Dead Simple (34 page)
Authors: Jon Land
“Satisfaction.”
“Tough to pack that into a toxic waste canister.”
“Guess I’ll have to settle for what you’ve got packed into that container now.”
“Fifteen billion the price tag you’re putting on your satisfaction?”
“Got to hit people where it hurts, my friend. Money’s all anyone pays attention to these days.”
“And maybe it’s all you’re really after. No better than anyone else who takes hostages. Same as the scumbag that killed your son … and the scumbags from Black Flag who sent you to ice the Monument.”
“I see you’ve done your homework.”
“They wanted me to go after you. You’ve become a nuisance to them, a piece of shit.”
“And they sent you to flush the toilet, that it? My, my, they’re just sending the both of us all over the place, aren’t they? From where I’m standing, that makes us the same.”
A long pause followed, Blaine wondering what Tyrell would say next.
“Trouble is you’re on the wrong side, Mr. Balls.”
“Facing off against you suits me just fine.”
“Then take your boat out to the center of the harbor and do it from there.”
McCracken turned on the engine of the harbor patrol boat, gazing back
at the biohazard canisters stashed in the stern before inching away from the dock. He used only one hand on the wheel, keeping the cell phone pressed against his ear with the other one, and heard Jack Tyrell issue a single command.
at the biohazard canisters stashed in the stern before inching away from the dock. He used only one hand on the wheel, keeping the cell phone pressed against his ear with the other one, and heard Jack Tyrell issue a single command.
“Deactivate the mines.”
T
he instant the mines were deactivated, information began flying across Mr. Peabody’s screen, his bar grids and wave indicators fluctuating madly. His headphones were on, frequencies dialed up on the screen before him. Two other machines laden with grids and wave flows held steady within easy view.
he instant the mines were deactivated, information began flying across Mr. Peabody’s screen, his bar grids and wave indicators fluctuating madly. His headphones were on, frequencies dialed up on the screen before him. Two other machines laden with grids and wave flows held steady within easy view.
“Come on,” he said to himself, working the keyboard, “where are you? Where the fuck are you?”
B
laine eased the boat to a halt in what he judged to be the center of the harbor, halfway to New Jersey. The Statue of Liberty watched his every move now, along with the dozens of police back on the pier, who were mere specks from this distance.
laine eased the boat to a halt in what he judged to be the center of the harbor, halfway to New Jersey. The Statue of Liberty watched his every move now, along with the dozens of police back on the pier, who were mere specks from this distance.
McCracken brought the cell phone back to his ear. “What now, Jack?”
“Pop open the canisters and dump the diamonds overboard.”
“
What?
”
What?
”
“You’re right, Mr. Balls, this isn’t about money; it never was. I just wanted to hit ’em where it hurt. Hey, people might tend to think I was crazy if I took a whole city hostage and didn’t ask for anything.”
“Because you planned to blow it up all along.”
“Do as I say and maybe I won’t. You seem to have a way of changing my mind.”
Blaine left the cell phone on a ledge in front of the wheel and moved to the boat’s stern. He unfastened the first canister’s sealed top and pried it off. With considerable effort, he tilted the canister over the gunwale and let the diamonds spill into the water. They clinked against each other, sounding almost like bells jangling as a few of them skittered across the currents. They hung on the surface briefly, then disappeared slowly beneath it toward the bottom of New York Harbor.
I
t was closing on two-fifteen when Liz and Johnny met Sal Belamo at a construction site on West Twenty-third Street a few blocks from William T. Harris Elementary School, where workers were rebuilding a section of sewers beneath an unusual motto: REBUILDING NEW YORK ONE RICK AT A TIME.
t was closing on two-fifteen when Liz and Johnny met Sal Belamo at a construction site on West Twenty-third Street a few blocks from William T. Harris Elementary School, where workers were rebuilding a section of sewers beneath an unusual motto: REBUILDING NEW YORK ONE RICK AT A TIME.
Her own efforts had so far been fruitless. The strength and duration of the signal the school PA system had accidentally picked up indicated clearly that Tyrell was in a three-or-four-block vicinity. But those blocks encompassed countless buildings, and all Tyrell needed was a single room
from which to run his operation. Accordingly, she held little hope that either Johnny or Sal would have fared any better than she had.
from which to run his operation. Accordingly, she held little hope that either Johnny or Sal would have fared any better than she had.
