by William Oday
The car door littered bits of glass as it sailed through the air spinning like the absolute worst frisbee ever invented.
His aim was true.
The door hit the narrowing crack perfectly. It wedged in tight as the lip of the compactor bit down.
It looked for a second like the compactor might bite through and keep going, but the door crumpled and then held fast.
Gears groaned and rasped .
Mason raced to the cab of the truck and found the controls for the compactor. He punched the emergency cut off switch and blew out a breath as the whirring shut off.
The exhale was as much a breath of relief as it was an attempt to get the odor out of his lungs.
He hopped out of the cab and hurried around to the back of the truck. He leaned over and reached both arms through the gap but didn’t find anything that felt like a body.
Had the President already been crushed to death?
Mason wriggled through the gap, blowing out all the air in his lungs to get through. He made it through and then spilled into the slop.
Face first.
A wet gulp of something revolting slipped down his throat.
He pushed through it and found the President. He managed to pull Midas out and scraped the sticky slime out of his eyes and nose. “Can you hear me, Sir?”
The President nodded, his eyes squinting through muck.
Mason dragged him toward the wedge of light that was the outside world. A world that promised fresh air if they could reach it.
He managed to push the more slender frame of the President through the gap just as help arrived and took over from the outside. “Get Midas medical attention, immediately!”
“Yes, Sir!” an agent responded as he and another agent helped the President away.
Something underfoot gave way and Mason slipped into the sludge again. Slime smeared across his lips and coated his tongue.
“Sarge! You in there?”
Miro’s hand reached in and found him. He pulled Mason back up and helped him wriggle out. Miro half-carried and half-dropped him to the curb.
Mason landed with a wet slap covered in what he didn’t want to know.
He leaned to the side and gagged. Thick tendrils of spit swung from his lips.
Miro knelt beside him and pinched his nose. “Sarge, you don’t smell so good.”
A wave of nausea washed over Mason. His mouth watered and he spat.
“I don’t feel so good.”
36
If the Presidential Protective Division hadn’t been so perpetually short-staffed, Mason would’ve called in sick for the rest of the day. As it was, he stood at his post outside the Oval Office waiting for Miro to escort the President back from the emergency medical exam.
Stood at his post.
Suffered at his post was more accurate.
There was a brewing storm in his belly that only a lengthy visit to the john was going to handle. And it had been brewing down there for the last hour as Mason waited for the supposedly imminent arrival of the President.
They’d been minutes away for the last hour.
Mason gritted through a painful pinch in his gut. He keyed his radio on. “Miro, this is Mason. What’s the sitrep?”
“Coming over now.”
“You’ve been saying that for the last hour.”
“Sorry, Sarge. We’re getting ambushed by well-wishers left and right and the President is in an engaging mood.”
“Great. What’s a realistic ETA?”
“I’d say now,” Miro’s voice echoed down the hall.
Thank God.
President Cruz and his entourage appeared at the end of the hall. He stopped in front of Mason and shook his hand. “I want to thank you for saving my life. I know things are complicated right now. But you are a true American hero.”
Mason nodded. He was no hero. “Just doing my job, Sir.”
The President slapped his shoulder. “You don’t look well.” He looked at Mason a second longer and then passed into his office with an aide trailing behind.
The door shut.
Miro took up a position on the opposite side of the door. He glanced at Mason. “Sarge, you didn’t look good before, but now you look like a cow pie baking in the Texas heat.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve got to hit the john. You’re here until I get back.”
“Copy that.”
Mason grunted as his insides gurgled and clenched tight.
“Sounds like you’d better beat feet.”
Mason hurried down the hall and around the corner to the nearest bathroom. The executive bathroom. It was usually reserved for the President or his notable guests.
It was strictly a no-employees situation.
The problem was that Mason had a situation of his own and trying to make it downstairs to the more utilitarian employee bathrooms was a flip of the coin away from becoming an even bigger situation.
He hadn’t been this close to crapping his pants since his time in the sandbox. The festering sickness in Fallujah had laid low nearly every man in the squad, himself included.
He ducked into the bathroom and ignored the ornate gold frame surrounding the mirror, the white marble tile floor, the large Romanesque vanity, the rich colors of the wallpaper, the subtle scent of cinnamon.
All the facets that indicated this was an elegant, elevated version of the ordinary biological impulse.
Only Mason’s was no ordinary impulse.
He flew through his usual routine and barely got seated in time to direct the explosion into the toilet. His gut squeezed so hard he wondered if he’d cracked a rib.
After suffering through a series of spasms, he wiped the cold sweat off his forehead and then flushed.
He should’ve gone home.
Where he could lounge all day on the throne if needed.
And it appeared to be much needed.
Now however, he was planted on the royal throne and not looking forward to abdicating the position.
He waited as another bout of misery twisted in his gut. He remembered Theresa reacting to him joining the Secret Service. She’d been so impressed by such a glamorous assignment.
