This was it. The culmination of his fuck-up. Like most of his errors, this one looked to haunt him for a long time if he wasn’t lucky and fast. He had to stop at a white Lincoln Town car with a tiny elderly man in a worn-out cap behind the wheel. He rested his head on the cloth roof for a few seconds as he caught his breath. The passenger window whirred down and he heard the old man bark, “Off the car, you wino. Get a job.”
Tasker pushed off the car, noticing the blood drops on the roof and smeared on the door. He put a hand to his forehead and felt the warm flow. What was that from? he wondered.
Finally he was directly behind the semi; then it lurched forward a few feet. He popped his head around the tanker and didn’t see a mirror. He stepped from behind the tanker and started a quick march forward. There really wasn’t a mirror on the cab. He paused just behind the door. What if it was locked? Should he wait for help? He looked and didn’t see anyone coming. It was time. He made his move.
Jumping onto the running board, he held his gun tight in his right hand and tried the handle with his left hand. The door opened wide and there was Wells, startled by the activity. Tasker reached in and grabbed him hard with his hand.
Wells leaned away from him but didn’t strike at him. Then Tasker saw why: he had flipped a switch. Tasker swung the butt of his Beretta in, landing a blow sharply across Wells’ head. Then he pushed the dazed man hard into the cab so they were both inside. Tasker looked out the rear window and saw a digital timer with blinking red numbers: 01:58… 01:57. This wasn’t good.
“Shut it off,” screamed Tasker.
Wells didn’t respond.
Tasker shoved the barrel of his gun to Wells’ temple and growled, “Shut down the timer, now.”
Wells blinked and said, “Can’t.”
“Daniel, I’m not kidding, I’ll keep you right here until you shut it down.”
“I’m not kidding, either. There is no way to stop it.”
“What’ll happen?”
“The explosive on the tank will detonate, rupturing the tank and causing the aviation fuel to ignite. It’ll be big. Big and flashy.” He grinned, showing slightly crooked lower teeth.
Tasker didn’t have time to get into the reasons. He looked at the timer: 01:42.
Suddenly the passenger door flew open and Sal Bolini stood on the running board. He grabbed Wells. “Got him!”
Tasker pointed back to the timer. “We gotta disarm it.”
Bolini stood on his tiptoes, straining to see the timer. “No way. Let’s get outta here and clear out these people.”
Tasker said, “No time. Get out. I got an idea.”
Wells turned and pushed Bolini, causing them both to tumble from the cab. Tasker couldn’t be concerned with that right now. He pushed the pedal on the far left and shoved the gear shift closest to him. He heard gears grinding. He looked at the dash and saw a big white button. He mashed it, and the big air horn sounded. He laid on the gas and eased the truck forward. The cars right in front of him got the message and started moving up onto the curb or forward as far as they could go. He risked a look over his shoulder at the timer: 00:52 in red numbers.
Bolini was surprised by Wells’ aggressive movement. He fell hard onto the sidewalk, with Wells landing right on top of him. Bolini was stunned but not out. Wells reached for his gun, but Bolini was a veteran, not some new recruit. He head-butted Wells hard in the face, the younger man’s nose exploding in a haze of red. He quickly slipped from under the stunned man and threw an elbow into his head.
For his part, Wells was game. He took the blows and returned a knee that just missed Bolini’s crotch. He had the upper hand for a second and appeared about to capitalize on his advantage when the tractor-trailer started to move forward. Both men froze in their belligerent embrace and stared at the big rig as it jerked forward, bumping a car harmlessly out of the way, then bumping another. It started to pick up speed, and rolled over the rear of a pickup, squashing it under its massive tires. Now people were abandoning cars in the tanker’s path as it crushed and grinded several more, then knocked a light pole down. Finally, it hit some open space near the intersection and its blasting horn stopped.
Wells completely let go of Bolini and stood up to watch. He was mesmerized. “Now that is some good chaos,” he said, still staring at the truck.
Bolini stood next to him, also watching the progress of the tanker. Tasker was doing a good job of getting it away from the buildings and other cars. He snapped back to reality and smacked Wells in the head with his pistol. He looked down at the man on the ground holding the back of his head and said, “That effectively ends our association, shithead.”
thirty-five
Tasker had never been in a big truck like this before. Still, the clutch was on the left, gas on the right and brake in the middle. The gear shift had a diagram with what looked like ten gears. He stomped on the clutch and jammed the shift stick into first, grinding the gears in the process. He eased off the clutch and on the gas, feeling the huge truck start to inch forward. He thought he hit a curb, then realized it was the hood of a Ford Mustang as the Freightliner rolled right over it. He spun the wheel to the left to try and center the semi tractor-tanker in the road and squished an abandoned Toyota, then a Corvette. The rig straightened out and he hit the gas as he found he had more room. Driving this big rig didn’t seem that hard, except for the cars that kept getting stuck under his wheels. He had to blink hard to clear the blood and sweat out of his eyes. He could see that people were getting the message and abandoning their cars. In front of him, a whole family fled from all four doors of a brand-new Buick. He prayed that no one was stuck inside any of the cars he had already flattened. He had no choice. He knew the buildings would intensify the blast’s shock wave. He headed for the causeway leading to the port. At least it was open. He hit the intersection at Biscayne, and traffic cleared. He stomped on the gas and heard the engine rev higher. He wasn’t sure how to shift gears, so he just pointed the tanker toward the open road. When he spotted the bridge, he looked behind him. The timer read 00:42 in red numbers.
Camy had left Jimmy’s Honda a block off the interstate, away from the growing traffic problem on Fifth. Jimmy had already sprinted toward the semi tractor-trailer they could just see in the distance. She had tried to raise Tasker and Sutter for an update, but had gotten no response. She had already gotten the Miami cops off their asses and heading this way, but they would have been moving already once they saw cars were starting to jam the roads of the city.
Camy searched the streets for any sign of the other agents working with her, then started to jog in the same direction as Jimmy had run. She left his Honda locked and hoped it wouldn’t get towed from the no-parking zone where it sat.
Tasker mashed down on the brakes, bringing the lumbering machine to a stop past the base of the bridge headed toward the port. The American Airlines Arena was to the left and back toward the city a few hundred feet. He didn’t hesitate to leap off the truck onto aching legs and start to run back downhill toward the snarled traffic. There was not another vehicle on the bridge. What kind of moron would follow a tractor-trailer that had just smashed fifteen cars? He ran about ten steps and realized that in his present condition he’d never clear the tanker before it detonated. He took a sharp turn, cut across the two empty lanes and headed for the side of the bridge. As he climbed the small guardrail and prepared to jump the forty feet into the Intracoastal Waterway, he heard another engine and saw a large truck cresting the hill coming from the port. He stood high on the rail, waving his hands to stop the truck, then heard a faint beep from the tanker. He turned and saw only a flash.