Kinlaw turned. What the hell?
The blast knocked the vault door right off its solid-steel hinges. Gunderson saw it at half speed, like a scene from an old Peckinpah flick-the door teetering, then falling to the linoleum with a booming crash.
Somewhere behind him a phone was ringing, but Gunderson ignored it, enjoying the spectacle. He relished his ability to slow the world around him to a crawl whenever the mood suited him.
He grinned at the exaggerated looks of surprise on the faces of bank tellers and customers. Marveled at the fluidity of motion with which Luther and Nemo wielded fire extinguishers as they put out stray flames and climbed into the vault to fill their duffel bags.
He watched as, backpack full of Semtex in tow, Sara glided past the Plexiglas teller windows toward the rear of the bank, moving with an easy grace that only his slow-motion point of view could provide.
Gunderson felt high. As if he’d taken a dozen hits of ecstasy. But he never took drugs of any kind when he was working, didn’t need them to see the world this way. This was his gift. His power. One he used sparingly and never took for granted.
And it wasn’t his only gift.
Better yet was what the bitch who’d raised him-his nasty old bat of an aunt-called his Inner Eye, an acute intuition he had inherited from her, a sensitivity to the vagaries of human emotion that sometimes offered him a peek into the darkest corridors of the soul.
It was a gift that had made the old woman an outcast, the neighborhood crackpot. He himself had been smart enough not to flaunt this gift, learning to use it with stealthy precision to gain trust and manipulate. Because, after all, Trust was his true weapon of choice.
Despite his hatred for the old woman, who had been as cruel as they come, Gunderson shared her fascination for the workings of the mind and soul, and the belief that there was a world beyond this one, where both could thrive and flourish.
And where anything was possible.
The phone continued to ring. Gunderson snapped out of his reverie, turned toward the nearest desk where an extension light blinked.
It was the cops, of course. Most likely the Feds.
He checked his watch. Still on schedule. The police response had been quicker than he’d expected-someone had probably triggered the silent alarm the moment Sara started shooting-but everything was going smoothly, all according to plan.
Not that this surprised him. The Book of Changes was rarely wrong. His interpretations might be off sometimes, but you could never blame the Ching.
Patting his breast pocket, he heard the faint chink of the I Ching coins he always carried with him and wondered if he should bring them out for one last consult. Instead, he fished for his pack of Marlboros, shook one out, then tore off the filter and lit up, listening to the phone ring.
He picked it up at ring number forty-seven.
“Let me guess,” he said into the receiver. “ATF? FBI? Mom?”
“Jack Donovan, Alex. I’m guessing the explosion we heard was the vault?”
Well, well. Mr. ATF himself.
Special Agent Jack had been trying for quite some time now to put a damper on Gunderson’s plan to reeducate the country. So long, in fact, that he’d become a regular source of irritation. Despite their mutual interests and a couple of semi-close encounters, however, this was the first time they’d actually spoken.
Donovan’s vaguely condescending tone was annoying as hell, but Gunderson kept his cool. “How you been, Jack?”
“Better than you’ll be if you don’t release those hostages. You’ve blown it big-time, my friend. There’s no turning back now.”
Gunderson laughed. “Turning back? I’m moving forward. Just like a shark.”
“You let those hostages go, we’ll talk about getting you out of there in one piece.”
Gunderson sucked on the Marlboro. Exhaled. “You sound awfully sure of yourself, Jack. You know something I don’t?”
“Only that you’re fighting a lost cause. Why don’t you give it up like a good boy and let those people go? They aren’t involved, anyway.”
“We’re all involved, whether we like it or not. You call ’em hostages, you’re right. They’re hostage to a country you, and people like you, created.” He took another hit off the cigarette, then flicked it aside. “But I don’t mean these folks any harm, so I’ll tell you what-you want ’em, you got ’em. Just remember one thing: the water’s cool and clear right now, so don’t for a minute think you can slow me down.”
He hung up. In the movie of his life, Gunderson was Che Guevara and this idiot was Barney fucking Fife. Donovan had been haunting him on the evening news for months now, spreading the Gospel According to the ATF. Didn’t he realize that sooner or later the tide would turn as more and more citizens began to see the U.S. government for the inbred den of hypocrisy it was? The country had wasted valuable resources blasting sand rats in the Middle East, when it should have been looking inward. The real threat didn’t come from outside. It came from right here, within our own borders. From our own selected officials.
It was only a matter of time before the people of America came around, and Gunderson would be there, leading the charge.
Luther and Nemo climbed out of the vault carrying duffel bags full of cash.
Gunderson looked over at them. “How we doing, boys?”
“We’re clear,” Luther said.
“Excellent. Baby?”
At the back of the room, Sara looked up from a patchwork of Semtex-or plastic boom-boom, as she liked to call it-part of a shipment Gunderson had had smuggled in from Prague. “All set, sweetie.”
He clapped his hands together. “All right then, let’s put some wheels on this wagon and ride.” He gestured to Luther, who immediately dropped his duffel bag, brought out his cell phone and touched the screen, switching it to video mode.
The only thing the traditional media offered Gunderson was exposure-which, of course, was his real reason for being here. But the traditional media was controlled by gutless corporate stooges. Expecting them to broadcast his true message was like expecting the late, lamented Mother Teresa to take a dump on the steps of the Vatican.
Gunderson knew full well that Fox and the nightly news would reduce him to a six-second sound bite courtesy of ATF lackeys like Jack Donovan. So he took matters into his own hands by pirating various high-traffic Internet sites to spread the word.
That’s where the video cam came in.
Gunderson smoothed his hair back, adjusted his ponytail, then waited for Luther to take a good pan shot of the damage they’d done. As the camera turned on him, he addressed the hostages.
“All right, listen up,” he said. “This little garden party has been brought to you courtesy of the Socialist Amerikan Reconstruction Army. We’re ordinary folk, just like yourselves, striking a blow against a New World Order that uses mind control and propaganda to beat its citizens into submission and turn us into slaves. It’s all about freedom, folks, and we’re taking it back. If any of you want to join us, check out our Web site at S-A-R-A dot com.”
He looked directly into the camera. “Get ready, America. The revolution is now.”
He scraped a finger across his neck, gesturing for Luther to stop rolling. Unhooking a two-way radio from his belt, he flicked it on. “Big Daddy to Tina. You out there?”
A voice crackled in response. “Roger, Big Daddy. Already in position.”
“Thirty seconds and counting,” Gunderson said, then returned his attention to the hostages. “Everybody on your feet.”
The hostages, still facedown on the floor, glanced at each other as if the command had been too much for their minuscule brains to comprehend. Fucking morons.
“Come on, come on,” Gunderson snapped. “Hop to it.”
One by one they started to rise, still looking at each other, fear in their eyes. Some of the women broke into tears.
When they were all on their feet, he said, “Okay. I’m gonna start counting. When I get to three, I want you to run your asses straight into the street. The last one out those doors gets a bullet to the back of the brain. Understand?”