Clenching his teeth he forced his hand forward, pushed his index and middle fingers through the bloody slit while his other hand pushed on the disk from the outside. He felt it press against his fingertips, then he trapped it and began to wriggle it free. It didn't move easily. Had scar tissue formed around it? He pushed and pulled harder. Blascoe began to buck but Jack rode with him.
"A few seconds," he gritted. "Just a few more seconds."
He felt the thing move and glanced to his immediate right where Jamie held the pot of hot water.
"Get ready, Jamie. Here it comes."
And then he had it. He guided the red, dripping disk through the incision. Not a second to waste now.
"Okay. Here she comes. Where's that—?"
"Oh, God!"
He heard a gagging sound, felt hot water splash across his thigh, and looked over to see Jamie with her head turned away, quaking as she retched, the pot handle twisting in her hand, the hot water pouring over Jack and the couch.
"Shit!"
He grabbed for the pot with his free hand, caught it before it emptied, but felt the slippery disk shoot from between his fingers. It slithered across Blascoe's bloody skin, fell to the floor, and rolled away on its edge.
"Oh, Christ!"
Jack lunged for it, grabbed it, and for a second, didn't know what to do: Toss it across the room or drop it in what was left of the hot water? The disk slipped in his fingers… might not get a good throw… he shoved it into the hot water, then swung the pot around and put it down around the far corner of the couch, hoping the upholstery would absorb most of the shrapnel from the pot. He rolled back toward Jamie and shoved her away.
But no explosion. He waited a few more heartbeats, but all he heard were Jamie's gasps and Blascoe's groans.
"Sorry," Jamie said as she lifted her head and wiped her chin. "I just—"
"Forget it." Jack jumped to his feet. "Let's haul him down to the car and get the hell out of here."
"Jesus," Blascoe said. He was bathed in sweat and had his hands cupped around the bloody incision but not touching it. "Like ouch, man. That fucking hurt!"
"How's it feel now?"
A weak smile. "Compared to when you were digging into me? Not bad."
"Good. Now move your hands."
Jack had arranged a rolled-up bedsheet under the small of Blascoe's back before operating on him. Once the hands were out of the way he looped it out and cinched it around him.
Blascoe grunted. "Have to be so tight?"
"Got to keep those edges together." It was the best he could do till he got the old guy to Doc Hargus. He pulled him to his feet. "Let's go."
Blascoe swayed. "Whoa. Dizzy."
Jack didn't have to say anything. Jamie jumped in and grabbed Blascoe's other arm, steadying him. She looked better but still shaken.
"Okay," Jack said. "Straight down the driveway."
Jamie held back. "Why don't we bring the car up here? Be faster."
"But the driveway dead ends up here. Somebody noses into the lower end and we're busted. Come on. Let's move. We've wasted too much time already."
He tugged Blascoe toward the door and Jamie came along. Off the front porch, into the downpour, then down the driveway. Within seconds their clothes were soaked through to the skin. Jack found the chill refreshing.
The twin ruts of the driveway had become mini creeks. Jack sloshed down the one on the right, Jamie had the left, both supporting the rubber-legged Blascoe on the grassy median.
"This is farther than I've ever come," the old man said. "If we had light you'd see yellow ribbons tied around some of these trees. Those were the warning signs that I was nearing the thousand-foot line. Yellow ribbons! That son of a bitch Jensen thinks he's such a comedian. He—"
Jack heard a muffled explosion, felt an impact against his flank that knocked him into the brush bordering the driveway. He lay stunned for a few seconds, his ears ringing. His right hand was gripping something. He squinted at it in the dark for a few uncomprehending heartbeats, then cried out and tossed it away.
An arm. With no body attached.
But how—?
And then he knew: The bastards had stuck two bombs in Blascoe—just in case he ever found the nerve to remove the obvious one.
Jack slumped forward and pounded his fists into the mud. He'd messed up—no, he'd fucked up. The possibility had occurred to him, but Blascoe had said there'd been only one incision, and Jack hadn't felt anything unusual under the bomb he'd removed. Of course, Blascoe had been kicking and writhing at the time. Or they could have buried it way deep.
"I'm sorry, Coop," he whispered. "Christ, I'm so sorry."
And then, somewhere on the far side of the driveway, he heard a woman screaming.
Jack struggled to his feet, checked to make sure he still had the Glock, then lurched toward the sound, wiping bits of flesh from his shirt and jeans as he moved. He found Jamie kneeling in the mud and rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she were in a shower.
He grabbed her arm. "Jamie! Jamie!"
She swung a fist at him. "Get away!" she wailed. "Get away!"
"Jamie, it's me, Jack. We've got to go!"
Her voice lowered to gasping sobs. "He blew up! He… just… blew up!"
"I know. And we could end up just as dead if we don't get out of here now."
He pulled her to her feet and into a staggering walk down the driveway.
"But…" She looked over her shoulder. "Shouldn't we do something with him?"
"What do you have in mind?" He propelled her along, not allowing her to slow down. "Dig a grave? Call a minister and have a funeral service?"
"You bastard!" she hissed. "You cold-hearted—!"
"I'll take that any day over stupid fuck-up, which is what I really am."
That stopped her. Her tone was softer when she spoke. "Hey, I—"
Jack shook her. "Quiet."
He pointed down to the pair of glowing lights to the right of the driveway entrance. He shoved Jamie into the brush to the right and followed her in.
"They're here."
23
"Hey," Lewis said. "There's a car."
Hutch stopped the Lincoln. "Not just a car—the car."
Jensen leaned close to the side window and peered through the downpour at the black Crown Vic. He took a deep breath and smiled as he let it out, fogging the window. With one delay after another along the way, his hopes of catching Grant and her mystery friend here had diminished almost to zilch. But what do you know—here they were.
"Lewis, go check and see if it's locked. If not, get inside. If yes, hide in the trees and keep watch."
Lewis stepped out and trotted over to the Vic. He tried the door, turned and dashed back to Jensen's window.
"Locked," he said as the window opened a few inches. "But if I get the slim jim—"
"Forget it. You'll set off the alarm. If we don't catch them up at the house, I want them hauling ass back down here thinking they can jump in their car and drive away. But you're not going to let that happen, are you, Lewis."
"I could just flatten the tires."
"Really?" Sometimes these guys were so stupid. "And then how do we get it out of here? Or do you think we should just leave it for some hick sheriff to find and wonder who owns it and start poking around that cabin up there? You think that's a good idea?"
He sighed. "I guess not. But why's it always me gets—"
"Shut up and listen. They show up here, you do what you have to do. I don't care about Grant. You get a chance, off her. But no killshot on the guy unless he's holding."