Crosscut (A Nicholas Colt Thriller Book 2)

by Jude Hardin

  Lester reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife, similar to the one I’d taken from him during our scuffle by the Dumpster. He opened the blade and it locked in place with a click.

  “Hold him tight, Earlly Whirlly.”

  “My arms are getting tired,” Earl said.

  “Shut up, fat boy. Don’t be such a pussy.”

  Lester got on his knees at my feet and pulled my shoes and socks off. I tried to kick him in the face, but it was no use. He held my feet and sliced my soles lengthwise with the blade. I felt the pain of the cuts and the warmth of the blood and I turned my head to the side and tried to vomit but nothing came out.

  Lester sat back down and lit another joint. One minute past eleven. I wondered what he was going to do to me next. I knew he was going to kill me, so I wished he would just get it over with. I thought about my first wife, Susan, and our daughter, Harmony, and I thought about Juliet and Brittney and how dear they were to me. Did I tell them enough? Did I show them? I couldn’t bear the thought of life without them. If they were going to be vaporized along with hundreds of thousands of other people in LA, then it was just as well that I died today, too. And what kind of world would be left after a nuclear war anyway? Some sort of unfathomable postapocalyptic wasteland, I thought. The people unlucky enough to survive would be sick from radiation poisoning, and everyone would eventually starve to death because all the animals and crops would be poisoned, as well. It wasn’t a world I wanted to be part of.

  “Kill me,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Take that blade and slide it across my throat and get it over with.”

  “Well that wouldn’t be much fun now, would it?”

  Earl was huffing and puffing. “Seriously, I’m getting tired,” he said. “Can we go now?”

  “Oh, we ain’t done yet,” Lester said. “We ain’t done by a long shot. The party’s just getting started.”

  “You ain’t really gonna kill him, are you?”

  “Why, of course I am. What the hell you think we came here for, you big fat dumb motherfucker.”

  “You calling me stupid?”

  “Let’s face it, Earlly Whirlly. You ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed.”

  Earl got up, took a step toward Lester, and swung at him. Lester ducked and buried the knife blade in Earl’s fat belly. He pulled it out and stabbed him again and again and again. Earl coughed and I could hear the gurgle in his throat and he coughed again and blood flew out and splattered on the Van Gogh print. The big man took one lumbering step toward the door and then fell forward like a tree.

  Lester started toward me with the knife, but I had already reached into my pocket and pulled the .25 caliber pistol I’d bought from the drug dealer at the bus station. I aimed at his chest and squeezed the trigger and I kept squeezing it until all the bullets were gone.

  My left hand was useless and I couldn’t walk because of the cuts on my feet. I scooted to the wall where my phone had landed and I picked it up with my good hand and pressed the final digit to call Greg Sloan with my thumb. It was 11:21.

  “This is Sloan.”

  “Greg, there’s a bomb on the eighth floor of the Capitol tower, in Studio B. Actually it’s two bombs. They’re in the big Marshall speaker cabinets and they’re set to go off at noon eastern.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Nicholas Colt. You got to hurry. There’s not much time left.”

  “Colt. Are you sure about the bombs?”

  “Sure as shit. There’s no time to explain. You got to move, man.”

  “I’ll put in an evacuation order right away,” he said. “We’ll get everyone out of the building and block all the incoming traffic.”

  “You don’t understand. These are nukes. Suitcase bombs. It’s not going to do any good to evacuate everyone. It’s a waste of time. You need to get someone in there to defuse those things.”

  “Jesus. All right, Colt. I’m on it.”

  We disconnected. I called nine-one-one and the dispatcher said someone had already called about the gunshots at the motel and that help was on the way.

  The room looked like a horror show. There was blood everywhere. I scooted to the bed and managed to climb onto it and I pulled the pillowcases off the pillows and tied pressure bandages on my feet to stop the bleeding. I tightened the knots using my right hand and my teeth. It was a struggle, but I finally got it done. I was dizzy and thought I might be bleeding to death.

  Eleven forty-two.

  I punched in Juliet’s number. Days later, I would learn that at approximately the same time she said hello, Jose Arias and Vincent Faza from the LAPD bomb squad, both former military Explosive Ordinance Disposal experts, entered Studio B on the eighth floor of the Capitol tower. They had brought a timer with an LED display so they would know exactly how much time they had. The timer said 17:39. Seventeen minutes and thirty-nine seconds until half of LA was blown to kingdom come.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” I said.

  “You sound terrible. What’s wrong?”

  “A lot. A lot’s wrong. Listen, I’m not going to be home when you get there, after all. You’ll have to take a cab from the airport.”

  “Why won’t you be there?”

  “I’ll be in the hospital in Nashville. If I’m still alive when the ambulance gets here.”

  “Oh my God. What happened?”

  The Department of Energy had been notified, and they were on the way, but Arias and Faza knew they would never make it in time. Fuck waiting for the feds. They used a high-speed portable X-ray unit to scan the interiors of the Marshall cabinets, and right away they discovered a series of microswitches on the rear panels that would cause the devices to detonate if the panels were removed. If the panels were removed, half of LA would be blown to kingdom come. The timer now said 16:02.

