling home from the crime scene at the Office of Technology. I couldn’t help but admire my young partner’s protective instinct. Trilling was a quiet guy but had an impressive background: Though barely in his mid-twenties, before joining the NYPD, he’d been an Army Ranger and received a Bronze Star for protecting a medical unit under ambush in Afghanistan.

And at least he was no longer trying to hide the fact that he was currently hosting five Pakistani human-trafficking victims in his little apartment. I still wasn’t sure how he was managing it, and I smiled, recalling how he’d worried he might be in trouble with the NYPD for taking in helpless victims instead of making them go to an immigration holding facility. He had done it the right way, through the court system, after we’d encountered the women on a case. Now that we knew, my family and I could pitch in a little bit. My grandfather, Seamus, had been able to help him with some community services he had access to as a priest at Holy Name Church.

Walter Jackson, our criminal intelligence analyst, called me as I was pulling up to the Army facility. Trent had gotten into my phone this time and set the theme song to the 1960s TV show Green Acres as my ringtone. It made me smile, and I knew I couldn’t punish him for it. The kid loved technology and pranks as much as he loved vintage TV. A dangerous combination.

Walter said, “I’ve nabbed all the info I can get from my contacts familiar with the incident. Apparently there’s some sort of argument between the ATF and FBI about who has jurisdiction. I’ll leave that mess up to you when you meet them. But I’m hearing this break-in might be related to an attempted bombing of a bank in Newark several months back.”

“In New Jersey? I think I vaguely remember reading something about it in the Daily News.”

“It happened the same day some idiot tried to crash his car into the crossing at Niagara Falls. Anyway, it was a crudely made bomb and it didn’t actually go off, so I’m not surprised that no one paid much attention to a story about a dud left in a regional bank.”

Walter didn’t have much more I could use but said he’d keep checking.

The arsenal already had local patrol cars, ATF bomb-disposal vehicles, and half a dozen unmarked police cars. Outside the gate there were two news crews broadcasting live at the scene. This is going to be a challenge. My stomach sank at the thought of entering a crazy crime scene like this.

I showed my badge to the uniformed officer standing at the front door of an administration building. He filled my name in on the entry list but didn’t give me any guidance as to where to go.

I followed a line of people traveling up and down the hallway. It wasn’t a giant building, and I soon found myself stepping outside and crossing a rear parking lot toward a low structure with no windows. Obviously a storage area.

Before I could make it to the building, a woman wearing jeans and an ATF raid jacket over a Yankees sweatshirt stepped outside. She was Asian with dark hair. I put her age somewhere between thirty and forty. She looked up at me and began marching in my direction.

THE WOMAN SAID, “I’m Special Agent Margaret Chin with the ATF. People call me Maggie. And this is my crime scene.”

Before I could explain who I was and why I was at her crime scene, she continued: “I know who you are, Detective Bennett. I live on Staten Island. You seem to make the news enough that someone in my position pays attention.”

All I could say was “Gotcha. So did you hear about the bombing at a city office today?”

“I did. I would’ve responded there except I was already here. And I have no real answers for you about whether the incidents are connected.”

“I’m sure you have your hands full here.”

“You have no idea. The FBI sent two agents fresh out of the academy who’ve been absolutely useless and a veteran agent who showed up and tried to take over. I’ve dealt with him before.”

On cue, a tall man in his mid-forties stepped out of the low building and walked over to us.

“Maggie, I’m going to let you guys take the evidence. You’re in a better position to store anything that could be explosive,” he said.

Maggie didn’t hesitate. “And that way you don’t have to fill out any paperwork or take any of the evidence back to your office. Brilliant. That’s exactly the amount of cooperation I need from the FBI to work on this case.”

The FBI agent said, “I don’t give a shit what you need from the FBI to work on this case. We haven’t even decided if it rises to the level of our involvement.”

Maggie shook her head. And she said, “Josh, I envy people who don’t know you.”

I tried not to let out a laugh. It was as harshly as I’d seen anyone deal with an FBI agent in some time. I was thinking I might enjoy working with Maggie Chin.

When she was done with the FBI agent, she showed me around the crime scene. There were technicians from two different agencies snapping photographs and taking video.

“How long have you been with the ATF?” I asked Maggie.

“A little over four years.” She tried to read my expression. “I know local cops joke about the feds having no experience. I was a combat engineer and used all types of explosives in the Army. I mean I’ve used explosives in real life as well as in Afghanistan and as an assist in Syria. ATF was an agency made for me.”

“Impressive.”

Maggie cocked her head and said, “Do you really mean that or is it sarcasm? I’m not fluent in NYPD speak.”

