Shock Wave

by James O. Born

  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.

  Then came the blast. Just the concussion and sound made Sutter and Jimmy duck. He looked over his shoulder and saw the fireball rising from a few blocks behind, the orange and yellow dissipating into the sky.

  “Oh shit!” Sutter said. “We need to check on Tasker and Bolini.”

  Jimmy Lail was too far ahead of him to hear.

  When Sutter was about to yell to him, Jimmy saw something at the corner and aimed his gun. He waved excitedly.

  Sutter used his sprinter’s speed and was up to Jimmy in a few seconds and immediately saw the idling semi tractor-trailer with Wells in the front seat. A smaller tanker was hitched behind the cab. Sutter didn’t want to think what was in it.

  Jimmy said, “I’ll stop this asshole.” He marched forward with his pistol out for Wells to see.

  Wells opened the truck’s cab door, leaned out and popped two rounds off with a small-caliber pistol.

  Jimmy Lail immediately dodged behind a parked car and crouched.

  Sutter moved toward the truck, his Glock drawn. He fired once at the truck cab to keep Wells’ head down, then advanced quickly. He could hear Jimmy, behind him now, start to shoot, too. The sound of the nine-millimeter rounds smacking into the semi cab made Wells duck.

  The truck started to move, but when Sutter raised his pistol he felt a stabbing pain in his left foot and ankle. He went down, watching as Wells carefully drove around him to get the big rig moving. Sutter turned and saw Jimmy dive out of the truck’s path as Wells blasted the giant air horn.

  Now Camy in the Honda turned down the street. She squealed to a stop next to Sutter and burst out of the car to him. She looked at him, then pulled a white gym towel from inside the car and immediately held it to his ankle, saying, “You’ll be okay.”

  “What happened? I thought I twisted my ankle.”

  Jimmy was with him now. “Man, are you okay? I’m so sorry.”

  Sutter just looked at him. “Don’t tell me.”

  “I didn’t mean to shoot you.”

  Sutter wanted to smack him, but turned to Camy. “Catch the truck, catch the truck. Wells is in it.”

  She looked up quickly, but no one was sure where the semi had gone after it took the first turn.

  thirty-four

  Tasker felt like a train-wreck survivor. He was wobbling his way through the neighborhood after his partners and Wells, blood running down his face, hair burnt in patches, legs bloody and soaking wet. This was no dignified day at the office.

  Bolini was checking the area of the blast for injuries and to explain to responding cops what happened. Tasker couldn’t risk losing Wells. He was about to sit down and rest for a second when he heard the gunfire. It was coming from the end of the street. He picked up his pitiful pace.

  He reached the last street just in time to see a semi tractor-trailer driven by Daniel Wells roll down the street, blaring his horn. In its wake he saw Jimmy Lail standing with Camy over Sutter, who was down, a block away. He turned and moved as fast as he could to the injured Miami cop.

  “What happened? You all right?” he gasped as he came upon his partner.

  Sutter seemed more pissed than injured. “That jerk-weed shot me.”

  “Why?”

  Jimmy, walking up behind, mumbled, “It was an accident.”

  Tasker stood up and spun to meet the FBI man face to face, but instantly realized how embarrassed Lail was and that it really had been an accident.

  Camy started to jump in the Honda. Jimmy followed her. She said, “We need to find the truck.”

  Tasker nodded his head. “Go, go. Bolini will be here in a second.”

  A minute later, Bolini pulled up in his Ford Taurus and Tasker grabbed Sutter, then piled in, Sutter careful with his leg but fully mobile.

  As the car started to roll, Bolini said, “Wells shot you?”

  Sutter shook his head but didn’t elaborate, and Bolini let it ride.

  “Which way?” asked Bolini.

  Tasker said, “He’s gotta be headed to the area where the undercover Miami cop saw him. Head toward Biscayne, we’ll
pick him up.”

  Bolini stepped on the gas.

  From the front passenger seat, Tasker turned around to Sutter. “That’s it!”

  “What?”

  “The van was a diversion. The real attack is the tanker. He wanted to drive the tanker into the small side streets. That’s why he learned to drive the big rigs.”

  Sutter’s eyes widened. “You mean he’s gonna detonate the tanker?”

  “Exactly. And that’ll make the van look like a firecracker.”

  Bolini pushed the Taurus up to fifty in the tightening traffic, swerving in and out and up over curbs. He fumbled with his Nextel. “Hey,” he yelled into the handset. “It’s Sal. I need every swinging dick in that office out here. I’m going down to Biscayne by Bayfront Park. We got a semi that may be used as a bomb.” He listened to someone, then said, “Now!” And shut the phone. He turned to Tasker and said, “We gotta get to him before he arms the bomb. I’m no bomb tech. None of that red-wire, blue-wire bullshit.”

  “I’m with you,” said Tasker. He still didn’t trust the FBI man, but he’d been a help and now seemed to realize the truth of the situation. Sutter sat, quietly simmering in the back. Tasker was impressed with Sutter’s restraint, unless it was due to loss of blood.

  Tasker turned to face his quiet partner in the backseat. “You okay?”

  Sutter, holding the red-stained towel Camy had given him to his ankle, nodded curtly.

  Tasker’s Nextel chirped, followed by Camy’s voice. “We’re off the interstate, headed for Biscayne. I’m gonna call Miami PD and fill them in.”

  Tasker responded, “Ten-four. We’re near the interstate, coming up on Fifth Street.”

  When Bolini made a turn onto Fifth, heading for the Port of Miami, he said, “Up there, straight ahead.”

  The tanker was slowing in the growing traffic. There were still a lot of cars between them and Wells.

  “Shit,” said Bolini, slowing to a stop behind traffic and pounding the steering wheel in frustration.

  Tasker yanked the door handle and was gone.

  Wells was glowing. He had slowed in exactly the kind of traffic he had expected. No cops questioned the tanker’s movement because all the cops had hightailed it to Interstate 95 a minute after his van went up. Now, with the radio playing Toby Keith and the air conditioner humming, Wells felt like he was in control and about to send the whole world out of control.

  He shifted his eyes to look out the side rearview, but remembered he’d banged it off on the gate to Emerson-Picolo Transportation. Since leaving the little neighborhood by the Orange Bowl, he had knocked off the left side mirror, too, and taken out a mailbox, a parked moped, two parked cars and clipped a lunch truck. The truck was the only one anyone noticed. The owner jumped out, screaming something in Spanish while shaking his fist. Wells just waved and got back into the groove of the music.

  He looked at the buildings on both sides of the street. It would be better to go three or four blocks south, closer to downtown. This road was still a little open for traffic to the port and Bayfront Park.

  He changed radio stations until he caught a news bulletin about the interstate. A woman solemnly reported, “A car fire on I-95 near the exit to Northwest Eighth Street is starting to cause major tie-ups. No word yet on the cause or injuries. The Florida Highway Patrol is on the scene and we will give you updates as they come available. Avoid this area if at all possible.”

  Wells smiled, knowing his plan had succeeded without a hitch. He could feel his tingling sensation grow, then, without any warning, his door opened and a strong hand had a hold of him.

  Tasker jogged toward the stopped semi, moving from car to car, not only for cover but support. There was no part of his body that didn’t throb, and some body parts were positively screaming. His stiff legs bled from several places and he was still wet. He had his Beretta out of its belly-bag holster and a badge dangling from a chain around his neck. The few drivers that noticed him recoiled in disgust and fear. As he passed one car, a woman grabbed her baby from the car seat and held her. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Bolini had caught up. He didn’t expect Sutter would be running anywhere.

  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 for
ward, 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.