“No, don’t cut that!” Brice blurted out.
“I’m not cutting anything.” Annie heard Brice sigh, then said, “Anytime you want to start helping…”
“Okay, don’t cut any of the wires. It wouldn’t surprise me if there’s a collapsing circuit installed. Meaning if the electricity flowing through the circuit gets interrupted in any way, it blows. But it looks like…” Brice trailed off.
“Marty, speak to me. What do you see?”
“It looks like whoever put this thing together wired in a delay. Though I don’t understand why they’d need a delay with a remote detonation trigger.”
“What is it? Like a safety or something?”
“No,” Brice said. “No, once you trigger this thing it’s going to go off. Hold on, I’m modeling the casing.”
Annie listened to the sounds of the road and traffic around her. The truck lurched—they must have hit a pothole or something. Instinctively, she braced herself against the container in front of her.
“Marty, we don’t have all day!”
“It’s okay, I think I’ve figured it out.”
“You think?”
“What you’re going to want to do is pry up one of those panel charges.”
“You want me to pry up a panel of explosives?” Annie asked.
“Correct. Depending on the explosive type, the panels might be hard or putty-like. Use your knife to pry one of them up. Just, for the love of God, don’t disturb any of the wires.”
Annie shook her head, eyeing the paper-thin separations between the hexagonal panels. “This is so stupid.”
She carefully slid the tip of her knife into the thin gap. Her mind screamed at her to stop, but she pressed on, wedging the blade firmly in the crack.
“That’s it. Easy does—”
“Brice! Shut the hell up.”
“Sorry.”
The trailer continued to rock as she worked the blade deeper into the gap. It took a good bit of effort to get the blade in far enough, and then she started prying. She held her breath as she gently began lifting the panel. The farther she brought it out, the tighter the wires attached to the center of the panel became.
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to get it out all the way without messing with the wiring harness.”
“That’s okay. I’m fairly certain even prying it out that much will disrupt it enough that it won’t go nuclear,” Brice said. “But leave your knife in there just to be sure.”
“What the hell is my knife going to do?”
“Keeps the separation between the charges. Provides a weak point during the explosion. Think of it like squeezing hard on a tube of toothpaste with the cap loose. Instead of a nuclear boom, you’ll just get a boom.”
“So I’m done? That’s it?” Annie stepped back from the container, relieved.
“Well, you’ve still got to stop the truck. It may not be a full-on nuke, but it’s still a dirty bomb. The farther you can keep it from downtown DC, the better. And if the driver has the detonator, and you can stop it from going off at all… well, needless to say, that would be nice.”
Annie’s fingers closed around the pistol holstered under her arm. “I’m on it.”
She returned to the hole she’d cut in the roof, jumped up, and pulled herself onto the top of the trailer, crouching down against the onslaught of wind.
“Annie, look out!” Brice shouted.
Annie turned. “Shit!” She dropped to her chest seconds before the semi drove under the Stafford Street Bridge. The traffic noise intensified around her, echoing from all directions.
“You okay?”
“Son of a bitch.” Annie spun on her stomach to face the front of the trailer. “I’m fine.”
She pulled herself along the top of the trailer, reaching the front just as they came out from under the overpass. Then she eased herself over the edge, into the small space between the trailer and the cab. Her legs brushed against the coiled cables connecting the two, and her feet touched down on the frame.
“We’re running out of road,” Brice said.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Annie said through gritted teeth.
She moved to the passenger side, putting a foot on the end of the cylindrical gas tank, fingers clenched on the side of the cab. She tried not to focus on the road rushing past beneath her, or the sure knowledge that if she lost her footing, or her grip, she’d end up as roadkill, crushed by the trailer’s massive tires.
I think I’d rather get blown up.
She peered around the side of the truck. In the side-view mirror, she saw Mohammad Hakimi sitting behind the wheel, focused intently on the road ahead. He had both hands on the wheel, which meant at the very least he didn’t have the dead man’s switch in his hand. But that didn’t rule out the possibility of him having a remote detonator.
