The Detonator

by Vincent Zandri

  I shake the image from my brain, head back inside, lock the door behind me. Already the pizza is getting cold.

  Chapter 26

  After the two cars leave the driveway, she emerges from the trees located at the front of the property, only a couple of dozen feet from the farmhouse. She’s dressed entirely in black. Black acrylic leggings, rubber-soled tactical boots, long-sleeved Under Armour tee that fits her body like a second skin. Plus black tactical gloves, black kerchief wrapped around her light hair, and black NATO camo face-paint. Mounted to her skull is an Armasight Vega Gen 1+ Night Vision Goggle armed with a built-in infrared illuminator. She can see in the dark. See her prey running for its life.

  A chrome-plated, 5-shot, Smith & Wesson 460XVR, long-barreled, .460 caliber revolver—the only revolver that will accommodate the experimental thermite loads without its alloy metal composite construction breaking down—rests on her right hip directly beside an eight-inch fighting knife, while her military grade–encased smartphone is carried in a nylon holster on her left hip. Fully charged for the night’s festivities, it will not only serve as her life-and-death line with Ike Singer and his perfect family, but the keypad will also provide her with the electronic means for creating the night’s program of pyrotechnics and fiery brilliance.

  Her body trembles with an excitement so profound, it’s a wonder the whole world can’t hear her heart pounding. Once tonight’s mission is accomplished, she will oversee the true implosion of the Wellington Hotel. The explosion and the dust cloud will provide the perfect distraction for her getaway. The chopper will pick her up and carry her away from Albany for the rest of her days.

  Albany. The city that abused her, betrayed her. The city where all her hopes and dreams imploded. Her memories of this place are dismal. How she looks forward to her new life and new identity, free from the Darling family that was anything but. Free from the soon to be destroyed Ike Singer.

  If only she could get the show on the road and prove to her father’s old back-stabbing partner and best friend that one must pay for one’s choices in life.

  Putting some distance between herself and the trees, she darts up the length of the gravel driveway, careful not to step on anything that might blow her legs clean off.

  Chapter 27

  Ellen carries the pizza into the TV room along with some paper plates, bottles of spring water for her and Henry, a brand new beer for me. At Henry’s direct request, we’ve decided to make a party of it.

  “End of the vacation,” the young man says. “It deserves a party.”

  He’s laid out on the couch, shoes off, feet up, a blanket covering his legs. He’s got the clicker in hand and he’s rifling through the stations like it’s more entertaining to watch two or three seconds of a few dozen shows at a time than one program for its entirety. Part of me can’t help but think that his attention deficit has more to do with his limited time left than it does an inability to concentrate on any one program. Perhaps he feels that by speeding through one program after the other, he’ll at least get a small taste of everything before the time comes when he won’t be getting a taste of anything whatsoever.

  Or maybe I’m just overthinking it all. But my God, how I wish he were healthy.

  “Henry,” Ellen says, sitting herself down by his feet, “I’m going to have a seizure if you keep changing the channel like that.” She picks out a big triangular slice of the cheese pizza for the boy, sets it on a paper plate, and places it on the coffee table within his reach.

  I crack open my beer, take a deep drink of the cold, effervescent liquid, feel the immediate calming effect of the alcohol. Picking up another empty plate, Ellen sets another slice onto it, then looks up at me.

  “Babe?” she says.

  “I’ll wait a minute. Let me enjoy my beer, catch my breath.”

  Catch a buzz, I should say. Turn my brain off.

  “It’s been quite the busy day and night for you, Singer.” She grabs her own slice, sits back on the couch. “A busy day for us all.”

  “At least Professor Alison was there for us,” Henry interjects, his eyes now focused on the television. “I can’t believe how much she’s grown up. And not a single bad knock-knock joke.”

  For the time being, he’s settled on a pre-season football game. The NY Giants versus the Washington Redskins. Henry loves football. Sometimes, when he’s watching it, I’ll see his eyes light up at the action. The running, the hitting, the throws, the kickoffs. Maybe, if God had had something different in store for him…something more normal, or even something uniquely gifted rather than uniquely deadly, he might have made one hell of a football player, with a shelf full of trophies to show for it. It’s something I would have wanted him to have for himself. Not for me. Me and my pride. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I would have been super proud to be the dad of an All State football player.

