“Do you want us to drop you off at the house?” Ulyssa asked.
“Nah. Would you mind dropping me off at Buck’s. I need a drink.”
“I thought you were turning over a new leaf?” I asked.
“Don’t judge me. Jesus drank wine.”
We dropped him at the front door of Buck’s.
“See ya later, cuz!”
Some small part of me felt guilty about his traumatic experience, but mostly it seemed fair since he’d given me that dang lottery ticket. But we’re square now.
Ulyssa drove us back over to the deserted parking lot positioning the Pinto where we could use the headlights from both cars to work on the bomb. We pulled the stolen goods out of the Pinto and Ulyssa handed me the directions saying, “I’m the scientist. I’ll put everything together. You read me the directions.”
“Step one - mix the peroxide and the acetone together.”
Ulyssa repeated the directions as she poured the peroxide into the giant paint bucket and opened the nail polish remover.
I scanned the papers while she screwed the lid back on the nail polish remover.
“Did you know that this type of bomb is known as the ‘Mother of Satan’ bomb cause it’s highly unstable.”
She startled, “What?”
“Yeah. Apparently it’s real easy to set it off with friction or sparks.”
“Damn! I coulda just blown us up! How are we gonna do this where it doesn’t kill us.”
“I don’t know. Maybe we shouldn’t do this. It seems pretty dangerous,” I said, losing confidence in this plan.
Since it’s her plan, Ulyssa was determined to see it succeed. “What else does it say we need to do?”
“It says we need to connect the detonator. That’s what should set off the explosion.”
Ulyssa picked up the small circuit board asking, “So I guess that’s what this is for... what else does it say?”
“It says we should put the mixture in a stable container.” I held up the short, round pipe staring at Ulyssa through hollow center. “This doesn’t look very stable. It kinda looks like there’s fiberglass on the inside.”
“Grrrr! It shouldn’t be this hard,” she said, looking at all the materials strewn on the ground. “Fine let’s put all the crap back in the bucket. We’re going to have to come up with another way to kill Marcus!”
The peroxide splashed as we dumped the circuit board, fiberglass piping, and everything into the bucket. Ulyssa put the nail polish remover in her pocket saying, “We can use this later, plus I don’t want to take a chance of it leaking into the peroxide and killing us.”
“We just gonna leave this sitting here?”
“Let’s hide it back here behind the electric grid box thingy,” Ulyssa explained, grabbing the bucket to hide it behind a large grey box. “This place is deserted, so hopefully nobody finds it and ties it to the Home Depot robbery.”
We removed our gloves. “Don’t want to leave any DNA laying around. Let’s put these with our disguises in the El Camino. We’ll come back and pick up the car in a few days when things have cooled off a bit.”
“Shasta! Shasta! Wake up!” Ulyssa said, shaking me. “We’re not going to jail anymore. We’re going to prison. We’re not buff enough to go to prison. We need to start working out or get tattoos. We need to look tough.”
I staggered out of bed, smoothing down my curls. “I don’t understand. Make us some mochas. I’ll be in the living room in a minute. I have to go to the bathroom.”
When I walked into the living room, she stopped doing pushups and jumped up. “Are there women in San Quentin? Cause that’s where they’re gonna send us!”
I stared past her at the two blended mochas sitting on the coffee table. I grabbed one and sat down on the couch. “Stop being dramatic. We’re not going to prison.”
“Oh, yes we are. A Nitro electrical plant was blown up this morning!”
I choked on the icy coffee gasping, “What?”
“It was destroyed when a homemade bomb detonated nearby.”
She turned up the TV volume and I watched in horror as the local police stretched yellow tape around the scene. Flames had engulfed an elongated metal shape.
“Shit! The El Camino! We gotta go see Cornnut!” I exclaimed, jumping off the couch still holding my coffee.
“The El Camino!” Ulyssa realized, slipping on her shoes, then looking at me. “Um. You gonna wear your Hello Kitty pajamas over there?”
“We don’t have time for fashion. Besides it’s just Cornnut!”
Cornnut was fishing for tourists when we stopped by his house, so we drove the Sidekick down the dirt road and parked it near the hidden tow truck. He was sitting on the cooler by himself today.
“Hey Cornnut! How’s it going?”
“Not too bad girls. Just got word that a big fish is heading this way. Driving one of those Suburbans. Should be worth a pretty penny to pull that thing outta the lake,” he said, winking at us. “Y’all all done with the El Camino?”
“That’s what we need to talk to you about...” Ulyssa started.
“Hold that thought! We got a live one. Try to act natural!”
A giant, black Suburban came tearing down the road and drove straight into the lake.
“C’mon girls! Help me out!”
Ulyssa just stood on the bank staring as I followed him into the water. He opened the driver door and I waded around to help the passenger.
I swung the door open and shoved the airbag towards the dashboard asking, “You okay?”
A pair of intense blue eyes swiveled towards me. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
He struggled to step out of the truck stumbling when he tried to walk through the water.
“Whoa. You sure you’re okay?”
He groaned and slid an arm around my shoulder to keep his balance while I guided him around the back of the truck out of the lake. Cornnut was standing on the bank with Ulyssa and the driver.