But Sal, much to her surprise, approached her eagerly and gestured toward the construction pit. “Foreman down there remembers a tanker truck pulling into one of those tunnels this morning. Pretty close match for the rig you and the big fella here described from Pennsylvania. We better check it out.”
Liz frowned as she gazed into the darkness of the tunnels. “If the Devil’s Brew is down there, Tyrell won’t be far behind.”
“Good point,” Sal agreed. “The two of you take a walk. I’ll cover your backs.”
“How?”
Sal looked down into the construction pit. “Leave that to me.”
“
Y
ou need to take this call,” Marbles told Jack Tyrell, handing him the headset he kept depositing around the command center. “It’s from the spotter watching the entrance to the sewers.”
Y
ou need to take this call,” Marbles told Jack Tyrell, handing him the headset he kept depositing around the command center. “It’s from the spotter watching the entrance to the sewers.”
“What is it?” Tyrell asked the spotter.
“A woman and an Indian just entered the tunnel via the Twenty-third Street construction site.”
“A woman and an Indian?”
Tyrell asked incredulously, recalling the shootout yesterday in Pennsylvania.
Tyrell asked incredulously, recalling the shootout yesterday in Pennsylvania.
“Less than a minute ago.”
Tyrell yanked off the headset and laid it atop the table before him. He considered the hulking shape of Lem Trumble, then fixed his gaze instead on the surviving Yost twin, Earl.
“I’ve got a job for you.”
M
r. Peabody swung round excitedly to face Sam Kirkland.
r. Peabody swung round excitedly to face Sam Kirkland.
“I got it, man!”
A single unvarying wave modulation had locked onto the center of his three screens, looking like the blueprint for the path of a roller coaster. He reached to his right and pressed a red button, causing a red light flashing over it to switch to green.
“Take that, asshole.”
“
T
ell me you’re not impressed, Mr. Balls,” Tyrell said to Blaine on the phone seconds after he had finished dumping the diamonds into the Hudson River.
T
ell me you’re not impressed, Mr. Balls,” Tyrell said to Blaine on the phone seconds after he had finished dumping the diamonds into the Hudson River.
“Nothing about you impresses me.”
“How ’bout how easy it’s going to be for me to kill you?” With that, Tyrell turned toward Marbles. “Reactivate the mines.”
Marbles worked his keyboard rapidly, then hit EXECUTE. He narrowed his gaze on the screen, scowling, then repeated the sequence.
“Er, something’s wrong here.”
Tyrell leaned over Marbles’ shoulder in disbelief. “Switch to a different frequency!”
“I’m trying!”
“
I
t’s jammed!” Kirkland screeched into Blaine’s ear.
I
t’s jammed!” Kirkland screeched into Blaine’s ear.
Across the office from him, Mr. Peabody was reclining comfortably, smoking an imaginary celebratory cigar. Suddenly long bands of figures began to fly across his computer screen. A noise like a bird chirping sounded at regular intervals, and the green light turned back to red.
Peabody rocked forward and squeezed his chair back under his desk.
“You’re better than I thought, Sherman,” he said out loud.
I
n the harbor, Blaine was racing for the pier, weaving through the mire of floating hulks and chunks of other craft, when an exploding mine blew the aft side of his boat apart. It spun out of control, directly into the path of another mine, which blew out its stern, hurling Blaine into the air. He hit the water hard and clawed back for the surface.
n the harbor, Blaine was racing for the pier, weaving through the mire of floating hulks and chunks of other craft, when an exploding mine blew the aft side of his boat apart. It spun out of control, directly into the path of another mine, which blew out its stern, hurling Blaine into the air. He hit the water hard and clawed back for the surface.
What was left of his boat drifted into another mine and exploded, a shower of fragments hurtling straight for him. Blaine dove, feeling the heavy shards plop against the surface of the water he’d occupied an instant before. Holding his breath as he maneuvered, he felt he was back at Buck Torrey’s stilt house, testing his lungs a little more each morning.
But the depths provided no respite. He saw he was surrounded by dozens of mines that looked like floating balls attached to thin strings. The unpredictable currents were pushing the mines in all directions, some straight for him.
Blaine tried to dive deeper, but his lungs burned and the thirst for air quickly overcame him. He swam up cautiously and broke the surface, drinking in breath. He tried swimming toward the pier, using carefully measured strokes to avoid any of the deadly balls that fluttered on the surface, while at the same time trying to keep track of those just below. But the mines kept appearing everywhere he turned. The tension caused his legs to tighten, and he could feel the beginning of a cramp coming on.