  Eyes on the wall-mounted flat-screen.

  The New York Giants kick off from their own thirty to start the fourth quarter of the game. A stocky Redskin whose thighs look like two big hams catches the ball, then speeds and plows through the Giant defenders like a triple-crown winner through a racecourse filled with deadbeat horses. The only one left to stop him is the kicker, who is about half his size. Still, the little guy shows some spunk and guts when he lowers his head, rams it into the ball carrier’s mid-section, thrusting him out of bounds, saving a sure six points. The crowd in New York explodes in cheers. The kicker’s teammates punch his shoulder pads and slap his helmet. Even I feel a wave of warm pride fill my veins for the little guy.

  “Way to go,” I whisper under my breath. “That’s showing them.”

  “Way to go what?” Ellen says.

  I sip my beer, turn to her.

  “I was just commenting on the football, El.” My eyes shifting back to Henry, who is taking a small bite of his pizza. I recall what happened after lunch due to his sensitive digestive tract and pray that it doesn’t happen again tonight. He needs his rest.

  My cell chimes and vibrates like an oversized hornet, startling me. It’s the APD. I press the phone to my ear.

  “Singer.”

  “Mr. Singer,” speaks the agitated voice of Jack at the switchboard. “We got a live 10-89 in progress in West Albany along with a live hostage. This is no joke. A live 10-89. In progress.”

  Pulse rises. Throat closes up.

  “Who called it in?”

  “Uniformed patrol in the area. I’m calling it in direct because you don’t have a scanner.”

  Adrenaline shooting into my brain.

  “What are we looking at?” I say, my eyes now wide and concentrating on Ellen, whose eyes are just as wide.

  “Mailbox bomb. Judge John Bescher’s house. Lennox Avenue.”

  “The judge…Judge Bescher…is the hostage? You’re sure about that?”

  “Affirmative, Ike. SWAT is notified and en route.”

  “Have the area secured, evacuate every house within a thousand feet of the mailbox. Call in Homeland Security and Staties. I’m on my way.”

  I cut the connection. “Guys, I have to go.”

  “What is it?” Ellen says. “What’s happened?”

  “Explosive device reported inside a mailbox at Judge Bescher’s house.”

  “Who’s Judge Bescher?” Henry says.

  “Old state appellate judge who put a lot of bad guys behind bars,” I say. “Works at family court in his spare time, putting away deadbeat dads, defending foster parents, among other things.”

  “The very same judge who took Daddy’s blasting license away,” Ellen adds. Then, not without disdain. “How, ummmm, ironic.”

  “I seem to remember you applauding his decision to shut me down,” I point out, as I head into the kitchen, grab my keys.

  Ellen is right behind me. “But you haven’t been called in to investigate an emergency in ne
arly a year and tonight you just happen to get a call for the real thing. And Judge Bescher of all people. My heart is pounding.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, taking her in my arms. “I’ll be extremely careful. Besides…”

  “Besides what?”

  “Besides, Rob will do all the dirty work.”

  “Let’s hope Robot Rob is in proper working order tonight.”

  I kiss her on the forehead, go for the back door. “Don’t wait up, El.”

  “Are you kidding?” she says. “I’ll be watching the live news.”

  “I’ll toss you a wave.”

  As I open the door, step out onto the back porch, closing the door behind me, I can’t help but feel that the judge’s bomb isn’t meant for him and him alone.

  Chapter 28

  What my wife was referring to were the legal charges I faced after Brian had shot the Alphabet City warehouse after illegally detonating the charges with a secondary electronic control box. Maybe the site had already been secured prior to our original shooting schedule. But once the call had gone out for everyone to stand down, people--workers, security, media, and innocent bystanders--started to relax. It was one of those situations where you smoked ’em if you had ’em on you.