  “I got jumped by a couple of dishwashers,” I said. “They’re dead now, but they fucked me up good. I never should have come back to this motel.”

  “Are you bleeding?”

  “Like a stuck pig. The son of a bitch named Lester cut the bottoms of my feet.”

  “You need to put pressure on the wounds so they’ll clot.”

  “I wrapped my feet with pillowcases, but I couldn’t get them tight enough. Lester also broke my left hand.”

  Her voice quivered up an octave. She was on the verge of crying. “Oh my God, Nicholas. I’m so sorry. My poor darling. If I were only there to help you. You said an ambulance is coming?”

  Since the quickest and easiest access route was obviously out of the question, Arias and Faza took a few minutes to discuss alternatives. They knew from the X-rays that the systems contained collapsing circuits with relays held open by batteries. If the batteries were taken out, the relays would close and complete the circuit to the detonators and half of LA would be blown to kingdom come. They thought about shooting shaped charges through the power supplies, to cut off power from the detonators and render the devices inert. The shaped charges would have to beat the electricity to the detonator wires before the juice could get through. It was a tricky proposition, especially since they had to plan everything by X-ray. Placement had to be precise, and they doubted there was enough time.

  “The ambulance should have been here by now,” I said. “Jules, there’s some things I need to talk to you about.”

  “I’m here. I’m not hanging up until I know you’re safe.”

  “Do you know how much I love you?”

  “I love you, too,” she said.

  Arias and Faza decided to try a hand entry. Very dangerous, but the only practical solution at this point. They donned night vision goggles and turned all the lights out in case the detonators were rigged with photocell relays. Faza cut the mesh grille on the front of the cabinets with a utility knife, and they each took a screwdriver and started working on removing the speakers.

  “The good news,” I said, “is that I didn’t start smoking again. The bad news is I’m a drug addict now.”


  “What?”

  “He turned me into a junkie, Jules.”

  “Who?”

  “Brother John. It was the same Brother John who was at Chain of Light, only I didn’t know it because his face was different. He got me hooked on Dilaudid. Now I’m slinking around bus stations and buying tar heroin from guys with gold teeth.”

  “We’ll get you whatever help you need,” she said. “Do you hear me, Nicholas? I love you no matter what.”

  Once the speakers were out of the way, Arias and Faza had twelve-inch holes to work through. Tight, but doable. Combination locks protected the cases surrounding the nuclear devices. Arias and Faza had predicted this, and there was a career criminal named Danny “Fingers” Gibson waiting in the wings. Arias called him in. The only other choice was to explosively open the cases, which would be quicker but might trigger the detonators and blow half of LA to kingdom come. Better to let Fingers give it a try, at least. Faza jammed a set of night vision goggles on his head and told him not to turn the lights on no matter what.

  “No matter what?” I said.

  “Yes. I’ll love you no matter what. We’ll get you into rehab, whatever it takes.”

  Fingers worked his magic, and the case surrounding the first device clicked open. From there it was a piece of cake. Faza carefully removed the mercury stem generator, a red cylinder the size of a cigarette that would initiate the nuclear reaction, and watched the adjoining capacitor bleed down on an amp meter. One down and one to go.

  “My addiction isn’t even the worst of it,” I said. “I cheated on you, Jules. I was with another woman out in LA.”

  Silence.

  Fingers ran into trouble with the second combination lock, and only one minute and twenty-four seconds remained on the timer. At that point, Arias and Faza decided to blow the second case open with a flexible, linear-shaped charge. They briefly entertained the notion of trying the waterjet disrupter, a sort of freestanding gun that resembled a two-foot praying mantis. It shot water with enough force to open metal containers, but they weren’t a hundred percent sure it would work and with time this short they needed to be a hundred percent. The shaped charge was their only chance now. Faza wrapped one of the snakelike explosives around the case and taped a blasting cap to it while Arias and Fingers heaved the Steinway grand onto its side to use as a shield. All this took about half a minute. Faza then unreeled the wires connected to the blasting cap and joined the others behind the piano. He stared at the toggle switch on the firing device for a few seconds, hoping they had made the right decision. The electro-explosive would either safely open the case and give them access to the second mercury stem generator, or it would trigger the detonator to the nuclear device and half of LA would be blown to kingdom come. If half of LA were blown to kingdom come, it would in essence mean that the world would be blown to kingdom come.

  “Jules?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I wasn’t myself at the time. I mean, literally. Brother John brainwashed me, and induced amnesia somehow. I thought my name was Alexander Maddox. I thought my friends called me Maddog, or just Dog. I swear to God, Jules, I would have never cheated on you if I’d known what I was doing.”

  More silence. I looked at the clock on the nightstand. 10:59, which was really 11:59. It ticked over to the top of the hour, and the phone went dead. I redialed Juliet’s number, but the call went straight to voice mail.

  Tiny tornados danced across the barren landscape, filling the air with dry sand the color of lead. The sand and the dark clouds overhead made everything look like a grainy black-and-white photograph, like an unimaginably horrific and grim movie.