She would need to move quickly. As soon as she moved around the edge of the cab, he’d spot her movement in the side-view. She couldn’t give him time to react.
She looked ahead and saw they were approaching a tunnel. If she could get the truck stopped in there, she might be able to somewhat contain the blast.
She reached around the edge of the cab, grabbed the vertical assist bar, and stepped onto the side steps on the gas tank. As she shuffled forward, she switched hands, grabbing the bar with her left and reaching for the door handle with her right.
Mohammad Hakimi turned, making eye contact with Annie a fraction of a second before she pulled the door open. His eyes widened, he shouted something Annie didn’t understand, and he slammed his foot on the brake.
She lurched forward, grunting as her upper body slammed into the open door. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, and she just barely hung on.
Hakimi then jerked the wheel to the left and then right. Tires squealed as the truck veered across two lanes, rumbling over the warning strips cut into the shoulder.
Annie kicked off the side step, launched herself into the cab, and lashed out with a right jab. Hakimi shouted, taking his hand off the wheel to block the punch. The truck swerved to the left, rocking Annie back, off-balance.
“You will die!” Hakimi yelled, reaching for something in his waistband.
Annie drove her shoulder into Hakimi’s throat and chin, knocking him into his door. He twisted, slamming his elbow into the side of her head. Pain erupted through her skull as he hit her again and again. She ignored the pain, centering all her attention on getting the weapon—or detonator—he’d been reaching for.
It was a pistol. Her fingers closed around it, but instead of pulling it away, she pushed, driving it into his groin. Hakimi screamed in pain and redoubled his attack, slamming his elbow violently into her ear and temple. Stars danced in her vision as her fingers worked their way onto the pistol’s grip.
“Bitch!” he shouted, clamping down on her with his free hand, pinning the pistol in place.
Annie’s finger found the trigger and squeezed. The pistol barked and Hakimi screamed, his entire body spasming in pain. She pushed off of him and tried to pull the pistol free, but it caught on his waistband.
He slammed on the brakes again, throwing Annie into the dash and making her lose her grip on the pistol. Grimacing in pain, Hakimi then pulled the pistol from his waistband while stomping on the gas again. The engine roared.
Annie rolled back into the seat and grabbed Hakimi’s wrist, pushing the barrel of the pistol away. He fired again and again, but only succeeded in blasting jagged holes in the windshield—and leaving Annie with a painful ringing in her ears.
“Annie!” Brice shouted in her ear. “Are you okay?”
With her free hand Annie grabbed Hakimi’s face and pressed his head into the door. She wedged her thumb into his eye socket, gritted her teeth, and pushed.
Hakimi screamed, slapped at her hand, tried to pry it away.
She let up slightly, only to immediately slam his head hard against the door’s window.
Hakimi fired off three more ro
unds. Annie felt the warmth and blast pressure from each shot. He punched her arm, and she lost her grip on his face. But his punches had caused him to ignore what his gun hand was doing, and she slammed the back of his arm against the steering wheel until his fingers opened and the pistol fell free, clattering to the floor.
“You bitch!” Hakimi shouted again.
“Is that all you got?” Annie said, before slamming her first into his nose. Cartilage cracked and blood sprayed. He tried to block her next punch, but he was losing strength, and his efforts barely affected her blow. She felt even more cartilage crack. Hakimi grunted in pain.
“Annie, you need to get that truck stopped,” Brice reminded her.
Her hand covered in blood, Annie grabbed the steering wheel and yanked hard to the right. The truck veered across the lanes of traffic and slammed into the wall of the tunnel. Broken tiles sprayed out and metal groaned as the truck dragged along the wall. She kicked Hakimi’s foot off the pedal and forced hers onto the brake.
Hakimi slapped at her hands ineffectively. The blood loss from the leg wound and the repeated blows to the head were having an effect. Using her body weight, she kept him pinned against the door. She couldn’t afford to let up. Not now.