Then he heard the voice of Buck Torrey in his ear.
Gonna let these things beat ya, son? Come on, show some guts. Mine-fields on land never bothered you. Why should these?
Blaine began swimming again, his hands like knives digging just under the surface of the water as if it were soft dirt. One of the deadly bobbing balls caught in his grasp and he froze in place, knowing what would happen if he removed the pressure, while the currents pushed more of the mines straight at him.
“
B
laine, come in! Blaine, can you hear me?”
B
laine, come in! Blaine, can you hear me?”
Before Kirkland, Mr. Peabody was pounding the keys, his hands a virtual blur. A hard crackling sound had replaced the soft rattle of the strikes.
“Oh, you’re good, Sherman. You’re very good. But I’m better.”
He slammed his last stroke down.
W
hen the pair of mines brushed up against him, McCracken flinched, squeezing his eyes closed, only to open them again when no blast followed. He held his breath and released his hold on the mine trapped in his hand, sighing deeply as it floated harmlessly away. A harbor patrol boat sped toward him, and a pair of cops helped him on board.
hen the pair of mines brushed up against him, McCracken flinched, squeezing his eyes closed, only to open them again when no blast followed. He held his breath and released his hold on the mine trapped in his hand, sighing deeply as it floated harmlessly away. A harbor patrol boat sped toward him, and a pair of cops helped him on board.
T
he men who had accompanied Earl Yost to the construction site enjoyed this kind of work as much as he did and, like him, had been chosen by Tyrell for their expertise. They had loaded a pair of stolen Department of Transportation vans with weapons and readied them while Earl laid out the plan just out of view of the construction site, accessing the section of tunnels they had come here to secure.
he men who had accompanied Earl Yost to the construction site enjoyed this kind of work as much as he did and, like him, had been chosen by Tyrell for their expertise. They had loaded a pair of stolen Department of Transportation vans with weapons and readied them while Earl laid out the plan just out of view of the construction site, accessing the section of tunnels they had come here to secure.
“What happens if the workers get in our way?” one of the gunmen asked him.
“Shoot ’em,” Yost replied.
But when they finally walked down the ramp into the construction pit, there wasn’t a single worker in sight. The place had been humming with activity just minutes before. A few of the heavy machines were still turned on, but there was no one behind their controls or inside their cabs. It looked as though the drivers had just quit in the middle of the job or, more likely, had gone on break.
Yost and his men had barely reached the center of the site when the machines shifted like great beasts stirring, shapes suddenly reappearing behind their controls.
“What the …”
Yost realized then that the machines had them surrounded, and he hoisted his M-16, ready to fire.
B
ob Corrothers and Warren Muldoon gazed up at the third freight helicopter descending for the upper deck of the George Washington Bridge. The huge steel I-beams, located at a New Jersey construction site, easily spanned the gap wrought by the explosion.
ob Corrothers and Warren Muldoon gazed up at the third freight helicopter descending for the upper deck of the George Washington Bridge. The huge steel I-beams, located at a New Jersey construction site, easily spanned the gap wrought by the explosion.
“What now?” Corrothers screamed over the rotor wash, shielding his face with a hand.
“We use flash powder to join the beams together,” Muldoon yelled back, “then weld deck plate over them to simulate the road surface.”
And Corrothers watched as another trio of I-beams settled into place
with a satisfying clunk, effectively joining the two ruptured sides of the bridge back together.
with a satisfying clunk, effectively joining the two ruptured sides of the bridge back together.
“Well, I’ll be damned … .”
C
hief Logan was waiting for McCracken back on the dock, his face red and the veins near his temples pulsing.
hief Logan was waiting for McCracken back on the dock, his face red and the veins near his temples pulsing.
“You dumped the diamonds overboard. The son of a bitch had you dump the diamonds overboard … .”
“Gonna be a lot of rich fish in these waters, let me tell you,” Blaine said, stripping off his soaked shirt and accepting a dry one from a nearby cop, who had made a fortuitous stop at a dry cleaner’s first thing that morning.
He was about to repeat the process with his pants, when Logan’s cellular phone rang. The police chief listened briefly, then turned to Blaine.
“What is it?” McCracken asked him, holding a fresh pair of pants in his hand. “Is it Liz?”
“No,” Logan said, his face ashen now. “It’s a war.”