He sniffed the air and grimaced.
Glamorous, indeed.
Another ten minutes and he felt reasonably safe in assuming things had quieted down for the near future. He flushed for the zillionth time.
Miro had to be wondering where he was. Rather, he knew where he was. He must’ve been wondering what was taking so long.
Mason dropped his head into his hands and sighed.
What a crap day this had turned out to be.
He laughed realizing he’d stolen a joke before Miro could deliver it. He’d no doubt be hearing about this for days.
Mason had used up the entire roll of toilet paper. There was probably a replacement under the vanity. He snapped off the empty roll and reached back to set it on the tank lid. It tipped to the side and dropped behind the toilet.
It was one of those days.
He reached back to grab it and his fingers froze as they encountered something entirely unexpected.
Thin, coiled wires.
He delicately traced the wires back to their source and touched a cold metal box. His fingers jerked away like he’d touched a hot stove top.
What was that?
He twisted around and leaned over as far as he could without moving off the seat.
He could just see the edge of a black box.
And he could just see the dull red glow of a tiny flashing light.
37
He slowly returned upright and froze in place. His mind raced in a hundred different directions. And while all the possibilities ran wild for a minute, they all quickly collapsed into a single certainty.
He’d seen enough similar devices while in the Marines to know the truth.
There was a bomb underneath the toilet.
The toilet that ninety-nine times out of a hundred only the President ever used.<
br />
He needed to radio Miro to get the President to safety. He glanced at the coat rack. Unfortunately, his radio was tucked into his coat and both were about seven feet out of reach.
A solid guess was that it was a pressure-sensitive detonation switch. If it had been rigged to a flush, it would’ve gone off plenty of times already.
Which meant it was a decidedly unwise idea to stand up to retrieve his coat and radio.
He could yell for help.
As humiliating as it would be, he couldn’t think of a better solution.
So, he yelled.
He shouted.
After a while, he stopped. There must not’ve been anyone close enough outside in the hall to hear.
He couldn’t move off the toilet and he couldn’t yell loud enough to get help. Which left one option.
To wait for help to arrive.
Which it did.
Nearly an hour later.
A knock at the door. “Sarge, you in there?”
“Miro! Yes, I am.”
“Whoa. That’s worse than the time you chugged half a bottle of the Pike family’s famous hot sauce! I warned you ghost peppers were no joke.”
“Thanks for the trip down memory lane. I need you in here.”
“Why? Run out of toilet paper?”
“No. Well, yes. But that’s not the problem.”
“Oh no,” Miro replied. “Did you have a blow out? Need a laundry run?”
“Shut up and listen. I think there’s a bomb underneath the toilet. Possibly with a pressure-sensitive detonator switch.”
The easy-going aspect to Miro’s voice hardened into steel. “Don’t move, Sarge. I’ll escort Midas out of the building and then come back with an EOD team to take a look.”
Mason almost smiled. He could count on Miro when it counted. Casemiro Pike was as solid as they came.
“Sit tight, Sarge.”
“Very funny.”
Miro’s laugh faded outside the door as his size twelve shoes pounded down the hallway.
Mason checked his watch and willed the minute hand to spin faster. It didn’t.
Another forty-five passed before a crowd of excited voices arrived outside the door. One rose above the others.
“Mason? Honey, are you in there?”
Beth? What was she doing here?
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m fine.”
“Okay to come in, Sarge?”
“What is my wife doing here, Pike?”
He always used Miro’s last name when the big Texan irritated him.
“Don’t blame me, Sarge! She was walking in to come see you when I got back with the EOD team. I tried to hold her off but she threatened terrible things. Shocking things if I didn’t take her to you.”
“Pike, I want you to escort my wife out of the building.”
“Don’t you even try that, Mason,” Beth said. “I’m not going anywhere. Can someone get this door open?”
The lock clicked and the door swung open.
Miro held his arm in front of Beth. Each wore long black protective vests and helmets. Behind them stood a number of ordinance technicians decked out in similar gear.
Beth frowned.
“Oh honey, did you have to take your shirt off?”
Mason glanced down realizing he’d taken his usual approach and removed both his coat, dress shirt, and undershirt. All of which were thrown over the coat rack.
At least his pants were draped across his lap. It was important in moments of total humiliation to remember the small blessings.
“How many times have I told you?” she said.
One of the EOD techs shuffled around her. “Sorry to interrupt, but do you mind if I take a look? I need to see what we’re dealing with.”
Mason hiked one side of his pants up and gestured beside the toilet. “Be my guest.”
Miro laughed. “That’s the Sarge. He’s all about the hospitality!”
The EOD tech wriggled into the corner and ducked his head behind the toilet. He resurfaced looking a shade paler. “Mr. West, whatever you do, don’t stand up.”
Mason shook his head. “My legs and butt are so numb, I couldn’t if I wanted to.”