The truck rumbled to a stop, the cab and trailer jackknifing across the road.
Annie reached over Hakimi and yanked the door handle. It swung open, and Hakimi spilled out of the cab. Annie caught herself just before she fell after him, then bent over to grab the pistol from the floor.
“You have stopped nothing!” Hakimi shouted, rolling onto his back. He crawled away from the truck, reaching into his jacket.
“No!” Annie shouted, fingers wrapping around the grip.
She couldn’t see what his hand was doing inside his jacket, but the look on his face made it clear.
He was preparing to detonate the bomb.
Annie brought the pistol up and fired three times. The shots echoed loudly in the tunnel.
Hakimi’s body jerked, and he fell back on the pavement. His hand came out of his jacket and his arm splayed onto the asphalt. An electronic device fell out of his palm.
“Annie?” Brice said.
Annie struggled to control her breathing. She kept the pistol trained on Hakimi and climbed down from the cab. “I’m okay.”
“You need to get out of there! I have no idea what the delay circuit is set for.”
“Shit.”
Annie turned and bolted.
Twenty meters ahead, a car had stopped, and the driver had gotten out to watch what was going on, a horrified expression on her face.
“Go!” Annie shouted, waving both arms.
The woman shook her head, confused. “I don’t—”
“Get the hell in your car!” Annie shoved her inside, pushing her violently right across the center console to the passenger side, and followed her in, sliding in behind the wheel.
The woman screamed as Annie put the car in drive and slammed on the gas. The sudden acceleration threw them both back against their seats.
“Count to twenty!” Annie yelled.
“What the hell?” the woman cried, trying to push herself upright. “Please, take the car, I don’t have any money. I have a kid!”
Annie white-knuckled the steering wheel as they sped for the tunnel’s exit. “I’m not stealing your car, lady! I’m trying to save your life! Count to twenty!”
Daylight spilled in from the tunnel’s entrance fifty meters ahead. Annie had no idea how much time they had, but it probably wasn’t much.
“One, two, three…” the woman started.
“Marty,” Annie said. “What’s the minimum safe distance for that thing?”
The woman stopped counting, frowning at Annie.
“It’s hard to say. At least five hundred feet, on open ground. But in the tunnel? The confined shockwaves will intensify the blast.”
Annie shielded her eyes as they shot out from the tunnel and into the bright light of day. She swerved for the shoulder.
The woman turned and looked back over her seat. “Are we going to—”
“No!” Annie was already reaching for the woman’s head when she saw the flash of the detonation in the rearview. She barely had time to scream before the blast wave hit, shattering the car’s windows, spraying her with tiny shards of glass, and lifting the car right off the road.
Annie felt herself become weightless, then everything went black.
Chapter Forty-Five
The pickup’s over-sized tires squealed as Duncan drove them onto the main road, turning north out of the complex. I-218 weaved its way through tree-covered hills, and Connor could barely see the buildings along the right side of the road. The traffic was light, for which he was thankful.
He angled the machine gun forward and fired. His rounds chewed through the pavement just to the left of the white pickup ahead of them. The two men in the bed dropped behind the tailgate before appearing again to return fire. Duncan swerved left, crossing the center lane, as the windshield and hood erupted. Connor shifted his footing, keeping his balance behind the machine gun, adjusted his aim, and fired again.
His eyes stung from the wind and swirling smoke expelled by the machine gun, hindering his vision slightly, but he saw the man on the right jerk back and tumble over the side of the bed. His companion once more dropped behind the tailgate, then held up his gun and fired back without looking.
“Left lane!” Connor shouted, kicking the back of the cab. “Get in the left lane! As far as you can!”
Duncan moved the truck over, giving Connor a clear shot of the enemy’s back tire. His rounds ripped through rubber and steel. The tire exploded, and the truck was thrown up onto its passenger-side tires; the driver must have tried to correct. The truck dropped back down on all four tires, turned perpendicular to the road as it went airborne, spinning, then rolled to a stop on its roof.
