by Rick Jones
Stepping over the body, he noted that the ice chest, too, was locked, though its lock was hardly worthy since it took a single round to knock it free.
As agony began to sweep over every nerve ending inside his chest, Kimball lifted the lid to the ice chest. Immediately, he smelled the Semtex, something he had smelled before and something he had worked with, the chest loaded with bricks.
To the left of the stash was a timer, with the red LED numbers counting down.
. . . 1:44:25 . . .
. . . 1:44:24 . . .
. . . 1:44:23 . . .
And then the numbers froze, making him wonder if lifting the lid had somehow disrupted the timer’s operation.
Then there was a hum, a buzz, and then a clicking noise. A few seconds later the numbering on the timer became far less than the hour and forty-five minutes he originally had.
. . . 00:10:00 . . .
. . . 00:09:59 . . .
. . . 00:09:58 . . .
Oh, no. What have I done?
The chest was now set to go off in less than ten minutes.
* * *
As people began to file out of the arena, Abu Nasir was showing his agitation, the young man caught within a moment of indecision.
Allahu Akbar! Show me the way!
Allahu Akbar! Tell me what to do.
He reached beneath his jacket and looped a finger through the ring of his pull cord.
Allah . . . please . . . Pleeeeaaaase . . .
The people continued to exit the venue and were making their way towards the parking lot. Mothers and fathers had their arms around the shoulders of their children, smiling and giggling. People were happy while forgetting the current ills of the world, actions that were committed by Allawi who only saw in Abu Nasir little value other than to destroy himself.
Removing his finger from the ring of the pull cord, Abu Nasir shed his name for his Christian one, which was Thomas Hillary, and once again became that simple young man who only wanted to belong.
Disappearing into the crowd, he was never seen again.
* * *
On the other side of the arena, Kashif shared the same mindset of self debating—whether to pull the cord or not. A moment of agony for an eternity of bliss, he could hear Mohammad Allawi preach. In fact, you won’t even feel it. In the end, Kashif, like Abu Nasir, decided to live on. So like Abu Nasir, he disappeared into the crowd and he, too, was never seen again.
* * *
The ice chest was still on its dolly, the box easily moveable. After pushing the body aside, Kimball was able to move the ice box into the corridor. Down the aisle was the elevator, a short stretch, so he began to move quickly. Two shapes emerged from the shadows holding weapons. Kimball instinctively reached for his suppressed weapon but couldn’t remember where he had put it, the man catching himself without any means to protect himself. And then Shari emerged into the cones of halogen light, her face shining with the nature of magnificent beauty and elegance. With her was an aged man in his sixties whose prune-like seams marred a face that had seen too many atrocities, too many horrible things. And for some odd reason Kimball wondered if he would look similar come the man’s age, should he live long enough. Then he recognized the agent as FBI Director Johnston.
After seeing the body on the floor, Shari lowered her weapon and looked at Kimball.
Kimball pointed to the corpse on the floor. “Not my handiwork,” he said.
Then from Shari: “You’re seriously hurt.” She sounded gravely concerned when she realized that the surrounding blood on the floor did not belong to the corpse, but to Kimball. “Kimball, this wound is serious.”
“I’m fine,” he told her. “Right now, we have to deal with a much more pressing issue.” He opened the lid to the ice chest. Shari and Johnston—who was shouldering his weapon—looked inside. It was filled with Semtex and the timer was counting down.
. . . 00:09:16 . . .
. . . 00:09:15 . . .
. . . 00:09:14 . . .
“That can’t be right,” said Johnston. “Not even close. The competition doesn’t begin for ninety minutes. That’s when Allawi’s demands for the release of insurgents ends. At ten o’clock.”
“As you can see,” said Kimball, sweeping a blood-coated hand over the Semtex,
“Allawi decided to choose a different path. He had no intention of following through on his end. This was going to happen, regardless. Somehow, someway, he discovered what was going down, so he reconfigured and jumpstarted a new the time.”
. . . 00:09:03 . . .
. . . 00:09:02 . . .
. . . 00:09:01 . . .
“There’s no way we’ll be able to get the people out in time,” said Johnston.
“There will still be thousands—parents and children—when this goes off.”
Kimball closed the lid. “There’s enough explosive in here to compromise the major supports of this structure. Once they go, then the rest of the arena will fold like a deck of cards.”
“Then we need to get this out of here,” Shari stated with urgency. “Like yesterday.”
Kimball, wincing, began to push the chest on the dolly. Blood droplets fell on the white lid of the chest, which drew additional looks of concern from Shari.
Intuiting her thoughts, Kimball said, “I’ll be fine.”
The freight elevator was close by and, by luck, was already at the level when Shari pressed the button. When the doors opened, Kimball wheeled the chest inside and pressed the button for the loading dock. The lift jolted and hummed to the topside level, the doors then parting when they reached the platform.
. . . 00:08:09 . . .
. . . 00:08:08 . . .
. . . 00:08:07 . . .
“Eight minutes is not exactly a lifetime,” the director commented. “And there are so many people—” He cut himself off.
