The gum is for my nerves. Everything else is going to make an enormous mess and, possibly, a bomb.
***
The more my mind wraps around what I'm up against, the more I realize this is going to take at least a solid day of prep work.
I check into the first hotel that has an available room, unload my car, and setup a lab right there between the coffee maker with Wolfgang Puck coffee grounds and the the little card asking me to re-use towels to save water.
On second thought, I hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. Last thing I need is the maid walking in while I have nails rusting at super-speed and video streaming to my phone on repeat about how to make my own thermite.
I brew and drink the Wolfgang Puck coffee while I strain mixtures and lay the results out to dry. I bash open the front of the Etch-A-Sketch toys and pour the contents into a clean jar.
The night passes, the sun rises. I've gone through the entire package of gum, all the coffee provided by the hotel, and at least a quarter of my sanity.
Before I resign to sleep for a few hours, I run through the scenario one more time. Measure the ingredients, combine in the balloons, light, and run.
Light . . . and run.
How the hell do I light this?
I plug in my phone because it has another long hour ahead of it, and so do I. As it turns out, I need magnesium ribbon, and there are only two places to buy it:
The Internet, but I find no one who can overnight it. Plus, I can't exactly have it delivered to the hotel.
Or, a local lab store. I bet the bastards have iron oxide too.
The catch is, I have to be a student to make a purchase.
It is seven in the morning in Arizona. I call Karl.
He picks up on the second ring. “Dimitri?”
Doesn't he ever sleep?
“Hey, yeah,” I say. “I need a student ID pronto, pendejo.”
He hesitates.
Ah, shit. I hope he hasn't picked up any Spanish recently. Probably not in my best interest to call him an idiot in any language, even if he is one.
He finally speaks. “What do you need a student ID for?”
“To study classical music.” I cringe at my words. Maybe I shouldn't call him when I'm damn near delirious with nerves and exhaustion. “For supplies. Please just send one over.”
“What wallet do you have?”
I make an “uh” sound because I have no idea who I am today.
I work the wallet out of my pocket and flip through it. “Alex Parker.”
“This is very last minute, Dimitri,” he says.
Great. He's pissed.
“Learning curve.” I fight back a yawn. “Can you make sure they set me up as a science major?”
He says, with some hesitation, “The student badge doesn't state your program. Send me your hotel, and I'll get a delivery to you this afternoon.”
He hangs up. I text over the information, pick up my empty paper cup, frown at the lack of coffee, then kick off my shoes.
I need to sleep. My eyes feel like I've been shining them with sandpaper.
From the bed, I survey my work area and let reality sink in: I'm building a bomb.
No one should try this at home. Or at a hotel room. Ever.
Especially me.
But I kind of don't have a choice.
***
A knock on the hotel door jars me from sleep. I'm not ready to get up, but chances are, it's one of Karl's men. I need that student ID so I can buy magnesium ribbon from the lab store. Otherwise, my bomb has no fuse. And, I'm going to need quite a bit of ribbon, considering it burns at a rate of about thirty seconds per foot.
I jerk back the sheets and stumble to the door. The moment I pull it open, I realize it could be hotel staff.
Lucky for me, it's a man in casual clothes, clutching an envelope.
I hold up my hands. He thrusts the package at me and walks away.
“Good morning to you too,” I call after him and slam the door shut.
The package contains the student ID for Alex Parker, just as requested. I now attend the University of California. I should check my classes online and stop by one, just for the hell of it.
No time. I have an anthropology center to destroy.
I pull the sheet from the bed and drape it over my science experiment, then make my way out of the hotel. The sky is partially overcast, but with big white clouds that seem harmless.
I head toward the lab supply store. The GPS takes me the long route, but I eventually arrive. Then I grow nervous again.
What if they ask what I'm using the supplies for?
“Just making a bomb, ma'am,” is probably the wrong answer.
Maybe I should find out what normal people use magnesium ribbon for before venturing inside. I glance at my phone. The day staff should be leaving the archeology center soon.
Tonight is the night.
I will be setting it off, without a doubt.
***
The supply store doesn't ask, not even in passing, why I'm buying magnesium ribbon. They don't even request to see my student ID.
I will file away that tidbit of information for the next time Karl wants me to make soot out of a building. Also, I won't mention to him that I called in an unnecessary request.
Back in my hotel room, I run through the how-to videos one more time because I feel like I have missed something. Bomb making should not be quite this simple. Granted I've been creating, scraping, and drying rust for half a day, but the Internet has provided everything I need.
Everything I need to take down a relatively large building.
If I was still in Arizona, I would drive to the middle of the desert and test out one of these Balloons of Mass Destruction, but I don't know my way around California enough to risk it. Time is short. I want to finish tonight.
According to the bomb directions, I will need either a super hot flame or a way to flatten the magnesium ribbon. I opt for both and swing by the store for a hammer, a small blowtorch, and a backpack. Then I pull behind a shopping center, roll out the magnesium ribbon, and start pounding away.
