Bombshell

by Stuart Woods

  “Why can’t we drive in?”

  “It disturbs the shooters. The tiniest vibration gets magnified a thousand times at that distance.”

  “I don’t see why he can’t come to us.”

  “He wants to make sure you’ll hire him.”

  “Why wouldn’t I hire him?”

  “He doesn’t interview well. He lets his gun do the talking.”

  There came the sound of shots up ahead.

  “These people do know which way they’re aiming?” Gino said.

  They started passing shooting stations. They were separated from each other and camouflaged like duck blinds, though presumably they were shooting at nothing but targets. There were tripods mounted in the stations should someone wish to use one, stanchions to lean against, and mats on the ground should a shooter wish to fire from the prone position.

  All of the shooting stations were in use. Most shooters were using tripods.

  At one station a man lay facedown on the mat, his head cradled in his arms. To all appearances, he was sound asleep. “You lookin’ for me?” he said. He had not raised his head.

  “Depends who you are,” Sylvester said.

  “We spoke on the phone.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Please.” The man rolled over and sat up. He was a wiry man in battle fatigues with unkempt black hair and an unshaven face. “Okay. I’m who you think I am. You’re who I think you are. Do you want my services?”

  Gino wasn’t sure he did. The man’s manner was hostile, his eyes cold and threatening. A man accustomed to a degree of deference, Gino was tempted to tell the guy to go fuck himself. What stopped him was the fact that perhaps the situation called for such a man.

  “Can you hit a moving target?”

  “Are you stupid?”

  Gino blinked. “Fuck you,” he said, and turned to go.

  “Hold on,” Sylvester said. “The man meant no offense. He’s just explaining how it is, aren’t you?”

  “No one’s ever hired me to shoot a stationary target. If the target’s stationary, the job’s over.”

  “And you brought us up here to show us how good you are?” Gino said.

  “I’d like to. My sight is slightly off. I need to recalibrate.”

  “So, recalibrate.”

  “Not now. In my workshop.”

  “You brought me all the way up here and you’re going to miss?”

  “I’m not going to miss. I’ll be a few millimeters left of dead center.” The man picked up a pair of binoculars and handed them to Gino. “Check out the target.”

  Gino looked. “That seems pretty close.”

  “Not that target. Up the hill to the right. Let me know when you find it.”

  Gino scanned the distance. He spotted it. “You can hit that?”

  A shot rang out.

  Gino flinched and turned around.

  The man was just lowering his rifle. He shook his head. “Left of center.”

  Gino lifted the binoculars to his eyes to verify, then looked the man over. “Let’s talk business.”

  * * *

  Two hundred fifty thousand. Half up front.”

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  “Why would I kid about a thing like that?”

  “That’s an insane amount of money.”

  “Are you calling me insane?”

  “Of course not. I’m saying that is way more than I would normally pay.”

  “Then you should hire the guys you would normally pay. Maybe this time they’ll have better luck.”

  Gino considered that. He took a breath.

  “What’s your name?”

  “None of your business.”

  “If I pay you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, it’s my business.”

  “I’m the shooter. That’s all you need to know.”

  “You want me to call you the shooter?”

  “I don’t give a damn what you call me as long as you pay me.”

  “What do I get for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

  “I will hit the target.”

  “You never miss?”

  “This conversation is boring me. I only take the jobs I want. I’m not sure I want yours. Who is the target?”

  Gino nodded to Sylvester.

  Sylvester reached into a large manila envelope and handed him a glossy photograph.

  The shooter looked at it. “Who is this?”

  “Billy Barnett.”

  “Why have I heard that name?”

  “He was arrested recently as a suspect in the death of a gossip columnist.”

  “He’s in jail?”

  “He’s out on bail.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Since he got out of jail, he hasn’t shown up at home or at the movie set.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t know where the target is?”

  “Not at the present time. He has to be found. But isn’t that what you do?”

  “No, that’s what a private investigator does. If you want me to do that as well as the shooting, it will cost you three hundred thousand.”

  Before Gino could explode, Sylvester jumped in. “We don’t know where he is, but we know where he will be.”

  “Oh?”

  “His picture’s been nominated for an Academy Award. The Oscars ceremony is Sunday night.”

  “You want me to kill him on national TV?” the shooter asked, appearing intrigued by the challenge.

  Gino nearly gagged.

  “You’re not going to kill him on camera,” Sylvester said. “The event will be televised. We’re simply advising you about where and when you can locate the target.”

  “Fine. But how do I pick him out in a crowd full of guys in penguin suits?”

  Gino and Sylvester had hoped the photograph would be sufficient, but the man was right—at formal events, men in tuxes tended to all blend together. Gino gave Sylvester a meaningful look.

  Sylvester said, “We will find his seat location and communicate it to you before the event concludes.” He didn’t know yet how they’d accomplish that herculean task, but it wouldn’t matter if they couldn’t get the shooter onboard. “If all else fails, you will have seen him in person and can more easily ID him the next time we have a credible location.”