“No, really, those are impressive credentials. My partner, Rob Trilling, isn’t here due to a personal emergency, but he was an Army Ranger. And I’m not here to steal your thunder. I’m just curious if the cases are linked.”

Maggie said, “I’d be interested in working with you. I’m assigned to the Newark field division, but my husband is an assistant US attorney for the Southern District of New York. That’s why we live all the way over on Staten Island. But it’s not that bad since most of my cases have connections to the city.”

I nodded. When we walked to the rear of the building, Maggie showed me where someone had cut the rear chain-link fence and used a crowbar to pop an impressive lock off the rear door of the building.

I saw the door and paused, remembering how the door had been pried open at the Office of Technology. Could it have been the same people who set the bomb there? I wondered about the timing. They couldn’t have been in two places at once, both in Manhattan, planting a bomb, and here, stealing supplies.

“You’re smarter than the average NYPD detective,” Maggie said with a smile. “The theft wasn’t even reported until the bombing at the Office of Technology. It prompted the arsenal’s security team to make a formal filing with outside law enforcement, but at this point the best we can figure is that this occurred sometime three to five days ago,” she told me. “There’s a blind spot in the video surveillance, and no one has any reason to come to this building often.”

“You know exactly what was taken from here?”

“They’re doing a complete inventory now. But we know they took some C-4, a loose artillery round, and a keg of black powder.”

“Black powder?”

“The kind used for loading old-fashioned rifles. One of the officers stationed here used it for muzzleloader hunting.”

“What could someone who knew their shit be able to do with all that?”

“Everything.”

TOM OWENS INSISTED that all electronic and explosive material be stored in the room he was living in. Since Ellis approached him four months or so ago, Owens had located a safe house for the group by hacking into Airbnb rental records and blacking out dates to ensure the property would stay empty.

He didn’t care what went on in the rest of the house. He only needed one space that he knew was secure. Owens used the upper shelf in his doorless closet to hold the C-4. There wasn’t a whole lot in the steel container, but he knew he could do stuff with it. The real prize was the keg of black powder. A big keg. He liked working with it because he understood the properties and power of black powder.

A light rap on his open bedroom door made him turn his head from the closet.

Kimmy stood there bundled in a heavy blanket. She said, “Can I come in?”

Owens nodded.

“How’d you even find this place?”

“I saw it online. I wrote a computer program that let me look at the updates the owner of the house wrote over the last two years. I realized he never seemed to rent the place out in December anyway, so all I did was add a line to take it off the website so no one could inquire about it while we’re here. The owner has a bunch of properties, so I doubt he’ll ever notice.”

Kimmy sat on the edge of his bed. She said, “The way you can do those kinds of things is super cool.”

Owens shrugged. He didn’t know how to respond to compliments. He never had. He wasn’t like Ellis Warrenton, who seemed to smile and get practically anything he wanted. The guy knew how to talk to people. Talking to people was a skill that had always eluded Tom Owens.

Owens’s attention snapped to the doorway when he heard Pry’s low voice. The giant man wore a flannel shirt that made him look like an oversized lumberjack. Owens had learned that Pry’s real name was Leonard, but he was too unsettled by the man’s unpredictable behavior, as well as his size, to call him by that name.

Pry looked at Kimmy and said, “What the hell are you doing in there?”

“Just talking to Tom.”

“From what I’ve seen, Tom doesn’t really want to talk to you. Or anyone else.” He turned his head and said to Owens, “Isn’t that right?”

Owens shook his head. “I don’t mind talking with Kimmy. She’s nice and asks interesting questions.” He suddenly felt nervous, trying to judge Pry’s tone. He knew that the big man was attracted to Kimmy—she seemed to attract a lot of men’s attention—but somehow he sensed Pry was angry at her.

Kimmy spoke up. “Don’t try and scare him, Pry. We’re just talking.”

“In his damn bedroom.”

“You should be happy he found us this place. You can always go sleep in your storage locker if you want. But now we each have our own room in a nice clean house with decent heat. I noticed when it gets real cold, you forget about that cot over at the storage locker.”

Pry let out a low growl and stomped away.

Owens said to Kimmy, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No. I don’t have a boyfriend.” She patted the bed next to her and waited until Owens sat down. She scooted closer to him. Then she draped an arm around his shoulders. She leaned in close and said, “You’re way too smart to let a guy like Pry scare you. You’ve turned our whole group around. Look at the way you made that bomb and planted it at the Office of Technology. It was genius. And it’s the only thing anyone’s talking about on TV. You’re going to do great things for us.” Then she leaned over and kissed Owens on the cheek.

He could feel his face flush. He knew she was right. Their first lesson to society about the dangers of technology had been almost flawless. He was only sorry there hadn’t been any customers . . .