“Sir?”
“Hold him there until we’re airborne, Jennifer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you two crazy?” Watts retorted. He tried to struggle free, but it was quickly and painfully obvious that the somewhat nerdy, quiet, and very businesslike young Marine knew exactly what she was doing. “I’ll have you all court-martialed!”
“You’re messing with a member of Task Force TALON, sir,” McCracken said. “You can court-martial us after Dr. Vega has been brought to safety.”
HENDERSON, NEVADA
A SHORT TIME LATER
“We suffered almost a half-million dollars’ worth of damage that our insurance probably won’t cover,” the station manager moaned, checking reports filed by the police and the insurance adjusters. “The ambulance company sent us a bill for transport of seventeen persons to the hospital for a variety of injuries; and every one of our Latino maintenance workers have left.”
“But the show had the highest ratings in the history of talk radio,” Bob O’Rourke’s agent chimed in immediately, “and all but a couple of our sponsors have asked for multiyear advertising contract extensions. I’m expecting a call from the syndication folks, asking for the same—they might even be interested in doing a TV show. Congratulations, Bob.”
“Thanks, Ken, thanks very much for the news,” Bob O’Rourke said, ignoring the station manager. As he usually did after a show, Bob O’Rourke relaxed in his office with his producer, Fand Kent, and the show’s other staff members; he would have one beer, discuss upcoming topics and research assignments, and then O’Rourke would move on to the half-dozen other promotional functions he had scheduled most afternoons, usually golf games with sponsors, speaking engagements, personal appearances, or commercial tapings. He clinked glasses and bottles with his staff, took a deep pull on his beer, then looked at his heavily bandaged right hand. “If I had known just a few broken fingers would get me all that, I would’ve done it long ago.” The laughter was a little strained, but no one in that room ever failed to laugh at one of Bob O’Rourke’s jokes, no matter how lame or unfunny—they all valued their jobs too much.
“Bob, the district attorney, the FCC, the mayor, the sheriff’s department, the state Department of Public Safety, the FBI, and even the White House are screaming mad at you,” the station manager said. “They want to talk with you right away, especially about this Vega thing.”
“I have nothing to say to any of them except I stand by my information and will refuse all requests to reveal my sources,” O’Rourke said.
“That’s all you need to say, Bob—I’ll get your attorney on those calls right away,” the agent said. “Don’t worry about a thing. All those people don’t do a damned thing whenever some nut job like Comandante Veracruz wants to speak, but when a proud American wants to talk, they all want to squash him like a bug.” O’Rourke tipped his bottle in thanks. “I’ve got a car waiting outside to take you to the CNN affiliate, and then we’ll come back here for a few more satellite pieces with Fox News and the BBC. Then…”
“Can’t. I have that match with Jason Gore at two at the country club.”
“Jason said he’d be glad to slip it to tomorrow if you’ll autograph a bunch of visors for him.”
“Deal.” He looked worriedly at his agent. “About the car…”
“Don’t worry about your Excursion. The insurance company will total it, I’m sure, and I’ve already put out feelers to a few charities to auction it off on eBay.”
O’Rourke gave his agent a shake of his head, and he bent down closer so he could whisper, “No, Ken, I mean the car for this afternoon.”
“No worries, Bob. I found a company with armored limos. They’re comping the car for the week as long as they can put their signage in the back window and at the parking areas at your events. All your sponsors and venues said no problem.”
“An armored car, you say?”
“This company has a fleet of armored Suburbans that were rejected by a very wealthy real estate developer from Bahrain because they were too heavy—they wouldn’t fit on their jets,” the agent explained. “These things are like friggin’ tanks, Bob. It’s a good deal.”
“I like my regular service…”
“They don’t have armored limos, Bob, and besides they hesitated to help you after yesterday’s broadcast. Frankly, Bob, they ran like frightened chickens. Screw ’em.”
“But is this a good company…you know, are they trustworthy?”
“Don’t worry about a thing. I checked ’em out. They’re new, but I spoke with the owner and he seems okay. Young, a real go-getter, anxious to make a name for himself.” He read O’Rourke’s eyes and added, “And yes, he’s an Anglo, and all his drivers are Anglos. I said don’t worry. I have a bodyguard assigned to you, recommended by one of your sponsors, and I’ll be along every step of the way to keep an eye on things.” O’Rourke looked worried but said nothing as he reached for another beer.
More TV and media crews were outside the studios when Bob O’Rourke emerged about a half hour later after his staff meeting. The bodyguard took up a position on the other side of the car, facing the crowds being kept away by a greatly expanded police presence. O’Rourke made a few comments for the reporters, waved to the crowd with his left hand, raised his bandaged right hand defiantly to the delighted cheers of his supporters who easily drowned out the protesters on the other side of the street, and entered the massive armored Suburban limousine, making a pleased mental note of the inch-thick steel and Kevlar in the armored doors and three-inch-thick bulletproof glass.
His agent was already inside. “I told you, Bob—first class all the way,” he said, checking out the very high-tech electronics and devices inside. “This is probably what the President’s limo looks like.” He handed O’Rourke the remote to the twenty-four-inch plasma TV inside. “Here—you might be able to catch the news piece on yourself.”
O’Rourke took the remote and turned the TV on. “Get me another beer, will you?”
“Better take it easy, Bob—you have a full afternoon.”
“Just get me another beer and shut up, will you?”
The agent shook his head, silently determined that this would be the last one until dinnertime. He opened the ice cabinet section of the limo…and his mouth dropped open in absolute horror.
At the same time, the bodyguard had got into the front passenger seat, and the limo driver trotted around from holding O’Rourke’s door open to get in the driver’s side…but instead of getting in, he dashed off down the driveway, past the media crews, and disappeared into the crowds on the street.
“Get out! Get out!” the bodyguard’s muffled voice shouted through the closed blast-proof privacy window. “Get out of the car, now!”
“What the hell…?” The agent’s eyes widened in surprise, then fear, then abject panic. “Holy shit, this thing’s full of…!”
O’Rourke tried the door handle. “The door’s locked!” He tried the other handle. “This one’s…”
At that instant, the one hundred pounds of C4 explosives planted in the liquor and ice cabinets inside the SUV exploded. The armored body and windows of the SUV contained the explosion for a fraction of a second until, like an overfilled balloon, the powerful explosives first blew the windows out, then ripped the rest of the vehicle into a thousand pieces. Huge tongues of fire leaped out horizontally through the limo’s shattered windows, and then the area for an entire block was showered with flying shards of metal, a wave of fire, and a tremendous concussion, knocking over every person, vehicle, and any other standing object within one hundred yards and shattering every window for another hundred yards.