  So when Brian pressed the black and red triggers on the remote control device and the blasting caps started exploding, and the timed charges began their detonation sequence from Stage 1 at the way-back of the warehouse, all the way to Stage 3 at the warehouse’s front, people were caught unawares. We were lucky no one lost their lives (including myself). But unlucky in that some of the shrapnel from the exploded concrete managed to connect with two or three of the bystanders who had drifted outside the exclusion zone.

  Master Blasters was sued, of course, and brought up on charges, including negligence. Our bonding company dropped us, and after fighting a prolonged but losing battle in District Court, the New York State Appellate Court, presided over by the Honorable Judge Bescher, didn’t feel the need to indict me as the lone surviving partner of Master Blasters, Inc. He did however, lift my license and insist I pay a considerable fine, which just about wiped out the remainder of the business’s accounts. In the end, I was lucky to keep my farmhouse and the property it sits on.

  Naturally my lawyer tried to convey my innocence to the judge. Brian’s plan to shoot the building with me inside wasn’t my fault, after all. But he saw it another way. My partner and I shared in the responsibility for the timed implosion, just like we shared in the profits. I should have been aware of his actions, plain and simple. Safety first and last.

  “‘You’re dealing with hundreds of pounds of explosives here,’ I believe were the judge’s exact words. “‘Not cheeseburgers.’”

  I was allowed to work for another outfit if I chose to do so, but only operating manual demolition equipment and not explosives. So much for my career blasting big high-rises. So much for my dream of a true implosion. So, if I was banned from explosives, why would the police take me on as their sole bomb disposal expert? First of all, it was a job nobody wanted. Second of all, maybe I couldn’t legally set a charge, but they sure as shit didn’t mind if I took a chance on disarming one. What was the worst thing that could happen after all? My flesh, bones, and brains blasted all over the city?

  I arrive at Judge Bescher’s residence on Lennox Avenue, in the upscale section of the West Albany suburbs. I’m greeted by my support staff, if you want to call it that. It consists of one man, a dog, and a robot. The young man is assigned to me not because of his expertise in bomb disposal, or his crime-fighting skills, or his uncanny ability to profile those individuals, like those radical Islamic creeps, the Tsarnaev brothers, for instance, who planted a couple pressure cooker bombs in the middle of the Boston Marathon.

  Instead, he’s assigned to me because he’s a young rookie and therefore no one else wants or feels safe enough to work with him. His name is Ted Pendergast and he’s a wiry man of medium height with thick black hair cut regulation short. He’s a little on the nervous side, which is always a cause of concern when it comes to dealing with explosive devices and their disposal. But then, we’ve never had to deal with a hot situation of this magnitude (or apparent magnitude) until now.

  Lucky me. Lucky Ted.

  We shove through the throngs of reporters, bystanders, EMTs, cops, and television reporters, slip on past the fire trucks and squad cars. A SWAT team member dressed in full riot gear pulls aside the barricade for us. That’s when I spot the mailbox. And something else. A man duct-taped to the mailbox post.

  It’s the judge.

  He’s dressed only in a pair of baby blue boxer shorts and a wife-beater T-shirt. His mouth is covered with a duct tape gag, but his eyes are wide open and pleading for someone or something to save his life.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper. “Didn’t any of the neighbors see what was happening? Or were they too petrified to step outside their protective walls?”

  For a brief moment, I feel like the earth is about to shift right out from under my feet. It’s one thing to be employed in a job where you spend twenty-four-seven anticipating something that rarely, if ever, happens. But then, it’s another thing altogether when that something happens, and the something in question is a bomb and there’s a man attached to it.

  SWAT Man is saying something to me, but it sounds like a near silent mumble. A quick shove against my shoulder.

  “You with me, man?” SWAT Man barks.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding, trying to clear my head.

  “Miller is waiting for you by your van,” he says, cocking his head. “Go, now, go.”

  I turn to Ted.

  “What about Nemo?” I say. Our bomb sniffing German shepherd, Nemo. “He get a whiff? Could be that mailbox is stuffed with a bunch of newspaper for all we know.”