Each echoing thud is like a sucker punch to my brain. Aspirin isn't going to touch this headache, because the driving power is the hum.
I need to hurry up and blow up the lab. But first I have to take the loot.
Back in my car, I frown and shuffle through the case file again. No indication of where the books could be. I don't even have a map of either of the two floors in the facility. The Internet has let me down.
I don't know what books I'm looking for. They're in a box and they have gold colored spines. Other than that, I'm clueless.
Pretty sure Karl won't appreciate if I bring back copies of The Poky Little Puppy.
Somehow, I will need to get into the lab, find the books, set the bombs, and escape.
And if I plan to do this before the hum goes Emeril Lagasse on me and kicks it up a notch, I have to clean up the hotel room and get moving.
***
I carry the backpack at my side as I enter the anthropology center. My interior jacket pockets hold my phone, my gun, and the blowtorch.
The lobby contains a curved reception desk and a badge-activated door. The receptionist looks up. She has a pleasant face. A mother, a wife. She has had an easy shift. Too bad it's her last day—on Earth.
The thought sinks to the pit of my stomach.
“Can I help you?” She smiles, and her question sounds genuine.
I stare dumbly, as I usually do when I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.
“Yeah, I . . . ” My brain dies. Like a junk car. Why don't I ever work out my script before I show up? “I have a class here tonight. I think. For school.”
The phone on her desk rings. She puts up a finger to signal me to wait, then answers the phone. As she engages into the conversation, I remind myself to keep the backpack low. No need to draw attention to it, since I can't risk being searched. I'm loaded up like Bomberman.
> She tilts the phone away from her mouth. “Can I see your student badge, please?”
She's talking to me.
I start to reply. “I don't . . . ”
Then I stop. I do have one. I am not sure if it will check out, but my next move is scaling the back wall and busting out a window. Pretending to be Spiderman is not on the list of things I wanted to do tonight.
“Yes, of course,” I say, with the smile that makes Silvia's demonic face flush and that landed Syd in my bed. I pull my wallet and hold up Alex Parker's student ID.
She nods, then presses a button under her desk and turns back to her phone conversation.
The door clicks unlocked.
I wave my free hand in gratitude, hoping she doesn't decide to validate my claims, and let myself through the door.
Straight ahead is the emergency exit. To my immediate left is a break room, a closed lab, and an open office with no one inside. To the right, the library and media center. I dip into the room, trying to act casual as I pass the small computer lab where a girl is watching anime and head into the rows of shelves.
Intel said the books were together in a box. What sort of a box? A shipping box? How likely is it they have been unpacked already?
Someone should educate intel on the Dewey Decimal System.
I walk up and down the aisles, scanning each level of the shelves. Nothing. The reading area to the side doesn't offer anything of interest, either. No boxed up books. No gold-colored spines.
I exit the library and head across the hall to another lab. This one is open, and a sign outside the room says the bathrooms are through here. A half-dozen people are working at the long steel tables standing parallel to each other in the center of the room. Against the far wall, a counter filled with microscopes and gadgets with dials. In the corner, a floor to ceiling cabinet.
No one seems to notice me. They're too busy fussing with slides and talking amongst themselves. I turn and head down the hallway. Three small labs and the stairwell to the left, and a museum to the right. I turn into the museum.
Glass cases house pottery dishes, old rugs that might have once been brightly colored, and a tablet with what appears to be ancient text.
I can't believe I have to burn down this place.
At the end of the room is another case, with something about the size of a coconut held up on a stand. I approach, leaning in to get a better view.
It's part of a skull. I squint at the display card but it just gives an exhibit number. No name, no details.
On the wall beside it, a mounted display contains oblong items—stone or clay, I can't tell—with thick spikes jabbing out at intervals. Another card with an exhibit number, nothing else.
As much as I would like to hang out and try to decipher what I'm seeing, there are no books here. The hum says I have to keep moving.
The backpack is starting to grow heavy, so I switch it to the other hand. I return to the hall and push open the door to the stairwell. My boots thud up the metal steps, rattling the railing.
I enter onto the second level. Straight ahead are bathrooms and a few vending machines. I turn and follow down the hallway. To the right is a closed office and then a large, but unoccupied, room labeled “Teaching Lab”. Inside are high desks with cabinets, sinks, and several large windows revealing the night sky.
Across from the teaching lab is a closed off area labeled “Wet Dirt Lab”. I'm not entirely sure what that is, but it doesn't sound like a place to keep books.
Outside of the apparently messy lab are laptop stations.
That is the anthropology center in its entirety.
I have no idea where the books can be. Time to start digging.
I begin with the teaching lab, making my way through the rows of desks, opening drawers and cabinets. A stack of textbooks sit on a wall mounted shelf, but they don't have gold colored spines. I'm also pretty sure Karl could order them on Amazon.
Nothing stands out to me, so I try the office next door. A desk and computer, some file cabinets. Nothing.
Now I'm worried. Now I'm grinding my teeth.
