“This is ANFO. Not commercial quality. Looks homemade. But competent. There’s aluminum in here. An accelerant.”
“It also has nails in it,” I said. “Shrapnel?”
“Probably. Shit, that’s bad.”
“Question.” McGlade raised up an arm. “What’s ANFO?”
“It’s a high explosive. Ammonium nitrate fertilizer mixed with fuel oil. It’s what Timothy McVeigh used for the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995.”
“Oh my God,” McGlade said. He put his good hand on my shoulder. “I’m so glad we took your car.”
I thought about the last thing the Chemist said to me on the phone. I had a blast. When he told me he wasn’t going to poison anyone else, that had been the truth.
“Isn’t this hard to get?” I asked.
“A few states have restricted policies for buying ammonium nitrate, and some require additives that make it difficult to weaponize. Unfortunately, Illinois isn’t one of those states. The pro cess isn’t very easy, and it isn’t very well- known, but anyone can learn how to make ANFO on the Internet. Luckily, most people get the proportions wrong and blow themselves up.”
Murray knocked on the next toilet over, and then the one behind it.
“Are all of these full?”
“We haven’t checked. But there’s a timer in the cab.”
“What’s the timer at?”
“Probably about fourteen minutes left.”
He hopped off the trailer bed. I followed him.
“Can you jimmy open a truck door?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
Murray picked up a concrete block being used as tent ballast and crashed it through the driver’s-side window. A moment later he was in the cab, cradling the timer in his hands.
“Bad news. This isn’t the timer. It’s just a countdown clock, probably synched to the timer, to show the detonation time to the driver. I’m guessing the real timer and detonator are buried in one of those porta stanks.”
McGlade laughed. “Heh heh. Porta stank.”
“Can you disarm it?” I asked.
“Maybe, if we could find it in time. It might be nothing more than a few sticks of dynamite and a blasting cap. But it’s buried in one of those things. Opening all of them up, digging through them, could take hours.”
“So what should we do?”
“We have to get everyone out of here.”
“Evacuate?” Jim said. “There are over forty thousand people at this festival.”
“Well, we need to get all of them away from here within the next thirteen minutes and forty- three seconds.”
“How bad is this?” I asked.
“As bad as it gets. When this thing blows, it’s going to kill everyone in a one- mile radius.”
Chapter 37
14 MINUTES
DID YOU SAY a one- mile radius?” Everyone turned to look at Herb Benedict, who was standing behind us. He wore a blue Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, and his plump wife, Bernice, was at his side, equally attired.
“Don’t worry, fatso,” McGlade said. “You’ll probably bounce free of the explosion.”
Herb reached for his hip holster, but his wife held his arm back.
“We need to get everyone away from here.” On impulse I looked around. People everywhere, at least a mile thick. To get all of them a safe distance was—
“Impossible,” Jim said. “We’d never get them all away in time. And if we tried, hundreds would get trampled trying to get away.”
Murray looked scared, which scared me, because bomb guys weren’t supposed to look scared.
“No one will get away in time.” Murray’s voice was soft and low. “A pound of ANFO can make a crater a yard deep and kick debris ninety feet away. We’ve got about eigh teen tons of ANFO here. This thing is maybe ten times the size of the Oklahoma City bomb, and it’s out in the open with nothing to damper the blast but people. Human tissue won’t do much to stop nails moving at thirty- five hundred meters per second.”
Everyone leaned away from the truck, and Jim actually took a few steps back.
“Someone drove it in.” I forced myself to touch the trailer. “Maybe we can drive it somewhere safe. Anyplace around here that might work? Jim, Skokie is your town.”
“I...I don’t know. Look, we all should leave.” Jim was sweating, and he looked ready to bolt. “When this thing blows—”
“Answer the question.” Herb’s voice was hard.
“There’s...um...there’s a few golf courses...”
“What’s around them?” Murray asked.
“Um...houses. Residential areas.”
McGlade snorted. “This entire town is one big residential area. If you’re going to dump this someplace, at least pick a rich neighborhood. They’re insured.”
Herb scowled at him. “You got any better ideas, Lefty?”
“Lake Michigan,” Harry said. “The water absorbs the energy of the blast, and it also creates some new beachfront property.”
Jim shook his head. “The lake is too far away. You won’t make it in time.”
“Rivers?” I asked. “Big holes? Tunnels? Stadiums?”
“Bomb shelters?” McGlade added.
“A river would be good,” Murray said. “ANFO isn’t water resis tant. If it’s soaked, it might limit the force of the blast.”
“How close is the Chicago River?” Herb asked.
“It’s about—wait...the plant. The Northside Water Reclamation Plant.”
“What is that? Sewage treatment?”
Jim nodded. “Yeah. It’s about two miles away. It’s big. And it’s all concrete. Some of those settling tanks are deep too.”
“What’s around it?” Herb asked.
“Some offices, south of Howard Street. On the west, homes, but not too many. North is a country club, east, a factory, but it will be closed today. So will the offices.”
“Okay, Jim, listen carefully. You need to get in touch with the plant, clear them out, and have someone from there call me. You also have to warn the country club and the residents in those houses. Evacuate them, or have them get in their basements.”