T
he loaders, shovels, trucks, and backhoes rolled forward through the construction pit, converging on the gunmen they had surrounded. Gus Sabella took the lead, driving a loader called a “stacker,” with fully articulated grasping arms for hauling heavy pipe and hands formed of viselike pincers.
he loaders, shovels, trucks, and backhoes rolled forward through the construction pit, converging on the gunmen they had surrounded. Gus Sabella took the lead, driving a loader called a “stacker,” with fully articulated grasping arms for hauling heavy pipe and hands formed of viselike pincers.
Sal Belamo had quickly laid out the situation for Gus, and the big man had not looked pleased with the prospects.
“You telling me the men behind the bombings are about to head into my tunnels?”
“Some of them.”
“And you want
me
to stop them?”
me
to stop them?”
“That’s what I was hoping, yeah.”
“I don’t know … .”
“What if they were the shitheads who fucked with your sign?”
Gus’ features flared; Sal watched his mind changing right before him. “I do this, you put a word in for me?”
“Word?”
“City’s gonna need an awful lot of repairs. I’d like to think my crew deserves one of the contracts.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’re not with the union, though, right?”
“Nope.”
“It’s just that I thought I recognized you from somewhere.”
Gus had taken volunteers, Sal Belamo insisting on driving one of the shovels himself. He and the other drivers kept rolling on, shovel extremities placed so the gunmen couldn’t see into the cabs, never mind shoot those inside. The initial rounds of desperate fire from the trapped gunmen clanged wildly off steel. Then a rail-thin wild man, who looked as though his skin had been painted white, began shouting at them to aim for the tires and engines instead.
A pair of payloaders, one of them Sal’s, closed on two of the gunmen from either side, trapping them in the middle until their teethlike steel prongs sliced through flesh instead of rubble. But the maneuver exposed the loaders’ cabs to machine-gun fire from several angles. Sal ducked as glass blew in all around him. He grasped the pistol from the seat where he’d stowed it between his legs, then lost it when fresh bursts showered more glass upon him.
Sal was fumbling for his pistol again when a pair of gunmen charged him, firing furiously. At that, Gus Sabella, driving the stacker, roared in from the side. Gus fastened the stacker’s left pincer extremity on one man’s neck and jerked him off the ground, while he smashed the other man aside with the right.
“That’s what you get for messing with my city!” Gus screamed at them, continuing on.
L
es Carney had covered another quarter mile when his sensor’s LED readout jumped into the red. He lifted the sensor away from the liquid washing over his feet, and the needle instantly dipped back into the black. Then he lowered the sensor almost even with the water’s surface, and the needle jumped off the scale. The water running along this tunnel actually had an ebb and flow to it as it followed the natural curve of the city to the northeast.
es Carney had covered another quarter mile when his sensor’s LED readout jumped into the red. He lifted the sensor away from the liquid washing over his feet, and the needle instantly dipped back into the black. Then he lowered the sensor almost even with the water’s surface, and the needle jumped off the scale. The water running along this tunnel actually had an ebb and flow to it as it followed the natural curve of the city to the northeast.
If Carney had his bearings right, he was fairly close to the start of the circled areas on the map McCracken had recovered. He withdrew a copy of that map from his pocket and followed the jagged line starting under the West Side with his flashlight. Then he looked back, aiming his beam far down the tunnel’s length. This interconnected series of abandoned tunnels, he recalled, cut a nearly straight path beneath the center of Manhattan—the same path the currents were now leisurely following.
Currents
…
…
Carney trembled a little. He started walking against the flow, following the direction the currents were coming from as he resteadied his sensor.
The LED readout continued to flash bright red, and Carney picked up his pace through the water roiling about his feet.
“
P
ack up. It’s time to move,” Jack Tyrell said to the remaining soldiers of the reborn Midnight Run. “You all know the drill. It’s two twenty-five. We want to be out of Manhattan in thirty minutes.”
P
ack up. It’s time to move,” Jack Tyrell said to the remaining soldiers of the reborn Midnight Run. “You all know the drill. It’s two twenty-five. We want to be out of Manhattan in thirty minutes.”
Tyrell trained his eyes on a television monitor picturing the third of three massive cargo helicopters hovering over the George Washington Bridge.
“And it looks like our escape route is just about ready.”