“We’ve only been in town ten minutes and you’re already picking up the ladies, Agent McCallister?”
Agent?
I gave him a quick inspection. Confident posture, dark blue suit and closely shorn haircut.
Damn!
I instinctively shoved him backwards where he landed with a thud.
“Haha. Looks like she didn’t appreciate you exaggerating your injuries!” Cornnut joked.
I put my hands on my hips, narrowing my eyes at him. He gave me a devilish grin saying, “I’ve never been rescued before. Much less by someone wearing Hello Kitty pajamas!”
“What kinda agent drives straight into a lake? Don’t you have to have some kind keen sense of danger or something?” I snapped.
“We’re FBI agents. We use GPS for navigation, not superpowers.”
FBI? Great. I’m going to prison wearing cartoon pajamas!
“I’ll run grab my truck and get your Suburban pulled outta the lake in a jiffy,” Cornnut blabbed, running off suspiciously quick. Leaving Ulyssa and I to entertain the agents.
“He don’t live too far away, so it shouldn’t take too long.” Ulyssa said.
“Is he your dad?” McCallister asked me.
Ulyssa and I both snorted at the thought of Cornnut as a nurturing dad. “Nope. He’s just a friend.”
“What were you guys doing out here at the lake?”
“Fishing,” I answered.
“I don’t see any fishing poles.”
Damn Cornnut!
“Shasta! You left the headlights on!” Ulyssa whispered, loud enough to interrupt the interrogation.
“What?” I asked, turning towards our hidden parking spot. “I didn’t even turn ‘em on.”
“No. The headlights are definitely on!” she insisted.
My face flushed as I looked down at my soaked shirt and understood her meaning. Suddenly my anatomy had become the center of attention as the entire group gawked at my chest. I quickly crossed my arms to hide my accidental sex appeal. Her trick worked
distracting McCallister from his previous line of questioning.
“I’m definitely going to need a therapist to help me with my Hello Kitty issues now,” he said, taking off his jacket and laid it over my shoulders.
The sleeves hung a few inches past the tips of my fingers as I shoved my arms through, wrapping it around me. “Thanks.”
“Where are y’all from?” Ulyssa asked.
“We just flew in from Washington D.C.,” the driver answered.
“Wow! Washington D.C.? I’ve never even been out of the state.”
“Yeah. The attack on the power grid got the attention of some high powered politicians so things are going to get pretty crazy around here over the next couple of days,” he explained, sticking out his hand to her, “My name is Agent Anthony Romero.”
“Ulyssa.” she answered, shaking his hand, “And you’ve already met Shasta.”
I gave a little wave.
“This is McCallister. He’s quite a celebrity. You may recognize him. He was featured on the FBI’s holiday calendar last year. He was Mr. March posing naked behind a copy of the Washington Post!”
We all laughed as McCallister’s face darkened and I immediately liked Agent Romero. He’d found a way to level the embarrassment playing field.
Cornnut came tearing down the road so fast the tow arm was waving like a drunk relative. The agents ran over to help him back the tow truck behind the flooded Suburban. When he’d dragged it clear of the water, Cornnut stepped down, took his baseball hat off and scratched his head.
“I’ll give it a tow back to my shop if you want. I can have a look at the engine and let you know how much it’ll cost to fix.”
“Sure. We’ll have to call headquarters and get funding approved for the repairs.”
“I tell ya what. I’ll give you a free tow as a thanks fer all you do to keep us safe,” Cornnut said, swiveling the hat back onto his balding head turning to us. “You girls mind giving them a ride to wherever they’re staying?”
“We’re staying at Myrtle’s Motel. Apparently it’s the only hotel in town,” Agent Romero answered.
“Perfect,” he said, getting back in the truck.
“Wait! I’ll help you with the truck, while Shasta runs them over to Myrtle’s!” Ulyssa said, jumping in the passenger seat, “I need to talk to you about some car troubles anyway.”
She’s gonna git it!
“Sounds like we’ve got a plan then,” Agent Romero said.
I stomped off, leading the two oblivious agents to the Sidekick. They both started laughing when they saw my neon truck.
“They still make these?” McCallister asked. “Wasn’t there a safety recall because of all the rollovers?”
“That’s why you’re sitting in the back!”
“You heard the lady, McCallister! In the back.”
He decided to sit behind me so he could stare at me in the rearview mirror the whole time.
“So, what were you girls doing last night?”
I sat there for a few minutes trying to remember the last legal thing we’d done. “Watched a couple movies.”
“What did you watch?”
“Boondock Saints.”
“Really? Which one?”
“Both.”
“Hmm. That’s unusual.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked, shifting my eyes off the road to glance in the mirror.
“Well, it’s kind of a cult classic. Not too many people I know have seen it. Much less girls.”
“We’re not your average girls,” I said, swerving to intentionally hit a pothole, making McCallister bump his head on the roll bar.
“I guess not. What did you think of the movies?”
“They were good. The main characters were real likable.”
“So, you got a thing for Irish guys? You know I’m half Irish. Mother’s Russian and Dad’s Irish.”
“I prefer my guys a little less annoying.”