Anger wells inside me. Why the hell does he send me on these doomed-from-the-start missions? What is the point of assigning impossible tasks?
What is he going to do if I fail—again?
I have knocked off a handful of businessmen and pulled a few kidnappings. Now a quest for a stack of books is going to be my downfall.
I don't want to do this anymore. I want to get in my car, drive back to Phoenix, and ask Syd to run away with me. We can disappear in the night and never be heard from again.
But I have this fuckin' hum in my head that's starting to get violent. It's beating at the back of my eyes. A little longer, and I'm taking this damn place hostage.
Except . . . I don't know what to tell them to hand over. I don't know what I'm actually looking for.
If I were back in Arizona, I would storm into the summoning chamber and cap Karl in the chest.
A sharp pain pierces my skull. I drop the backpack. My hand goes to my head, and I hunch forward as the dagger of disobedience jabs through my brain.
I take a few long, steady breaths, trying to convince myself I would never harm Karl. I can't just say it, though. I have to mean it, but my new years' resolutions to do five-hundred pushups a day are more genuine.
I settle on the thought that I wouldn't hurt him because I can't stand the agony it would cause my head. My brain and I seem to agree on this. The stabbing lessens until I'm back to just a persistent hum.
I stoop to pick up my backpack and halt. Underneath one of the computer stations is an open box—with books.
The game is on.
I sling the backup over my shoulder and pull out the box.
A thud sounds from the stairwell.
Footsteps. Talking.
People are heading up to the second floor.
I try to still my racing thoughts. No one is going to bother me. They don't know who belongs here.
Except I have no idea if that's actually true.
With a groan, I lift the box and lug it toward the stairwell. Two men open the door just as I approach. My heart kicks up. I've been seen. Moment of truth.
One of the men is holding the door open for me.
“Thanks,” I say, sounding winded, because I am. Then I hurry as fast as I can down the stairs to the first floor.
The main lab is still in use.
I drop the box near the emergency exit, then stroll into the lab. I try to act like I belong here. I don't know how that is, though, so I just duck my head and enter the bathrooms.
Empty.
I toss the backpack in the sink and unzip it. Each balloon contains measured amounts of the ingredients and an attached length of magnesium ribbon. A long piece of ribbon, at that.
I drop one of the balloons in the wastebasket, trailing the ribbon toward the exit. Then I yank a forest-worth of towels from the dispenser and spread them over the floor. The camouflage is half-assed.
I have to move quick.
I yank up the backpack and stroll out of the lab and over to the small office. The door is unlocked. I dart inside, plant another balloon bomb, and cross to the library.
The girl who had been watching anime is gone.
I jog into the reading area. At least I can work without being caught. As long as no one stops by the library, anyway.
I tuck a balloon on a bottom shelf, roll out the ribbon across the entire length of the room, and exit toward the hall. I deliver to each of the three small labs and one to the museum. I just toss that one on the floor.
No more stealth.
The plan is to light two ribbons and then run. The subsequent explosion should reach the rest of the bombs in no time, causing a chain reaction. Since this is on the ground floor, the whole building should collapse.
I bolt for the emergency exit. Just as I'm about to slam through it, I notice the fire alarm on the wall.
Bingo. My moral compass can point
north again.
I pull the alarm. Blaring fills the building. It does nothing to the hum in my head.
Sprinklers turn on. They are not going to cause a problem for my build-a-bomb explosions. Ah, the power of magnesium.
People start yelling.
I yank up the box of books and kick open the emergency doors. My car is straight ahead. I run for it, pull open the door, and throw the box into the backseat.
The blowtorch is in my hand before I'm even back in the building. People are scurrying about, trying to find the fire.
I race to the lab bathrooms, sliding on wet tile, and throw open the door. The paper towels flutter away. I catch myself on the jamb with one hand and lean down to light the ribbon.
It catches. I haul ass to the library, swing inside the reading area, and light another ribbon.
That should do it.
I toss the blowtorch aside and scramble out the emergency exit, the blaring sound finally louder than the hum. People are still yelling and carrying on.
Well, I gave the idiots a warning.
I fumble with the keys in the ignition and slam the car in reverse. Hand on the back of the passenger seat, I turn as I pull out.
My gaze lands on the books.
They have black spines.
These are the wrong books.
“Oh, sweet Mary.” I throw the car into park and scramble out.
The hum is back with an attitude.
Where the hell are those books? Where in that whole place could they possibly be?
I smack the side of my head once as if that has ever helped and run toward the building. I can't leave without the books, but they weren't in the library. They weren't in the teaching lab. I checked everywhere.
Except the wet dirt lab.
I dodge through the crowd in the exit and head into the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time. The hum vibrates along with the railing. I think people are still yelling, but I can't hear them.
I burst onto the second floor and lunge for the wet dirt lab. The door is unlocked.
There they are. Right on a table in the middle of the goddamned room.
I lug up the crate of books with gold colored spines and turn for the door.
An explosion blasts downstairs. Another follows right after.
Sirens approach from outside.
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