“Go!” Connor shouted when he realized Duncan was letting off the gas. “Your friends behind us can take care of that! Get the lead truck! Go!”
The engine roared again, the burst of acceleration forcing Connor back a step. He checked over his shoulder, ensuring that the officers behind him were indeed stopping to secure the wreck. Then he checked the machine gun. He had a little under fifty rounds left.
We need to end this sooner than later.
The road veered left, and as they followed it around, Connor caught glimpses of the Hudson River through the trees to his right. Rocky cliffs poked above the trees just ahead. And dead ahead, just around the curve, was the U-Haul.
Thompson fired off a barrage of shots from the cab, the bullets smacking against the pavement near the rear wheels. Duncan accelerated again, and Thompson continued to fire as they closed the distance. A line of impacts stitched across the U-Haul’s side panel, and it swerved.
“Keep us steady!” Connor shouted, lining up his sights. He fired a quick burst, missing low and left. The pavement erupted in plumes of concrete and dust.
He cursed himself and adjusted, letting off another barrage. This time his bullets ripped through the rear pull-down door. The driver’s-side light assembly exploded.
Then the gun went dry.
“Son of a bitch.” Connor pushed the machine gun out of the way and moved up behind the cab. He slapped the roof. “Ram them!”
He held on to the roof as Duncan gunned it.
They smashed right into the U-Haul’s rear bumper, jolting both vehicles. Connor rocked in the bed and almost lost his footing.
Then Duncan began pulling up alongside the U-Haul on the driver’s side. Connor pulled his M4 and fired into the driver’s window. Glass shattered and tires squealed as the U-Haul veered left, ramming into the pickup’s front end. Connor fell forward against the roof of the cab, almost losing his grip on his rifle.
Duncan straightened them out and Connor fired again. The side-view mirror exploded, and rounds pelted the frame and door. “Come on, you bastard.”
His M4’s bol
t locked back to the rear on an empty magazine. He stripped it out and slammed in a fresh one, then went back to work.
“Step on it!” Connor shouted, pulling the rifle onto his shoulder.
From the cab, Thompson fired again. Both men emptied their magazines into the side of the U-Haul’s cab, but from their angle, the cargo box blocked much of their fire.
Connor ejected the empty mag. He only had one left.
The U-Haul shifted to the right, tires squealing, veering around a car in their lane just as the right shoulder dropped off into a ditch. Duncan blared his horn as the slow car ahead shifted out of the way, but not enough. He jerked the pickup to the left, off the road, and the tires chewed through dirt and leaves, kicking up a cloud of dust in their wake. The oncoming car’s horn blared as it passed, and the driver’s expression was one of sheer terror.
But this action had given Connor a new angle of fire—exactly what he needed. He slapped in the magazine, shouldered the rifle, and fired.
The driver’s body jerked as Connor’s rounds ripped through the U-Haul cab’s door. The man fell forward onto the wheel, blasting the horn, and the truck started slowing.
The passenger appeared, pushing the driver aside, grabbing the wheel, and trying to keep the truck on the road, but Connor fired another burst, and the passenger screamed and disappeared.
Duncan slowed as the U-Haul swerved left and rolled onto the opposite shoulder. It smashed through a row of young trees before jerking to a stop, its driver’s side lifted off the ground by an uprooted tree.
Connor jumped from the bed before the pickup was completely stopped, and keeping the M4 raised, he advanced on the U-Haul. He sidestepped, cutting the corner of the truck to the passenger side, then slowed, inching around the edge.
The passenger door opened. A man in black BDUs fell out and hit the ground.
“Don’t move!” Connor shouted. He motioned to Duncan. “Hold here.”
“Got you,” Duncan said, leveling his pistol on the bullet-riddled rear door.
Connor moved up. The man’s breath came in ragged gasps. Blood streamed from several wounds on his face and head. He spit blood as he looked up at Connor, his face a mask of fury and hatred. “Go to hell, you bas—”
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