The Detonator by Vincent Zandri & Vincent Zandri

Author:Vincent Zandri & Vincent Zandri [Zandri, Vincent]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Polis Books
Published: 2018-02-20T05:00:00+00:00

So what’s it like to narrowly escape being plastered all over a serene neighborhood street? You might not believe this, but the sensation is not all bad. The adrenaline that pours into your blood and speeds throughout veins and capillaries is like a drug. A sedative. You feel euphoric, alive, and lighter than air, even if the blast suit is weighing you down like a suit of cement. In that slight moment of time when the final wire is cut and nothing happens, you are as happy as you will ever be.

Pulling the knife from my utility belt, I proceed to cut the judge from the post. It takes a full two minutes for me to get through the bulk of the tape. As a final gesture, I pull the gag from his mouth. He never flinches at the pain that must surely come from having tape ripped from his mouth. He never lets on for a moment that he recognizes me. He just stands, wobbly, out of balance, makes a run in his underwear for the EMT van parked one thousand feet down Elmhurst Avenue.

As for me, I’m left with a bomb to dispose of.

I call for Ted over the radio. Tell him to dress himself in the second blast suit, and to bring the bomb container.

“You want me to come to you, Ike? Over.”

“Yes, I want you to come to me, kid.”

“Don’t forget to say, over, Ike. Over.”

“Yeah, over,” I say, annoyed. “Over and Roger Wilco and out.”

He comes to me as soon as he’s dressed in the suit, the heavy, cumbersome container gripped in both his hands. We get to work right away. Ten minutes later, the container now houses the mini-IED which we have no choice but to explode in the middle of the street. Maybe the bomb is small. Tiny even. But the blast it produces is far more powerful than I anticipated. It not only lights up the darkness in a brilliant flash of white/red light, it nearly destroys the container. The crowd roars with enthusiasm, as if this were the pre-show to the big show tomorrow morning at the Wellington Hotel. They clap, as if bomb disposal were pure entertainment.

That’s when Miller comes up on me from behind, grabs my arm.

“You’re not going to fucking believe this,” he says. “But we got a second confirmed 10-89.”

Chapter 30

“Who is it this time?” I say, running my forearm over my sweat-soaked forehead. Now appearing in my brain, the agonized faces of my wife and sick child.

The thoughts burning through my brain: Please God. I’m not much for praying. But please, if you’re out there and you can hear this, don’t let it be them.

“It’s a priest,” he says, his face unusually pale in the white artificial light. “Same deal. But he’s not duct-taped to a mailbox. This one is taped to the altar inside his church.”

I feel a sense of relief pour over me, knowing the next victim is not Ellen or Henry. But the realization is beginning to sink in.

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