W
arren Muldoon watched his crew working feverishly to lay the deck plate over the steel I-beams and weld them into place. The resulting makeshift bridge had been fashioned to his precise specifications, slightly wider than a single lane, enough to accommodate the convoy from Fort Dix that would be arriving on the Jersey side in a matter of minutes now.
arren Muldoon watched his crew working feverishly to lay the deck plate over the steel I-beams and weld them into place. The resulting makeshift bridge had been fashioned to his precise specifications, slightly wider than a single lane, enough to accommodate the convoy from Fort Dix that would be arriving on the Jersey side in a matter of minutes now.
He found he’d been sweating from the tension of the operation and mopped his damp face. But he remained amazed at the rapid progress being made by his men, who were energized by the desperation fueling their every move. Keeping his eyes on their work, Muldoon pocketed his handkerchief and lifted his cell phone to his lips.
“This is City Engineer Muldoon,” he said, over the loud bangs of his crew bolting the deck plates down prior to welding them into place. “Patch me through to the mayor.” Then, to himself while he waited, “Muldoon, you’ve done it again.”
“
H
ow could the tanker possibly be down here?” Liz Halprin said to Johnny Wareagle.
H
ow could the tanker possibly be down here?” Liz Halprin said to Johnny Wareagle.
“It came this way several hours ago and continued down the tunnel,” Johnny said, crouching again. He brushed aside some of the pooling water their feet had been sloshing through ever since they’d entered the tunnels and inspected the mushy layer of debris beneath it.
He rose again, his knees embedded with dirt and grime now, and continued on the tanker’s trail.
“We’re almost there,” he said, stopping suddenly.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Liz asked him.
“Someone’s coming,” Johnny said.
L
es Carney was thinking of his missing arm. He always felt the phantom limb throb when he was nervous or anxious and he was both of those right now. He continued moving against the soft, all but unnoticeable current, certain he was onto at least a portion of Jack Tyrell’s plan and realizing the utter brilliance of it. Suddenly, though, he came to what appeared to be a dead end, the grimy water lapping in a pool against a wall.
es Carney was thinking of his missing arm. He always felt the phantom limb throb when he was nervous or anxious and he was both of those right now. He continued moving against the soft, all but unnoticeable current, certain he was onto at least a portion of Jack Tyrell’s plan and realizing the utter brilliance of it. Suddenly, though, he came to what appeared to be a dead end, the grimy water lapping in a pool against a wall.
He had just noted that the LED readout on his sensor was still firmly in the red, when a huge arm closed around his throat, a motion away from snapping it like a twig.
“Who are you?” a voice asked.
“I work for the city! Department of Transportation,” Carney gasped, feeling the arm relax and release him. He turned and found himself looking up into the flaming eyes of a giant Indian. An attractive woman was standing just beyond him. “Who are
you
?
”
you
?
”
“I think we’re looking for the same thing,” said the woman.
“But where is it?” Carney wondered, stretching his arms out to see if the entire wall was wet.
The wall shifted slightly under his touch. Johnny Wareagle moved up even with him and swung a heavy boot against it. The wall cracked and splintered along its entire length. All three of them proceeded to smash and batter their way through the opening.
“Sheetrock,” Carney realized, shining his flashlight to reveal the huge black tanker parked directly before them.
“
L
ooking good, people!” Jack Tyrell complimented, as the remainder of his men finished pulling DOT uniforms over their clothes.
L
ooking good, people!” Jack Tyrell complimented, as the remainder of his men finished pulling DOT uniforms over their clothes.
Lem Trumble opened the heavy bunker door and checked the tunnel beyond to make sure their initial escape route through the sewers where the command center was located was clear. His flashlight glowed off the dark, wet walls, and he advanced slightly, like a dog sniffing at the air. Only when he turned and nodded did Tyrell start forward.
“Let’s move,” he ordered.
“
C
hief, where are you?” a desperate voice screeched over the car radio.
C
hief, where are you?” a desperate voice screeched over the car radio.
Blaine watched Logan pry the mike off its stand. “Coming down Sixth Avenue for the construction site. ETA two minutes.”
“For Christ’s sake, hurry up!”
As if to punctuate the cop’s plea, Blaine and Logan heard the staccato bursts of machine-gun fire and the rumble of a blast in the background, loud enough to make them flinch. McCracken punched the accelerator all the way to the floor, and the chief’s car shot forward, an armada of police vehicles following close behind.
