thirty-three
Tasker jumped from his Cherokee and fell into an all-out dash after the fleeing Wells. The loose gravel on the shoulder of the highway made him slip one way, then the other, jarring his battered body, but he regained his footing and kept moving. Sensing Sal Bolini trying to stay close behind him, he focused on Wells.
Tasker skidded to a stop in front of the van, torn between chasing Wells and checking the van. He glanced inside, then leaned in the open doorway into the van and froze, seeing the clock on the metal box welded into the rear. He knew how much gas had gone into the box a few hours ago. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what would happen when the big hand of the clock caught the little hand. His bladder almost let go when Bolini skidded into him, saying, “What is it?”
Tasker leaned out of the way. “Look.”
Bolini stuck his head in, then popped out. “You know anything about detonators?”
“Enough to see we only got a minute left.”
“What do we do?” Bolini started to pant like a dog.
“It looks like we could just rip the clock off the tank and it’ll be inactivated.”
Bolini shook his head. “No, no, no good. Wells is too fuckin’ smart for that. He’d have it booby-trapped.”
Tasker thought about the CS Mace trap and had to agree. He looked up at the traffic. “We gotta do something. This thing could take out the whole overpass.”
Bolini floated a suggestion. “What about running?”
Tasker just stared at him. He then jumped into the back and started pulling the bags of scrap metal away from the tank. He handed them to Bolini, who tossed them away from the van.
Bolini said, “I got an idea. The keys in it? We could drive it outta here.”
Tasker looked and shook his head. “I got a plan B,” he said, jumping out and racing back to his Cherokee. He jumped in, cranked the engine and threw it into drive two.
Bolini jumped back as Tasker eased the Cherokee onto the bumper of the van, then gunned the engine. The big van wobbled but moved forward, following the contour of the ground. It slid off the shoulder onto the slope that led to a pond in the center of the loop coming off the interstate.
The van picked up momentum as the decline of the slope grew. Tasker started to back off with the Cherokee, but gravity had grabbed it too and he started sliding in the loose dirt right behind the van. He hit the brakes, but in the pebbles and debris on the slope the Cherokee didn’t slow down at all.
The van hit the water with a splash, then rolled and floated into the shallow water. Tasker couldn’t stop the Cherokee, and followed. The Jeep felt like it was sucked in by the van as Tasker reached over to open the door and get the hell out. The quickly rising water slammed the door back on him. He hit the window button, but the electrical system had already shorted.
Tasker prayed that the water would disarm the bomb as well. He knew the Cherokee wouldn’t be any protection against a gas bomb that big. Even with the bags of shrapnel removed from the van.
He banged on the window with his fist, then, without hesitation, pulled his Beretta from the belly bag, pointed out the side window, pulled the trigger and blew it out. He tried aiming low so the round would travel harmlessly into the muddy water.
He slid out of the shattered window, feeling the glass slice his left knee and bumping his back hard as he reacted to the cut. He flopped completely into the water and struggled to his feet in the four-foot-deep pond. He slogged to the edge, knowing the bomb was about to explode. Gasping for breath, he flopped onto the bank, exhausted.
Wells was in a pretty good trot with his Ruger.22 tight in his right hand. He was passing some apartments near the interstate but hadn’t heard a blast yet. It didn’t really matter. It was just to divert traffic anyway. He was a little surprised Tasker or Bolini weren’t chasing him. They may have been crazy enough to defuse his bomb. Wouldn’t be hard. Just yank off the timer. He looked over his shoulder again. Nothing. Then, as he reached the next block, he heard it. Like a beautiful symphony. The boom reverberated through the neighborhood and houses, almost sounding like several explosions. He looked back to see the fireball just above the trees. That didn’t make sense, because the overpass should have absorbed the blast and fireball. It was pretty all the same.
He turned at the last block and saw his semi still secure and waiting for him. He fumbled for the keys and climbed up the small ladder to the cab. He cranked over the engine and gave the motor a little time to warm up. Looking up, he noticed the traffic already backing up from the van blast. Black smoke was rising from the area of the massive overpass. The way these people stopped to stare at a car with a flat tire, traffic would be backed up to Broward County soon, and people would be fighting to get off the highway and crowd onto the city streets.
Tasker started to get up when he felt hands on him. He looked up as Bolini dragged him out of the mud and onto his feet.
“Move it,” Bolini grunted as he pulled Tasker along on a trot.
From the shoulder of Interstate 95, Tasker saw Sutter, Camy and Jimmy Lail running toward them. Bolini pointed to the fence and shouted, “Cross the fence here and cut him off. He’s right there.” Bolini pointed into the neighborhood just west of the interstate.
Without a word, Sutter and Jimmy turned and bolted for the fence, Sutter taking it in one graceful leap. Camy raced back to Jimmy’s little Honda on the side of the interstate. Tasker watched as she backed the car and turned it facing the fence separating the road from the neighborhood. She gunned the engine and ripped through the old battered chain-link barrier.
Tasker was running on his own power now, headed for Bolini’s car, when he heard the boom and then felt the shock wave of the blast. They both turned to see the fireball climb from the exit loop and rise straight into the air where no overpass of concrete could block it and cause damage. They both headed back toward the blast and were relieved when they saw no cars charred on the loop. The bushes around the pond smoldered, and it looked like the water had absorbed a lot of the blast.
Tasker’s gold Jeep Cherokee was an unrecognizable heap in the shallows of the ponds. The van looked like Godzilla had kicked it. Tasker still smiled.
Bolini patted him hard on the back. “Let’s get that son of a bitch.”
Sutter gulped air after the first two blocks. He was good at sprints and even the occasional long jump, but distance events were not his strong suit. Jimmy Lail had surprised him by having some wind and good legs. He was half a block ahead, weaving through yards and checking parked cars with his Sig nine-millimeter already drawn and ready.
They’d come straight from the interstate and headed toward the Orange Bowl, then cut into this neighborhood. A kid on a bike said he’d just seen a man jogging and pointed them in his direction. They knew he had to be here somewhere, but this street was about to end at some pine trees. Then Sutter intended to go left toward the Orange Bowl and send the FBI man right back toward the interstate.
Sutter started to notice a second uncomfortable sensation other than being winded. He was starting to sweat. In good slacks and a nice shirt. That didn’t happen to a cop that was thinking properly.