  The man considered for a moment, then gave a curt nod, which Gino and Sylvester took to be a seal on their agreement. Then he smiled at Sylvester. “And one last thing: I’ll need access to the area. You will have to get me a ticket.”

  67

  Bruce parked his car at a meter and walked down the street to Maury’s Bar. It was, as usual, crowded and dimly lit, the noise coming from an old-fashioned jukebox playing actual 45s.

  Maury’s catered to veterans. Soldiers drank half-price drafts, not just during happy hour, but right up until closing. It particularly catered to wounded vets. Purple Hearts got dollar drafts, and usually someone else would buy them.

  PFC Jasper White was drinking for free at the end of the bar. Jasper wasn’t from his unit; Bruce had met him in the VA hospital. Jasper had a scar down the side of his face as a result of an explosion that caught him when a wayward rocket hit a munitions dump. The resultant traumatic brain injury sent Jasper home.

  Bruce slid in next to him. “Fire in the hole.”

  Jasper looked up and smiled. “Hey, D-man. How’s it going?” Jasper and Bruce were both demolition experts. Jasper referred to them as D-men. “What you drinkin’?”

  “What you buyin’?”

  “Me?” Jasper said. “You’re the one with the fancy girlfriend.”

  “All right, what am I buying?”

  “She’s really your girlfriend?”

  “She’s really my girlfriend.�
�

  Bruce and Jasper had this conversation every time they got together. Jasper could never believe the blonde goddess up on the screen was actually with Bruce. After all, Jasper had never seen the two of them together. It seemed like a tall tale. Something one soldier brags about to another.

  “How come you’re not in any of the pictures?”

  “I’m not an actor.”

  Jasper waved it away. “I don’t mean in the movies. I mean in the magazines. The newspapers. There was that spread in People magazine. I didn’t see you.”

  “They want her to be a sex symbol, like Marilyn Monroe. They think a steady boyfriend ruins the image.”

  “Oh, go on.”

  “They had meetings about it. Would it be good for her image to be dating a vet?”

  “Wouldn’t it?”

  “Better to be single.”

  “Even a wounded vet?”

  “Wounded wouldn’t cut it. For her to acknowledge me, I’d have to be killed in action.”

  “Get out of here.”

  Bruce signaled the bartender and ordered two more drafts.

  Jasper’s PTSD was far worse than Bruce’s.

  “So, do you miss it?” Bruce said.

  “Miss what?”

  “You know.”

  “Being shot at and treated like shit? Not really.”

  “That’s the bad part.”

  “What’s the good part?”

  “You know what I mean. Blowing shit up.”

  Jasper looked at him. “Do you miss it?”

  “Not enough to go back. But I was good at it. I liked that I was good at it, and that people counted on me. But, basically, I just like doing it. I like the thrill of seeing it go off. Nothing like it.”

  “Amen, brother.”

  “Yeah.” Bruce shook his head wistfully. “I’d give anything for that rush.”

  Jasper drained his beer. He set the mug down on the counter and looked at Bruce.

  “Got a car?”

  * * *

  Bruce turned down the side road. The sign read: NO THROUGH TRAFFIC.

  “Isn’t the dump closed this time of night?”

  “To civilians,” Jasper said.

  “You can get in?”

  “Please. You were in Iraq. You have to ask me that?”

  “In Iraq you didn’t get in trouble for doing what we do. You were supposed to do it.”

  “Hey, they taught us to blow things up. Did they really expect us to stop?”

  They reached the town dump. As expected, the iron gate was closed and padlocked shut. Beyond it, in the background, Bruce could see the outlines of abandoned cars silhouetted against the night sky.

  “Turn right,” Jasper said.

  “There’s no road.”

  “Wimp.” Jasper laughed

  Bruce swung the car to the right and followed the steel mesh fence around. He prayed he wouldn’t drive over a jagged piece of metal or scrape the underside of the gas tank on some unseen rock. He gritted his teeth and guided the car along.

  “Stop,” Jasper said.

  Bruce was happy to comply.

  Jasper hopped out of the car. “Pop the trunk.”

  On the way to the junkyard they had stopped by Jasper’s apartment. He had run in and come back toting a canvas duffel bag. He pulled it out of the trunk, slung it over his shoulder. “Come on,” he said, and walked up to the fence.

  He flopped the duffel on the ground, unzipped it, and took out a pair of heavy-duty wire cutters. He used them to cut a four-foot slit up the side of the fence. He folded it back like a flap.

  “Think you could fit through that?”

  “Just watch me,” Bruce said. He got down on his hands and knees and wriggled through the fence on his stomach.

  He was getting filthy. He’d have to tell Viveca he got into a bar fight. She wouldn’t like that.

  Jasper passed him the canvas duffel and wriggled through himself.