There were three trucks at the loading bay, all with their rear doors lifted.
Kimball checked the first truck. No keys. The second and third vehicles, however, had the keys in the ignition. Waving for Shari and the director to push the chest into the bay of the center vehicle, both appeared to struggle until Kimball aided them, the three uniting to push the explosive package quickly into the truck.
. . . 00:07:49 . . .
. . . 00:07:48 . . .
. . . 00:07:47 . . .
Kimball began to stagger while placing a hand over the wound. He was bleeding too much, too rapidly. Widening his eyes and taking a deep breath, it was enough to fight off the wavering vision that started to approach, the blurred vision. Then Shari’s voice sounded slow and deep, like a record that was winding down to a sluggish pace.
“I’m fine,” he thought he said, but wasn’t sure. So, he repeated, “I’m fine.”
Kimball made his way to the driver’s side with Shari crying out behind him— something that sounded like, “I’m coming with you!”
As Kimball sat behind the steering wheel and turned the key in the ignition, he also locked the doors. Shari, trying desperately to open the door on the passenger side, looked directly at Kimball, their eyes locking.
Behind the vehicle’s windowpane, her voice was muffled. Her words, however, crystal clear. “Kimball, don’t you dare do this to me! Don’t you dare! Now let me in!” She tugged on the door, the woman’s efforts appearing frantic, and then hopeless. “Please, Kimball,” Her voice was beginning to falter and crack, and her eyes were welling with tears as she continued to pull, to tug, her actions in vain. Then she surrendered when FBI Director Johnston came up and placed his hands on her shoulders to comfort her, like a father, and drew her away.
. . . 00:07:21 . . .
. . . 00:07:20 . . .
. . . 00:07:19 . . .
Their eyes continued to hold, both glimmering with tears. Then as if they had an umbilical tie to one another, as if they were connected through mind and soul, she understood that he was doing this because he loved her. Time was never a luxury, especially when you needed it
. And she realized that he was locking her out because this was a one-way trip.
Then she started to cry openly, which caused Kimball to shed a tear from the corner of his eye.
Then with a slight nod from the director that told Kimball that she would be all right, Kimball returned his nod with a nod of his own, put the truck into gear, drove away from the docking area and into the street, then headed away from the crowd.
. . . 00:06:37 . . .
. . . 00:06:36 . . .
. . . 00:06:35 . . .
Shari, breaking free of Johnston’s hold, ran for her vehicle and decided to give chase.
* * *
The stretch of highway before Kimball appeared to twist and coil like a sidewinder on the move. His surroundings, the buildings and street-lined trees, were becoming distorted in a funhouse mirror way. Some of the building’s appeared bloated and short, whereas others were tall and thin. And the limbs of the trees appeared to extend toward him with a telescopic reach. Kimball shook his head vehemently to erase the forming cobwebs, his sight once again regained, though darkness was beginning to creep in from the edges. The road ahead began to straighten out, a black ribbon of tar taking him beyond the city limits.
. . . 00:04:48 . . .
. . . 00:04:47 . . .
. . . 00:04:46 . . .
Blurred images came and went.
Blood saturated the front of his shirt like a slick bib.
And then his mind started to wander as the pedal hit the floor, the vehicle hitting 92.
He saw a white-picket fence that was bordered by a row of rose bushes. Reds and oranges and pinks and yellows, all different shades and varieties.
“A picket fence,” he murmured while managing a dreamy smile. “A garden for Shari . . .”
The truck continued to maintain its course.
. . . 00:04:06 . . .
. . . 00:04:05 . . .
. . . 00:04:04 . . .
. . . A small house, he thought. And a picket fence . . . And it has to be white . . .
. . . Shari has to trim the roses and she has to be smiling . . . Always smiling. Because
I want to be so happy . . .
When the truck started to veer to the side, he corrected himself.
. . . And two kids. A boy and a girl . . . Our son has to look like me, and our daughter has to look like Shari . . .
. . . And don’t forget the dog. A golden retriever . . . I want it to run in our yard . . . which is surrounded by a white-picket fence . . . barking and playing with the children . .. as I cook on the grill . . .
. . . while Shari stands there with the snippers in her hand; she then drives a hand across her sweating brow not realizing that she has traced a smudge across her forehead, making the situation funnier . . .
. . . We laugh . . .
. . . I cook . . .
. . . The yard, surrounded by a white-picket fence, is filled with joy . . .
. . . I have a family . . .
. . . I have a home . . .
. . . I have peace . . .
Kimball continues to drive as pain starts to course through the entirety of his body. When it becomes too much, it washes away the images in his mind.
The road.
. . . 00:03:11 . . .
. . . 00:03:10 . . .
. . . 00:03:09 . . .
In the rearview mirror, as National Harbor starts to draw distance, he sees a car trailing him and keeping pace.
Shari!
He swallows, his throat becoming as hot as magma. And then his vision starts to blur, his surroundings becoming a kaleidoscope of fragmented images. Slowing the vehicle, Kimball jumps the curb and drives the truck along a wooded path. The vehicle pitches wildly along the trail. Up ahead is a clearing, a tiny part of the wilderness that would be perfect for a small home that was surrounded by a white picket fence.