I gave Jim my phone number, and he programmed it into his phone and began making calls.
“You’re the one going?” Herb’s chubby face was pinched with anger.
“Yeah,” I said.
He folded his arms. “Since when can you drive a semi?”
“How hard can it be?”
“Can you even drive stick shift?”
Now I folded my arms. “I’ve seen other people. I think I can figure it out.”
Harry shook his head. “Even if you can drive stick shift, a truck is an entirely different animal. It’s a ten- speed manual transmission, and it’s not synchronized like a car.”
“Can you drive this semi?” Herb asked him.
McGlade waved his robotic hand in Herb’s face.
“Sure I can, Einstein. I’ll shift gears with my ass.”
“How about you use that big mouth of yours instead?” Herb said. “I bet it’s been on quite a few gearshifts in the past.”
McGlade’s eyebrows creased, and then he started to laugh. “That one was actually pretty good.”
I put my hand on Harry’s shoulder, drawing his attention. “What if I helped you shift?”
“It’s too hard, Jackie. You have to match the engine revs with the transmission revs. There’s a rhythm to it. You mess it up, you can stall out, or even strip the gears. Plus steering the damn thing is a bitch.”
Herb said, “You’re a coward.”
McGlade nodded. “There’s also that.”
“Harry, if you save forty thousand people, half of them cops, I’m sure the mayor would let you have a liquor license in the middle of the goddamn Lincoln Park Zoo.”
A sly grin formed on Harry’s unshaven face. “In the zoo? You think?”
“I’ve done some calculations.” Murray had a calculator in his big hands. I guess bombies didn’t travel without
one. “You’ll need to be a mile away after you leave the truck, so if someone follows you in a car, you’d need at least ninety seconds to get out of there to have a chance at surviving.”
Herb nodded. “I can do that.”
I asked, “Do what?”
“I’ll meet you guys there, drive you to safety.”
“Herb...” Bernice and I said in unison.
“If you two can get the truck to the plant, I’ll be there to pick you up.” Herb kissed his wife on the forehead. “It’ll be okay, dear.”
Bernice put her hands on his cheeks. She’d begun to cry.
“I’m warning you, Herb Benedict. If you get yourself blown up, I’m going to date younger men.”
McGlade raised his hand. “I’m younger. And with me, there’s no risk of smothering to death.”
“How safe is this stuff to haul?” I asked, eyeing Herb to make sure he didn’t shoot McGlade.
“ANFO is pretty stable,” Murray said. “It won’t ignite even if you fire a few bullets into it. It should be safe to transport. Just try to avoid any major collisions.”
“We’ll try our best.”
“Is there anything else I can do?” Murray asked.
“Clear a path from here to the street. We need to get these people out of the way so we can get through.” I looked at Harry. “Are you out or are you in?”
“You sure I’ll get a liquor license?”
“I guarantee the mayor will be there for the ribbon- cutting ceremony.”
McGlade grinned. “Ten- four, good buddy. Let’s get it into gear and put the hammer down.”
“Okay, it’s a go.” I looked at the cab and frowned. “Does anyone know how to hot- wire a semi?”
Chapter 38
9 MINUTES
WE WASTED TOO MUCH TIME trying to start the truck. McGlade tore open the steering column housing and tried crossing several different wires, but all he accomplished was turning the dashboard lights on and off.
Herb stuck his head in the door. “It’s the red wires.”
“I’m crossing the red wires. It isn’t doing anything.”
I watched the timer count down and felt myself getting sicker and sicker.
“Are you sure they’re crossed?” Herb said.
“They’re crossed! You want to squeeze your fat ass up here again and take a look?”
“You’ve got the truck in second gear.”
“It’s supposed to be in second gear. If you don’t stop bugging me, I’m going to stick my claw so far up your—”
From behind us: “Is there a brown wire?”
Someone else had joined the party. A tall woman, young, brunette, tattoos on bare arms, named Ren ée Davidson. Bernice had apparently gone off and brought back someone who knew what the hell she was doing.
“Yeah,” McGlade said. “There’s a brown one.”
Davidson climbed onto the foot platform, next to the driver’s-side door.
“The red ones are the ignition wires, the brown one is the starter wire. Strip the brown one and touch it to the reds.”
“Stripping is kind of a problem one- handed. Porky had to strip the other ones, and he almost got stuck.”
“Let me give it a try,” Davidson offered.
“Sure. We won’t have to grease your hips first.”
McGlade scooted over. Davidson removed the folding knife clipped to her belt, bent under the steering wheel, and five seconds later the truck coughed and roared to life.
“The steering column is still locked,” she said. “You won’t be able to turn unless you break the mechanism. It’s in the ignition.”
“That I can do,” McGlade said. He held his claw over the key switch and said, “Close.” His hand crunched down on the mechanism and cracked it off.
“Can you drive a truck?” I asked Davidson.
Her shoulders slumped. “I’m here with my kids. I can’t take the risk. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t look too sorry, but I really couldn’t blame her. I thanked her for the help and watched her jog off. Herb checked his watch.