  “All right,” Jasper said. “Choose your poison. I’d say a car, but it’s too much to hope for gas in the tank, and you’d want a secondary explosion. A microwave is surprisingly satisfying. You hear bits of it flying everywhere, like shrapnel.”

  “What would you recommend?”

  “I don’t know.” Jasper pulled a flashlight out of the duffel and switched it on. “Let’s see what we’ve got here. Oh, wow! Look at this. Half a Mini Cooper. Imagine what the driver looked like. The bumper’s in the front seat. But the passenger side is nearly intact. I bet we can blow that fucker off the ground.”

  “Hell, yes,” Bruce said. “What are we going to use?”

  Jasper reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a brick of plastic explosive. “An old favorite. C-four. Just like the good old days.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Homemade, my friend,” he said. Bruce had heard rumors that Jasper had access to explosives, but hadn’t realized the guy made his own. He hoped to hell it was as stable as the professionally manufactured stuff.

  “All right, how many bricks you think?”

  “It’s a Mini Cooper. One.”

  Jasper grabbed two bricks, leaned in the door, and reached down beneath the seat. “We only get one shot, right? Might as well make sure it counts.” He positioned the plastic explosive, and straightened up. “That’ll do it. Give me a blasting cap.”

  Bruce fumbled in the duffel and came out with a detonator. “Here you go.”

  Jasper reached under the seat and embedded it into the plastic explosive. He took out a penlight and checked his work.

  Apparently satisfied, Jasper led Bruce back through the fence. He stopped long enough to weave the flap closed with metal wire—a rudimentary patch, but better than a gaping hole.

  “Gotta love a remote-control detonator. Don’t have to jury-rig something with a fuse, light it, and run like hell.”

  “I’ve been there,” Bruce said.

  “Turn the car around and leave it idling and ready to go. We’ll be gone before anyone reports the blast.”

  Bruce turned the car and got out with the door still open.

  “Okay, here goes nothing,” Jasper said. He pressed a button on his cell phone.

  The noise was impressive. The blast was less so. There was no gas in the tank, so no secondary explosion. The little car flew to pieces, but it was hard to see.

  “Hit it, hotshot!” Jasper said.

  Bruce took off down the road.

  He couldn’t wait to get home and check out the prize he’d appropriated while Jasper rigged the bomb.

  Two slabs of C-4 and a detonator.

  68

  Bruce drove down to the VFW looking for Frank, a stocky electrical contractor, who he found hanging out shooting the shit with the powers that be. They appeared to be planning a talent show. That was one activity Bruce had no interest in. His talent was blowing things up.

  Bruce managed to lure Frank away from the group. “I was hoping you could do me a favor,” he said.

  “How’s that?”

  “I got a job.”

  “That you need help with?”

  “Actually, no. It’s an electrical job, the type you do, but it’s a small job, so I don’t need an assistant. Just half a day’s work for a hundred and fifty bucks.”

  “You should get more.”

  “I’m happy to get anything.”

  “I thought you had that fancy actress taking care of you.”

  “I need some money she doesn’t give me. Actually, I need some money she doesn’t know about.”

  “You got a girl on the side? You’re dating a famous actress, and you’ve got a girl on the side?”

  Bruce felt like his head was coming off. This was just the sort of thing that triggered his PTSD. He was trying to have a
simple conversation, but the guy wouldn’t shut up and let him get to the point. Bruce could feel a migraine coming on.

  “Anyway, the secretary wants me to do the job, but her boss is a pain in the ass, and I gotta show credentials to get in her office.”

  “I can’t loan you my credentials.”

  “Of course not. But I bet you got some old work permit you could photocopy that I could white out and fill in. The guy won’t know what he’s looking at. He’s just gotta see something, to prove to himself he’s hot shit.”

  Frank cocked his head. “That I could do.”

  * * *

  The production assistant frowned. “Inspection?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  That was not surprising. Rachael Quigly was the fifth person Bruce had been handed off to since he’d shown up to inspect the Grande Palladium Theater.

  Rachael looked at Bruce skeptically. He’d said he was a supervisor, but he looked more like a longshoreman in charge of unloading boxes down by the dock. “Why are we being inspected?”

  “The Oscars weren’t here last year, so everything has to be checked out. I’m mostly concerned with the stage. You’re going to have hundreds of performers. That’s a huge insurance risk.”

  “I’m sure we have adequate insurance.”

  Bruce had practiced what to say. “It’s only valid if your inspections are up-to-date.”

  Rachael didn’t know about that. She was from the production department, and knew more about the TV show than the theater. “Uh-huh. So what do you want to see?”

  “Let’s start with dessert,” Bruce said. It was one of his favorite expressions, suitable for almost any occasion.

  “What?” Rachael said.

  “Let’s see the stage.”

  The theater was cavernous, a vast array of seats fanning out from a deep and wide stage fronted by steps spanning the entire width, allowing easy access for the actors in the audience.

  Workers of various types were going over the auditorium, cleaning and checking and making notes. An angular man with a tool belt was at the back of the stage on a ladder.