Agent Romero had been silent the whole ride, but this comment made him cough.
“You thought they were likable? Even though they were killers?”
“They were put in an impossible situation.”
“Which they solved with guns and violence.”
“I like guns.”
“Really? Another surprise. I thought all you Southern women were raised to be Southern Belles.”
“I’m no southern belle and I’m damn good with a gun,” I said, pressing the gas pedal, so I could get them to the hotel before he goaded any more information out of me.
“Seriously? What’s your gun of choice?”
I wanted to brag about my Desert Eagle, but common sense prevailed. “I’m really good with a .22.”
“Figures. That’s a good girlie gun.”
I drove along silently wondering if he’d be so condescending if he knew about us blowing up Salvo’s bunker and the electrical station.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m all for women’s rights, but some things are just too tough for a woman.”
“What? Like that little 9MM you’ve got strapped to your shoulder? You planning to kill a criminal or play laser tag?”
I was just guessing, but it must have been pretty accurate since it earned another cough from Romero and silence from the backseat.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sure you’re very proud of your big, bad gun. Have you even shot anyone with it?”
“No.”
“Really? I thought it was mandatory to shoot a perp within your first year with the FBI. How long have you been an agent?”
“Three years.”
“Three years? You look old. What did you do before working at the Bureau?”
“I’m not that old. I’m twenty-nine,” he replied sounding annoyed now. “I did a tour in the military and spent some time at another agency before I joined the FBI.”
“So, you’ve always worked for the military or government all those years, but you’ve never shot anybody?”
“Nope.”
“What’s your job then? Since you don’t ever seem to have to use your gun.”
“Firearm and explosive forensics.”
“Firearm and explosive forensics?”
“Yeah. I perform forensic analysis of various incidents involving firearms and explosives. My speciality is IEDs.”
“IEDs?”
“Improvised Explosive Devices. Homemade bombs. I study the science and chemistry used to construct and detonate the bomb.”
A bead of sweat trickled down the back of my neck as I asked, “Wow. Do you interrogate people?”
“We latch suspects to metal chairs and give ‘em electric shocks until they tell us what we want to know.”
I shrieked.
“I’m kidding. I’m kidding. The FBI doesn’t interrogate anyone. I just ask questions and document responses. I match suspects to crime scenes using a combination of psychology and science.”
“So why are you two in Nitro?”
“To investigate the bombing of the electric plant.”
“Really?” I gripped the steering wheel harder, so they couldn’t see my shaking hands. “They sent the FBI in for something like that?”
“It appears like it may have been a terrorist attack targeting electrical power infrastructure. In fact, Department of Homeland Security... DHS has raised the alert level to orange.”
I glanced in the mirror unsure what the color choice meant.
“Red is the only higher color. It’s pretty serious. They’re standing up a DHS task force to assess the impact to the National grid and determine the likelihood of possible coordinated attack at other stations.”
“What?! FBI and DHS task forces? In little ol’ Nitro?”
“Yeah. I don’t think there’s enough logistical support to run both task forces from Nitro proper. So, we’ll probably end up running operations from Charleston using our field offices. But there will be a whole bunch of government personnel crawling all over this area for the next co
uple weeks. Maybe even months. I imagine it will be a good boost for the local economy though.”
I looked out the window as we drove down main street. The town sure could use a little extra money, but I don’t think it would take them long to figure out who did it. So we’d go to prison and the town wouldn’t get the economic stimulus it needed. I was on adrenaline overdose when I wheeled the Sidekick into the reception parking for Myrtle’s and slammed on the brakes making Romero grab the dashboard with both hands.
“Here ya go.”
“Thanks. Nice meeting you,” Romero said, waving as he shut the door.
McCallister leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “How do I get in touch with you? In case I have any more questions for you?”
“Nitro is a small town and you’re the FBI. Figure it out.”
“Here’s my card,” he said, handing it to me as he climbed out of the truck. “Give me a call if you need anything.”
I hit the gas pedal, peppering the agents with gravel projectiles as I tore out of the parking lot.
I contemplated prison life during the drive back to Cornnut’s.
“I paid Cornnut for the El Camino and asked him not to mention it to anyone, so I think we’re good to go,” Ulyssa said, buckling her seat belt.
“DHS the Department of Homeland Security has raised the threat level to orange!”
“What does that mean? Is that bad?”
“Yes. Red is the only other color higher!” I exclaimed, staring at her with panicked eyes. “And it’s all because of that thing from last night!”
“Which thing?”
“The electric plant.”
“JMJ!”
I continued, “And the FBI and DHS are sending task forces to Nitro!”
“What? We can’t finish the job with that kind of heat in town!”
“You’re missing the point!” I was practically yelling now. “They’re in town because of us. We blew up the electric plant!”
“Shhhh. We still don’t know if anyone is listening,” she said, taking a couple of deep breaths. “How are we gonna dodge law enforcement and take out Marcus? Maybe we should leave town.”
“With what money? We don’t even have enough in the bank to get us to Mexico! Or Canada! Scratch Canada. Why? Because a professional Canadian assassin wants to kill us!”
Fat Assassins (The Fat Adventure Series) Page 18
