by Mal Olson
***
Voices echoed, the sound hollow, bouncing off the concrete walls as Thigpen chatted calmly with Ingers.
God, was this really happening?
Katrice dodged behind one of the arches in the brightly lit parking level. Lurking in the warm, climate-controlled shadows, she stopped to center her energy and listen to the Homeland Security specialist. He spoke with the serene modulated voice of a hostage negotiator and engaged Ingers in conversation.
She crouched, eased off her shoes, and scrambled as silently and efficiently as she could in a pencil-slim skirt, maneuvering between the wall and a row of parked cars. By the time she reached the center of the garage and poked her head around the front fender of a black SUV, she had a view, although not perfect, of the standoff.
Ingers, his back to her, stood less than fifteen feet away, his hand curved around some kind of detonator. The detonator was attached to a fuse, which was attached to a cylinder-shaped canister sitting next to him.
Weapon in hand, Thigpen stood beyond Ingers, twenty-five feet or more from Katrice. She knew as well as the Homeland Security specialist did that taking the terrorist down could cause a reflex reaction, and one slight twitch of a finger could blow the place to smithereens.
Thigpen edged a step closer to Ingers. “I don’t think you’re ready to die, Allen. I doubt you planned to take yourself out tonight. That’s why you had the phone in your bag so you could detonate from a remote location. You’re not one of those stupid suicide bombers.”
“No, I’m not stupid.”
“Right. You’d only be stupid if you set that thing off when you’re standing next to it. You must be an electronic genius to have improvised a switch on the spur of the moment like this.” Thigpen slid his right foot an inch closer.
Katrice breathed in, and the air stuck in her throat. No, Ingers, you’re not stupid, and you’re not a genius. You’re a freaking nutcase.
“Back off, man. You’re not taking me in.” The bomber struck a pose, his free hand raised, trembling like a junky dying for a fix.
“You’re jumping the gun, Allen. President Mahid isn’t even on the premises yet…The snowy roads delayed his entourage. If you trigger the charge now, you screw up. Your mission fails.”
Katrice could only hope this nut-job would fall for Thigpen’s ploy. Or did he know Mahid was in the building and stood at this very moment in the receiving line two levels above them? She swallowed against her dry throat.
Scuttling on her hands and knees, praying Ingers wouldn’t hear her, she crawled several feet closer to give herself a better angle on the target. The parched tension in her throat turned to a consuming prickle, a consuming urge to cough. She swallowed so loudly she feared he might have heard her.
The crazy man with the bomb glanced around, huffing in a breath. Heaving it out. Fidgeting. “You’re lying.”
“You saw what the roads were like.”
This time when Thigpen edged closer, Ingers’ hand shot forward, his index finger extending like a pointed gun. “Don’t you dare take another step. I’ll detonate. I swear I will.”
“Whoa, take it easy, man.” Thigpen raised his hands.
Ingers yelled, “Drop your gun, kafir.”
Kafir. While Katrice searched her brain to come up with the translation—unbelieving infidel—Thigpen dropped his arms to his sides. But he didn’t let go of the gun.
Slow and easy, Katrice. Inch by inch she raised herself off the concrete until she was standing upright, still fighting the tickle in her throat. Block it out.
Monitor. Process. Evaluate.
Using a two handed grip, wishing she had a sniper rifle and scope or Thigpen’s Springfield with the fiber-optic front sight, she aimed the gun. Sighted her target and held the semi-automatic Glock unbelievably steady.
But to hit the fuse, she had to be unbelievably accurate. If she missed, she’d tip him off and he’d panic, which would result in the same scenario as would shooting him—they’d all end up at the bottom of a pile of mangled steel, crushed concrete, and pulverized marble and glass.
Thigpen kept talking in a calm even voice.
Katrice inhaled. Her throat burned. She froze. Sweat trickled down her forehead and stung her eyes. The world blurred. She blinked and lowered her aching arms, her muscles quivering. And reminded herself to exhale.
Thigpen slid his left foot a fraction of an inch closer to Ingers while moving himself out of Katrice’s line of fire. He must have seen her.
Ingers shouted, “Stay back!”
“Whoa, I’m just trying to get close enough to read your lips, man.” He gestured to his ear. “Lost my hearing a few years back. I just want to talk to you…Tell me, Allen, what’s your beef? I’ll bet no one’s ever listened to you before.”
“You’re right.” He swiped one hand through his hair then growled, “No one…ever…listens…to me,” then jerked his hand forward, another warning for Thigpen to stay back.
Blinking…still blinking, Katrice sucked in a breath.
She willed her eyes to clear. Willed away the urge to cough, and raised the Glock again, bracing her right wrist with her left hand.
Finally the impossibly narrow wire fuse came into focus. The fact that it was a cable similar to an electrical cord told her it wasn’t a shock tube, which would detonate the bomb with a shock impulse, but rather an electrical detonator. If she could sever the cable, she would prevent the electrical charge from supplying the energy to ignite the explosives.
She closed her eyes. Opened them. Struggled to line up the sights.
One more time, she held her breath.
Touched her finger to the trigger.
Gently squeezed.
The sound of the exploding bullet thundered in her ears.
The fuse split in two.
Thigpen rushed Ingers, who picked up the cylinder and heaved it at him.
In a split second reaction, Thigpen caught the cylinder but lost his pistol. He lowered the bomb to the floor. Then launched his body at Ingers, slamming him downward toward the concrete. With an “oomph,” Ingers toppled. The HS agent locked the man’s arm behind his back, then dragged him to his feet. The would-be bomber wasn’t going anywhere. Just the same, Katrice lurched forward, aiming the Glock at Ingers’ chest.
Moments later, a small army of law enforcers descended on the parking level. Through the glass doors, a half dozen Milwaukee Policemen stormed the lower level. An armored vehicle followed by four Milwaukee County Sheriff squad cars, as well as the bomb squad and the SWAT team, charged through the open entrance driveway and rushed into the underground parking facilities.
Katrice and Thigpen exchanged glances, silently communicating. Several hundred people in Windhover Hall had no idea the fate they’d just escaped.