“I’ll meet you there, Jack. My car is parked about three blocks away. I have to get moving.”
“Good luck,” I told him.
He nodded, and then hurried into the crowd.
“Don’t run!” McGlade called after him. “Don’t risk the heart attack!”
I ran around to the passenger side, grabbed the side bar, and swung myself up in the seat. I considered putting on my seat belt, and decided there was no point when I had forty thousand pounds of high explosive five feet behind me. Harry closed his door, adjusted his seat, then played around with his side mirror. He glanced over at mine.
“Jackie, can you tilt your mirror forward just a bit?”
I cranked down the window, reached for the mirror, and froze. There, plain as day, was a perfect latent fingerprint, gracing the lower right- hand corner of the mirror glass. The Chemist’s? He’d been fanatical about not leaving prints, but had he gotten a little careless? Especially since he figured the truck would be obliterated in the explosion?
“Jackie, the mirror.”
I held the back and nudged it forward an inch.
“Is that better?”
“I have no idea. Your big gray head is in the way.”
“Just get moving, McGlade.” I fished through my purse, looking for my eye shadow.
“Sure. Get moving. Okay. Let’s see. Gas...bring up the RPM...clutch...neutral...neutral...dammit, Jackie, help me get this into neutral.”
He was trying to use his fake hand, and his claw kept sliding off the shifter ball knob.
“Where is it?”
“The middle.”
I fought with the stick and popped it into the center.
“Okay, I’m hitting the clutch, put it into first.”
I did, and the truck jerked and then began to groan and shudder without actually moving.
“Oops, I’m doing something wrong.”
The truck wasn’t moving, but the engine revved into the red zone and the cab began to bounce.
“McGlade, it’s probably not a good thing to shake up the bomb.”
“I’m thinking...Hold on...”
“Harry—”
“Shit! The trailer hand brake.” He gripped another stick, pulled it back, and the truck lurched forward. “My bad.”
He drove us off the patch of dirt and down the path Murray had cleared, into the throng of people. I found my eye shadow and dabbed the applicator into the purple powder. I was lightly dusting the latent print on the mirror when a tremendous piercing sound shook the floorboards, almost causing me to drop my brush and wet myself. It was McGlade, tugging on the pull cord for the horn.
“Dammit, Harry, I thought we blew up.”
“These people need to get out of my way.”
I peered out the front window and saw a man in a wheelchair in our path, twenty yards ahead.
“Watch out for the disabled guy.”
“I see him.”
We closed to within ten yards.
“You’re heading right for him.”
“He needs to move.”
Five yards. McGlade blared the horn again.
“HARRY!”
We bumped the man, and he went careening off to the side at a very high speed.
“Jesus, McGlade! You hit him!”
“He should have moved faster.”
“He was handicapped!”
“It’s not like I did anything to make his life any worse. He already couldn’t walk.”
My cell phone buzzed, and I picked it up.
“Daniels.”
“Jim Czajkowski told me to call you. I’m Dalton Forrester from Northside Treatment. You’re bringing a bomb to my plant?”
“That’s the idea, Dalton.”
“We supply close to two hundred thousand homes and businesses with fresh water. If you blow up the facility, they could be without water for weeks.”
“Simple math, Da
lton. People without any water is a better deal than water without any people. Have you evacuated your staff?”
“Yeah. I was the last one to leave. I’m heading home to my family, five miles away. Is that far enough?”
“It should be. What’s the best place to drop off this payload?”
“It’s a truck, right? Avoid the settling tanks. Those are the round ones. They aren’t very deep, and there is skimming machinery that you could get stuck on. You should sink it in one of the aeration pools. They’re square, about an acre wide, twenty feet deep. That’s where the microorganisms eat all the organic solids. When you turn into the plant off of Howard, go left, to the west. And good luck getting here—the roads are all blocked off.”
Czajkowski moved fast. I thanked Dalton, hung up, and went back to dusting. McGlade hit the horn again, and I heard someone scream.
“Old lady,” Harry said. “I think I missed her. Mostly.”
“McGlade, you need to—”
“Turning onto Pratt. It’s going to be tight. Hold on.”
The truck smacked into two parked cars—sending them off into opposite directions as if they were toys—jumping the curb and screeching onto the asphalt, bee lining for an office building straight ahead. McGlade wrestled with the steering wheel, and we kissed the brick wall, pulled past, and then straightened out onto the street.
“Okay, I’m going to turn onto Hamlin. Get ready to shift. Ready?”
I had turned my attention back to the latent on the mirror. The eye shadow wasn’t fingerprint powder, but it had done a fair job clinging to the oils and making the ridges stand out.
“Jackie! You with me?”
“Yeah, Harry. Say when.”
“Okay, gas...clutch...neutral...shit!”
Ahead of us on Hamlin was a gridlock of cars, none of them moving.
McGlade hit the brakes, and the tires squealed, but the truck groaned and didn’t slow down.
“The hand brake!” he yelled, his claw bouncing off the stick.
I looked out the side window and watched, horrified, as the trailer kicked out to the side and the truck began to jackknife.
Chapter 39
6 MINUTES
Jack Daniels Six Pack Page 94