T
he bullets had hit the backhoe’s engine block just right. When it exploded, chunks of yellow steel flew in all directions, scattering the letters that spelled out CATERPILLAR all over the site, leaving a flaming husk in its place and a driver scampering desperately away.
he bullets had hit the backhoe’s engine block just right. When it exploded, chunks of yellow steel flew in all directions, scattering the letters that spelled out CATERPILLAR all over the site, leaving a flaming husk in its place and a driver scampering desperately away.
Sal Belamo watched a shovel operator spin his massive machine around, changing its angle. He caught the shooter reloading, the man looking up just before the operator yanked back on the control rod. The shovel dropped straight down and flattened the man to the ground.
At the same time, a monstrous bulldozer, its leveled front section looking like a gaping mouth of orange fangs, rolled its treads toward a retreating
group of gunmen who were firing at it nonstop. The gunmen ended up pinning themselves against the wall between two of the open tunnel entrances and the huge dozer drove them straight through the asphalt, leaving them buried in the resulting pile of rubble.
group of gunmen who were firing at it nonstop. The gunmen ended up pinning themselves against the wall between two of the open tunnel entrances and the huge dozer drove them straight through the asphalt, leaving them buried in the resulting pile of rubble.
Fifty yards away, Gus Sabella spun his stacker around again. Gus worked it like the expert he was, having made his bones on this machine years before. The pincer extremities seemed like extensions of his own arms, and he used them to attack any of the gunmen offering serious resistance.
He saw a trio of gunmen who had regrouped make a dash for a tunnel entrance. No way he could cover that much ground in the stacker before they got there, so Gus whirled the machine sideways toward a massive pile of black sewer pipes waiting to be laid into the ground. He captured a dozen in the stacker’s articulated arms and twisted the machine away as the rest of the pile collapsed.
Gus aligned the stacker with the gunmen rushing for the tunnel and then pushed the button marked RELEASE on his control panel. The arms snapped open, thrusting the pipes from their grasp. Gus watched them roll under the gunmen’s legs and drop them like bowling pins, an instant before a burst of gunfire sliced into his cab.
“
J
ust like I thought,” Carney said, backing away from the gauge he had located at the rear of the tanker.
J
ust like I thought,” Carney said, backing away from the gauge he had located at the rear of the tanker.
“What?” Liz prodded, as Johnny Wareagle looked on.
“This tanker is actually composed of four inner tanks. Two of them are empty, drained clean.” He turned and pointed in the direction he had come from. “Dumped here to be swept away with the currents that flow beneath a good portion of Manhattan.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” muttered Liz.
“I’ll say,” followed Carney, picturing the two dozen methane dumps that lay stretched beneath the center of the city. The currents would sweep thousands of gallons of Devil’s Brew down the tunnels past them, to soak into the ground and ignite all the pockets in an unfathomable underground firestorm when it exploded.
“Set off how?” Johnny Wareagle wondered.
“The methane dumps are too far underground to reach with standard fusing. You’d need something big.” Then, after finding what he was looking for beneath one of the sleek rig’s twin catwalks, Carney continued, “Like this. Come see for yourself.”
Johnny and Liz dropped to their knees beside him. An elaborate timing device had been attached to the rig. Wires ran out from it in several directions, connecting up to a long band of plastic explosives that would undoubtedly serve as the trigger.
“It’s set for three o’clock,” Carney said, inspecting the device closely.
“Twenty-six minutes from now,” Liz muttered.
“I’ve got to disarm it,” Carney insisted. “If this goes up, the whole city comes down.”
He could see it happening in his mind, the effects like those of a giant earthquake swallowing all of Manhattan at once, as the methane dumps ignited one after another. Roads and streets crumbling, the buildings built upon them folding up and collapsing. Millions of lives lost in the rubble, New York City left with barely any structures standing or streets intact.
When Carney started to reach for the wires, Johnny Wareagle fastened a powerful hand on his wrist.
“Wait. Booby trap.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere we can’t see,” Johnny said confidently.
“You got a better idea what we’re supposed to do with this thing?”
Wareagle looked the truck over and smiled ever so slightly. “Yes.”
T
he gunfire had bled the stacker’s radiator dry, spilling blinding hot steam, which didn’t stop Gus Sabella from fighting to turn the engine over one last time. It ground, sputtered, wouldn’t catch.
he gunfire had bled the stacker’s radiator dry, spilling blinding hot steam, which didn’t stop Gus Sabella from fighting to turn the engine over one last time. It ground, sputtered, wouldn’t catch.
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