“A perfect place for a dog,” he whispers. “A place where children can grow happily.”
. . . 00:02:44 . . .
. . . 00:02:43 . . .
. . . 00:02:42 . . .
In the center of this clearing he stops the truck. His blood is everywhere.
He makes his way to the ice chest and labors to raise the lid. Inside the timer ticks down:
. . . 00:02:11 . . .
. . . 00:02:10 . . .
. . . 00:02:09 . . .
He slams the lid home and thinks, I’ve got time.
But he becomes disoriented, the truck’s bay closing in from all sides with no escape. Then he returns to the driver’s seat, relaxes his mind, at least long enough for self-preservation to take control. He opens the door and falls from his seat and to the ground. His body, upon impact, becomes a tabernacle of screaming pain, causing him to close his eyes and clench his teeth.
. . . 00:01:42 . . .
. . . 00:01:41 . . .
. . . 00:01:40 . . .
He rises, though unsteadily, with his mind now slipping into a state of confusion, which is nevertheless guided by the will and instinct to live as he stumbles in a drunken gait away from the truck. His mobility is slow and stunted, sometimes pausing to get his findings, his direction, before rambling forward once again. At times he threatens to fall, only to regain his balance and move ahead.
. . . 00:00:44 . . .
. . . 00:00:43 . . .
. . . 00:00:42 . . .
He turns around. The truck remains close, his attempt to draw distance minimal. Then he turns and begins to stumble away as if he highly intoxicated, the Vatican Knight moving from side to side rather than a straight line, the man trying to race for the cover of trees.
. . . 00:00:21 . . .
. . . 00:00:20 . . .
. . . 00:00:19 . . .
Ahead, through the thickets, he can see the flashing of dashboard lights, red and blue, the flashing lights a wonderful flicker show. He smiles, the show amusing and pleasant as he reaches for the lights with an extended hand . . . Reaching . . .
. . . The wonderful lights . . .
. . . 00:00:11 . . .
. . . 00:00:10 . . .
. . . 00:00:09 . . .
His sight becomes blurred; the tree line and the sharp pinnacles of the pines become hazy and unclear. But he sees Shari getting out of the car, can distinguish her lovely shape, even from a distance.
And then he’s lifted in the air, his body tumbling as his left arm becomes hot with incredible heat as fire consumes it, the fabric of his shirt burning with licks of flame. He continues to roll through space, though everything seems to be moving with a horrible slowness to it, with his world becoming a maelstrom of continuous turns.
When he hits the ground, he sees the immediate rotation of internal stars but remains conscious. And then he feels the white-hot agony of his legs, the pain unimaginable. Yet he’s able to manage a smile when he sees a vague image standing over him and recognizes that it’s Shari. Then he raises a hand to trace his fingertips softly over her cheeks.
And then she talks to him, her voice sounding as if it was coming from the end of a long and distant tunnel, yet so melodious and tender.
“Stay with me, Kimball! You hear me?”
His smile never wavered as he touches her cheeks, only for his fingertips to come away with the wetness of her tears.
“You hear me, Kimball? You . . . stay . . . with me!” And then, with her tone much softer and less maniacal, she tells him, “You can’t leave me, Kimball . . . Not after I found you.”
And then he could feel the soft strokes of her hand against his face, the loving touches, caresses that told him that she had not rejected him after all, that it was always him who believed otherwise.
“The children?” he managed as a fine whisper.
And Shari, breaking down as mucus began to escape from a nostril, said, “You saved them, Kimball. No one was hurt. You saved the children.”
“That’s good,” he managed. And then his body arced in pain for a few seconds before he eased himself onto the grass. And then: “M
y legs?”
Shari noted that they were severely broken, with both legs badly twisted in odd configurations. “You’ll be fine,” she told him, and continued to stroke a hand gently through his hair.
“It’s funny,” he said. “I don’t see the faces anymore. Not the Filipino boy . . .
Not the young girl in the diner . . . Not the two shepherd boys. They’re not following me anymore.” And then: “Funny.”
Shari had no idea what he was talking about.
And then he shook as if his body was greatly chilled, he added, “It’s so cold.”
Then when he looked into her eyes that had the copper hue of newly minted pennies, he could see the genuine desire she had for him. Have I always been this blind?
“I want a small house,” he told her. “With a white-picket fence.”
She barked a small laugh, she cried, and she continued to rub his face gently with soft touches of her hand. “You can have whatever you want,” she said to him.
“And roses . . . You have to have a rose garden.”
“Whatever you want, Kimball . . . Just stay with me.”
His smile remained, however, that sort of dreamy grin. “And two kids. The boy has to look like me . . . and the girl has to look like you.”
“Of course.”
“And a dog . . . A golden retriever . . . I want a golden retriever. They’re kind dogs.”
And then others started to enter the framework of his vision as obscured images surrounded Shari to pull her away from Kimball. He’ll be fine, a voice said. Let the paramedics handle the situation.