  Ted shakes his head rapidly.

  “No such luck, boss,” he says, his tone high-pitched, voice trembling. “It’s the real deal. Nemo nearly pissed on the judge he was so excited.”

  Over my right shoulder, I spot Miller standing before the open back doors of the bomb disposal van.

  “Follow me, Ted,” I say, before approaching Miller.

  “There’s nobody dead yet,” I say to the homicide dick while Ted jumps into the van where Nemo is pacing nervously in his oversized crate.

  “Let’s hope it stays that way, Singer,” he says. “I’m here because we need to talk.”

  “Last I heard, there’s a bomb to defuse in that mailbox behind me. For all we know it could be on a timer and set to detonate at any second. I gotta get in there now.”

  I cock my head in the direction of a large brick ranch probably built in the 1950s. The lawn is lush and green in the mobile LED lamps and the headlights from the cruisers, EMT vans, and fire trucks. At the bottom of the drive is a standard aluminum mailbox mounted to a wood 4X4 post that’s been painted black. The same post the portly, balding judge has been duct-taped to.

  Ted sticks his head out. “You wanna use the shotgun?”

  I shake my head. “Jesus, Ted. There’s a man attached to the bomb. Guess what happens I shoot the bomb?”

  He bites down on his bottom lip, raises his hand up, slaps his forehead.

  “Stupid,” he says. “So…fucking…stupid.”

  “We were all stupid and young once, Ted. You’re just nerved up. Happens to the best of us. Don’t take it too personally.”

  “Better get the suit,” he says.

  “Now you’re cooking with natural gas, Ted. And get set to power up Rob.”

  Ted pulls the explosive ordinance disposal, or blast, suit from the van sets it onto the edge of the van floor.

  Miller says, “The judge is a little bit upset.”

  “I would be too, somebody taped me to a mailbox that’s about to blow.”

  The detective runs his hand over his mouth,
crosses his arms. “There’s a little more to it than that.”

  “And that’s why you’re here, Nick?”

  “God, pal, so perceptive for a guy who isn’t really a cop.”

  Pulling off my cowboy boots, I slip into the blast suit, legs first. Then, with Miller’s help, slip into the arms. I zip it up and put on the ballistic gloves.

  “A note came with the mailbox setup,” Miller adds. He digs around in his pocket, pulls out a white index card with some typing on it. “‘Master Blasters says Hello!’ It was taped to the judge’s forehead when we arrived.”

  All oxygen exits my lungs.

  “Now, I feel quite certain you had nothing to do with this,” Miller says. “But it might not be easy convincing Judge Bescher of that. That is, if we’re not peeling what’s left of him off the neighbor’s garage door. He is the judge who pulled your license after all, if I recall. He’s well aware you have a hard-on for him.”

  “Not stiff enough to kill him, for Christ sakes, Nick. Come on.”

  He nods, pockets the note. “I’ll put somebody on this note right away. Might require a visit to your house. You own any typewriters?”

  I picture the one in my basement office.

  “Affirmative. It was my grandfather’s during the Second World War. A Remington. Weighs about fifty pounds. So what?”

  “Should be no problem making a check on the typescript then.”

  “That makes my night complete, Miller.” I pop the helmet onto my head, while the sound of a motorized tracked vehicle pulls up behind me. Robert, the autonomously remote-controlled bomb disposal robot. The rookie cop hands me the combination remote control/video display. “Mind if I do my job, Detective Miller?”

  “Not at all,” he says. Then, setting his hand on my shoulder. “Be careful, Singer.”

  I smile at him through the helmet safety glass. “You kidding? This is the most fun you can have next to shooting a ten-story tower.”

  Chapter 29

  You’re young.

  Young and stupid. Definitely old enough to know better. Maybe ten or eleven years old. But that doesn’t stop you from what you’re about to accomplish. You’re outside in the backyard of the aluminum-sided, two-story split-level you grew up in, inside the cookie-cutter suburbs. Your mother and father have no idea you’re out there and what it is you’re doing, because the old man is at work, and mom is upstairs ironing clothes in front of the television.