  One of my teachers in high school said that cockroaches are among the few species capable of surviving a nuclear holocaust. Apparently, he was right.

  A year after the initial blast, I lay in a puddle of my own urine as the filthy six-legged motherfuckers crawled all over me. Gone were the pine trees and the live oaks and the flowers and the fish and deer. Gone were the jays and the hawks and the redbirds and the grass and the crops and even the weeds. Gone. Everything gone.

  Except the cockroaches.

  My body was covered with purplish blisters, some of which had popped and were oozing a sticky clear fluid, and some of the roaches were able to enter the open sores and burrow into my flesh. They crawled in and out of my ears and nostrils as well, and I was too weak to swat them away. I was too weak to move. One of them found the path to my brain and took a big bite, and that’s when I woke up and started thrashing and shouting like a madman.

  “Let me out of here! Turn me loose, goddamnit!”

  I was disoriented, and for a minute I thought I was back at Brother John’s compound. My arms and legs were strapped to the frame of a hospital bed. There was a bag of IV fluid hanging on a pole, and a heart monitor wailing an alarm with the number 177 flashing red on the display. Tubes and wires everywhere.

  As horrible as my situation seemed at the moment, it wasn’t nearly as horrible as my postapocalyptic nightmare. Thinking about it rattled my marbles back into place, and I remembered the last moments before I lost consciousness. I was talking to Juliet, and the phone went dead at precisely the time the bombs were supposed to explode.

  While I wondered if my nightmare might be in the midst of coming true, a nurse ran in and fiddled with the heart monitor and told me I needed to calm down. I recognized her. It was Sharon, who had been taking care of Virgil Lamb.

  “Am I at Nashville General?” I said.

  “You are, and I have a bone to pick with you.”

  “Pick away. I’m not in much of a position to defend myself.”

  “You told me you were Virgil Lamb’s son, but all your paperwork here says Nicholas Colt. You tricked me.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I said. “Is that why you tied me to the bed?”

  “You were combative, and we had to restrain you. I’ll take the restraints off if you promise to be good.”

  “I promise.”

  She unbuckled the tethers and straightened my bed and piggybacked a small bag of fluid into the main line.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “It’s an antibiotic. Your PICC line was infected. We had to take it out.”

  I looked at my left upper arm and sure enough, the PICC line was gone. My left hand was in a hard cast, nothing but the fingernails poking through, and my feet were wrapped with white gauze.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I need something for pain.”

  “Where are you hurting?” she said.

  “My hand. My feet. All over.”

  I felt nauseated and my body ached from head to toe. It felt like I had the flu.

  “I think you have some morphine ordered. I’ll check and see.”

  “I’m allergic to that,” I said.

  “You’re allergic to morphine?”

  “It gives me a rash. There’s another one they always give me. Starts with a D, I think.”

  “Dilaudid?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I’ll call the doctor and see. It might take a while to get the order and for pharmacy to get it in the computer. You want some Tylenol or Motrin in the meantime?”

  “Motrin,” I said.

  She left and came back with the pill a few minutes later and a turkey croissant wrapped in cellophane and a carton of 2 percent milk. I swallowed the tablet with some milk and unwrapped the sandwich and took a couple of bites.

  “I need to change the dressings on your feet,” she said. “But I’ll wait till I get the order for your pain medicine.”

  “OK.”

  “If I get it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The doctor might not want to order Dilaudid. When you came in, they tested your urine for drugs of abuse, and you popped positive for cannabis and opiates.”

  “I took two hits on a joint with an old man in the woods when I was running for my life,” I said. “And they gave me some morphine when I went
to the ER for chest pain. That’s all. Look at me. You trying to say I’m not really in pain?”

  There was an intercom in the room, and a disembodied voice told Sharon that security was on the phone asking if it was OK if Mr. Colt had visitors.

  “How many?” she said.

  “Two. It’s his wife and daughter.”

  Sharon looked at me. I nodded. I’d been granted a miracle, but all I could think about was getting a fix.

  Juliet and Brittney stood at the doorway and gazed in timidly until Sharon waved them in. “I’ll let y’all visit,” she said. “Give me a call if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, Sharon,” I said.

  Brittney walked to the bed and gave me a hug and looked me over with teary eyes. “You sure can get yourself into some pickles,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re OK.”

  “I’m so glad you’re OK too,” I said. “I’m taking it California is still intact.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I figured it would have been on the news by now.”

  “What?”

  I glanced at Juliet. She seemed to be deep in thought. She wouldn’t make eye contact with me.

  Two men, one in a gray suit and the other navy blue, darkened the doorway. Navy Blue was holding a briefcase. Gray Suit told Juliet and Brittney to please excuse them. He said they needed to talk to me in private and it would only take a few minutes.

  “We’ll be in the waiting area,” Juliet said. She and Brittney left the room. Gray Suit closed the door.

  “What’s going on?” I said. “That was my family. I haven’t seen them for a long time.”

  Navy Blue pulled out a trifold wallet and showed me a silver badge with the letters NEST stamped on the crest.