“The hospital, I need the hospital, look what the bastard did to my face-”
Now Officer Stark draws her weapon, aims at Alex’s chest.
“Drop the purse and hands above your head!”
“Why? I didn’t do anything. My boyfriend-”
“Drop your purse and hands above your head! Now!”
Alex halts. She’s excited, even a little scared. Alex drops the purse, slowly raises her hands.
“Turn in a complete circle!”
Alex complies, her shirt riding up, showing the cop there is nothing in her pockets or her belt.
“Get on your knees! Hands behind your head!”
Different cops arrest suspects in different ways. Some order them to palm the car or the wall. Some order them to lie facedown on the ground and spread out their arms and legs. Some prefer the knees and the hands behind the head routine.
Which Alex had been hoping for.
“On your knees! Hands behind your head!”
Alex nods quickly, getting down, the asphalt cold beneath her jeans. She puts her hands on her neck, under her long red hair. If Stark had ordered her to palm the hood of the car, Alex first would have fallen to her knees and faked sobbing, face in her hands. If Stark had wanted her to eat the tarmac, she would have complied, but put her hands behind her head. But any way it went down, Alex still would have been within easy reach of the stun gun she’d stuck in the hanging hood of her sweatshirt.
“Look the other way!”
Alex turns her head, knows that the cop will approach her from a different angle to keep her off balance. As expected, Officer Stark comes at Alex on her left side, snicks the cuff on Alex’s right wrist with her left hand, grabbing Alex’s thumb to hold her steady. But it’s impossible to fully handcuff a suspect while holding a pistol. Stark has to holster her weapon before slapping on the other cuff. As she does this, Alex’s free hand snakes into the hoodie and grabs the Cheetah. Alex tilts left, twisting around under her armpit, and jams the stun gun into the officer’s hip, letting her feel a million volts.
Officer Stark folds in half and drops to the street. Alex reaches for the gun, but it’s secured by a strap. She takes a second to find the release, then the pistol-a Sig Sauer.45-comes free. Alex sticks it in the back of her jeans.
A car whizzes by, doesn’t slow down. The cop moans. Alex juices her again, then drags her between their cars, onto the dirt beyond the shoulder. She unclips a Maglite from Stark’s belt and takes her pepper spray and radio. The handcuff keys are in her breast pocket, and Alex removes her bracelet and binds Stark’s wrists. Then she waits.
The cop stirs, opens her eyes. Alex focuses the beam on her.
“Full name and car number.”
“Ma’am…you’re in a lot of trouble.”
Cops like Maglites. Illumination is only one of the reasons why. Alex raises it, heavy with six D batteries, and brings it down on Officer Stark’s leg. Not hard enough to break it-that would cause a delay-but hard enough to hurt like hell.
This produces a sound somewhere between a whimper and a howl. Alex repeats the question.
“Val…Val Stark. Car Five Victor Seven.”
“Good. Now on your hands and knees. Back to your ride.”
Alex follows while hunched over, keeping out of sight of the occasional passing car. She helps Officer Stark into the backseat.
“Be right back, cutie.”
Alex winks and slams the door. Then she gathers up the items from the back of the Honda and transfers them into the passenger seat of the cop car, save for a fist-sized chunk of PENO, a pyrotechnic blasting cap, and four feet of pink thermalite fuse. She pushes in the Honda’s cigarette lighter, then spends a few dirty minutes crawling under the chassis. Alex hums as she works, sticking the PENO to the gas tank, and the combined fuse and cap into the plastic. The road, and the undercarriage, are still damp from the earlier rain, but the explosive sticks like peanut butter.
Boom time.
Alex pops out the lighter, admiring the orange glow. She hesitates, savoring the moment, letting some anticipation build.
The fuse ignites, hissing and sparking and making Alex feel like she’s ten years old again, behind Father’s barn with Charles, lighting cherry bombs and blowing up tin cans.
Four feet of pink thermalite equals eighty seconds. Alex pockets the lighter and strolls to the police car, no hurry, and climbs into the driver’s seat. Officer Stark has left her keys in the ignition, the car still running. The car computer-a laptop-is attached to the armrest, its white screen blinking. Alex shifts into reverse and backs up along the shoulder until she’s a good hundred feet away from the Honda. Then she chews her lower lip and watches, eyes wide. Waits for it…waits for it…
Eighty seconds pass.
Nothing happens.
The radio squawks, making her jump.
“Five Victor Seven, status on the 10-73. Over.”
Alex locates the handset, picks it up.
“This is Five Victor Seven.” Alex’s pitches her voice higher, to match Officer Stark’s. “Standby, Central.”
“Ten-four, Five Victor Seven.”
Still no explosion. Alex wonders if the wet road snuffed out the fuse. Or if she grabbed an electric blasting cap by mistake. There could be a dozen reasons why it didn’t go off, but going out and checking doesn’t seem like the brightest of ideas.
“Check under the can, Alex. See if it’s lit.”
“You check, Charles. I don’t have to know that bad.”
But in this case, Alex has to know. Her prints are all over that car, and a quick peek at Officer Stark’s computer shows it has been reported stolen. If the Honda doesn’t explode, it will give Jack an unfair jump on Alex’s location, and let the lieutenant know she has plastic explosives. Not to mention alert the local cops that an escaped serial killer is prowling the area.
Alex speaks into the radio, reading the call number off the screen.
“Central, this is Five Victor Seven. Negative on that 10-73. It was the own er, spent a few days out of town, forgot to call home, over. I’m giving her a warning. Over.”
“Roger that, Five Victor Seven.”
Alex turns around, faces the cop in the backseat.
“Officer Stark, I need you to check to see why my car hasn’t blown up.”
Officer Stark doesn’t move, and her face reveals she isn’t pleased with the idea.
“Chances are pretty good that it went out,” Alex says, soothing. “I don’t think it’s going to blow up in your face.”
“Then you go check.”
“I have the gun, so I don’t have to. Now, are you going to help a civilian out, or do I have to put two in your knees?”
“You’re making it worse for yourself. You need to stop before this goes too far.”
Alex considers this woman. She’s tall enough, but the eyes are wrong.
“Are you married, Stark?”
“Yes. I have a husband and three kids. You don’t want to do anything stupid.”
“Exactly. Which is why you’re the one who’s going to check the fuse.”
Alex exits the vehicle and walks around to Stark’s door. One hand opens it. The other points the Sig.
“Check if the fuse died, or any other problem you can find.”
“I don’t know anything about explosives.”
“It’s easy. If you see a spark, run. And make sure you run this way, or I’ll shoot you.”
Stark pulls herself out of the backseat-not the easiest of tasks with cuffs on-and stands before Alex.
Alex extends her empty hand. Stark flinches, but Alex brings the gun up under her jaw to keep her still. She pushes a stray auburn bang out of Stark’s face, tucks it behind her ear.
“Don’t be afraid,” Alex says. “Things happen beyond our control. We can’t do anything to stop them. But we do have control over how we react. How we respond. Being afraid is a choice.”
The speech seems to have the opposite effect on Stark, who begins to tremble. Alex rolls her eyes.
“Just get over there, ’fraidy cat.”