“Mrs. West, we’re going to need you to move back to a safe distance.”
“I’m not leaving my husband!”
Mason twisted his mouth. “Beth, please. These guys are professionals. Don’t worry. I’m not going out like this.”
At least, he really hoped he wasn’t.
What would his epitaph say?
Proud Marine.
Loving Father and Husband.
A Good Life and a Crap Death.
“I love you,” she said as tears welled up in the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away and sniffed. “Don’t you dare die!”
Mason laughed. It wasn’t exactly his call. But he knew she knew that. “I love you. And I won’t.”
Beth blew him a kiss and then allowed herself to be led through the assembled mass of bodies.
Miro stepped inside with his hand over his mouth. His sides shook with suppressed glee.
“Pike, would you mind telling me what you find so funny?”
“No, I don’t want to dump that on you right now. I mean, you’ve got a lot of shit on your plate.” Miro’s brows jumped up as he waited for Mason to laugh.
He didn’t laugh.
The lead tech glanced back and forth between them. Probably wondering if they were both insane. He turned to Mason. “It looks like it has an insulated tamper circuit. We’re going to have to blow it in place.”
Mason squeezed his temples with one hand.
“Don’t worry, Sarge. These guys are here to save your butt.”
Mason shook his head. “You’d better hope I don’t make it through this.”
Mason suffered through an endless barrage of bad jokes while the EOD techs worked the problem. After fifteen minutes of concerted labor, the bathroom had been transformed. All the elegant features had been gutted. Alternating layers of sandbags and kevlar reinforced water bags had been piled high all around Mason and the toilet. Two wires extended from the pile of bags and the lead tech held the exposed ends. He wired them to a cylindrical switch with a button at the top.
He finished and turned to Mason. “We’re ready.”
“What’s that for?” Mason asked.
“We wired a canister of liquid nitrogen in the cavity next to the device.” He held his thumb over the button. “Hit this button and the canister will release its contents into the cavity. The frozen gas should prevent the battery from initiating the ignition sequence for a second or two.”
“Should?” Mason asked.
“The device is totally enclosed. Without opening it up, we can’t be certain.”
Miro entered carrying a thick metal blast shield. “Let’s blow this shit up!”
“Remind me to kill you if I don’t die.”
Miro grinned. “You mean if we don’t die.”
Mason’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Someone has to yank your butt off that bomb.”
Mason shook his head. “No, I’ll do it.”
“Really? How long have you been lounging on that throne, your highness?”
“It’s been awhile.”
“Exactly. And when you try to move, it’ll be like an old lady.”
Mason pursed his lips together. The lower half of his body felt like it was on laughing gas. All numb tingles and nothing indicating it would respond when called upon.
“Okay. How are we going to do this?”
The lead tech handed Mason the switch and explained what needed to happen. “We all clear?”
“Got it.”
“Yep.”
“Good luck,” the lead tech said before backing out of the bathroom and lowering a blast curtain over the entrance.
Miro eased the blast shield down behind Mason’s back and then took up a position in front. He crouched down and the laugh Mason expected to fall out of his mo
uth was nowhere to be seen.
Serious eyes. Grave ones.
“I’m not going to let you die, Sarge.”
“I know.”
“If I, on the other hand, die, tell Iridia she missed out on one helluva an amazing husband.”
“Unfortunately for her, we’re both going to make it.”
Miro stared at him in silence.
Mason felt the panic. Deep down like a wild animal trying to claw its way out. He knew Miro did, too. And he also knew neither of them would let it interfere with what needed to be done.
They’d both tamed that beast long ago.
Put a leash on it, at least.
It could never be totally conquered.
“Ready?” Mason asked.
Miro offered an arm and they locked a grip over each other’s forearm.
Mason counted it off.
“Three.”
“Two.”
“One.”
Mason mashed the button as Miro jerked him forward. The blast shield dropped behind him as they both fell away from the toilet.
And then the room exploded.
Darkness swallowed the light.
And Mason drifted.
Maybe dead.
Maybe between worlds waiting to die.
And then a painful ringing in his ears anchored his perspective.
He blinked his eyes open and found himself staring up, noticing the infinite patterns in the smoke and particulates swirling through the air.
EOD techs swarmed around digging them out of the rubble.
Mason turned his head and saw Miro laying next to him.
“Sarge, I think your Johnson is touching my leg.”
38
THERESA had discovered Elio outside her window last night looking like he’d gone through a spin cycle with a bag of rocks. His bald head was what broke her. It made him look so hollow and empty. She’d hidden him in her room all day sneaking in food and first aid supplies when possible.
It was night again and he was just starting to look human.
And now he wanted to go out to another one of those underground meetings.
Not happening.
Her mom had left hours ago to go check on her dad, who apparently was some kind of hero for saving the President from a disgusting death inside a garbage truck trash compactor.
