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.
Sal Bolini, with Jimmy Lail’s help, had dragged Wells to the intersection to watch the tanker’s labored climb up the incline of the bridge. Why didn’t Tasker shift gears? Bolini wondered. He stared at the tanker, willing it to move faster. Then he did something he hadn’t done since high school: he prayed. “Please, God, let him get out.” He closed his eyes and repeated the prayer. When he opened them, Tasker was hobbling along the side of the stopped tanker. He mumbled, “Thank you,” out loud.
Bolini’s grip tightened on Wells’ arm as Tasker turned toward the north side of the bridge. Tasker climbed onto the rail, then hesitated.
“Jump,” Bolini said. “Fucking jump!”
Tasker turned and stood and started waving his arms.
Bolini looked up the bridge and saw a tractor-trailer headed over the span of the bridge. The driver saw there was a problem and stood on the brakes, causing the box trailer to slide sideways across the four lanes of the bridge, nearly jackknifing, but stopping well away from the tanker.
Then the tanker exploded.
The sight and sound of the blast took him by surprise. It looked like a mini atomic bomb as it flashed, then traveled vertically, instantly melting the electric and communication cables over the bridge. The signal on the stop gates on the bridge crackled and popped, the lenses shattering. The grass along the arena property withered instantly as the flame licked all the way down the bridge and to the sides. The paint on the side of the building bubbled and changed colors as the sign over Bongos Restaurant popped and sizzled.
Everyone ducked instinctively, and the sound of the blast echoed through the streets and into the spaces between buildings.
Part of the fireball shot straight down the bridge, guided by the rails and ocean breeze until the intersection flashed with flames. No people were still in the vicinity. The smashed Chevy closest to the bridge instantly ignited, as did the two cars next to it. One, a Chrysler, burned out immediately. The other started to burn from the tires up. Black smoke started pouring from both vehicles and drifted across the area, adding to the mounting confusion.
Bolini squinted to see through the smoke but couldn’t see Tasker.
Sutter, limping up to where Jimmy stood with Wells in cuffs, casually kicked the prone man just on general principle. Unable to see what they were all staring at until he reached the line of spectators in front of Wells and Jimmy, he pushed through the crowd just as the tanker blew up. The sound rattled his intestines, and the flash hurt his eyes.
“Jesus, where’s Bill?” he shouted to Bolini as they both ducked.
Bolini just shook his head.
Sutter felt sick to his stomach.
He stared at the flame as it just sort of evaporated into the sky. If it had blown down here, the blast would’ve killed fifty people. He himself never would have thought fast enough to move the tanker to an open place.
He went to one knee and felt tears build in his eyes.
…
Wells stared at the unfolding scene. This was getting pretty good, with the black, sooty smoke filling the streets and the people screaming. The tanker wasn’t where he would’ve put it and hadn’t done nearly its potential, but people were scared and it was because of him. This was cool.
Bolini and Jimmy bolted into an all-out run to the bridge. Sutter put his hand on Wells and forced him to prone out on the ground again. Then he sat across his legs. The crowd was starting to grow as more people left their cars to see what the hell was going on.
Bolini reached the bridge and started the long slog up the incline. Finally he had to move all the way to the right because of the heat of the burning hulk of the tanker. The cement guardrail was flashed with a brown, burnt color. They looked down at the water for any sign of their partner.
Jimmy hopped onto the rail at the spot they’d last seen Tasker, then leaped down into the water before Bolini could protest. It looked like a long way to Bolini, but Jimmy hit the water with a splash and was immediately up and thrashing around.
Bolini leaned over the side, anxiously looking over. “See anything?” he shouted.
Jimmy was too intent on the search and too far away to respond.
Bolini started to pray again. “Help us out-please, God.”
At that moment, Jimmy broke the surface with Tasker, unconscious in his arms. Jimmy flipped his head so he was face up, cupped an arm across his chest and started for the seawall nearest him.
Bolini raced down the bridge faster than he realized he could run, and jumped to the embankment under the base. He half-ran, half-tumbled to the edge of the water, then scurried around the small bay on the seawall to meet Jimmy Lail.
“Here,” gasped Jimmy, holding Tasker’s motionless body up from the water. Bolini grabbed his shoulders and tugged. With effort they had him up onto the grass, and Jimmy pulled himself up.
Tasker had the cuts and bruises from earlier, and now his hair was singed. His left eye had swollen shut.
Bolini said, “You know CPR?”
Jimmy laid Tasker out completely flat, and as he was tilting his head back, Tasker coughed and water sprang up out of his mouth like an oil well.
Tasker coughed again and gasped, “Anyone hurt?”
Bolini let out a laugh. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What about the truck on the bridge?”
Bolini paused, then stood, looking up past the burning tanker. “He’s stopped right at the crest.” He kneeled back down to Tasker. “You did good. With both bombs. Maybe you should be a bomb tech.”
Tasker coughed and let out a slight smile, “No, thanks.” He sat up. “Where’s Wells?”
“We got him. Sutter is sitting on him.”
Jimmy Lail chuckled. “Literally.”
“Get me to them,” said Tasker, slowly standing to his feet.
Tasker didn’t intend to argue when the first paramedics arrived and told him he had to go to the hospital. He walked slowly, with Jimmy and Bolini on either side of him. They cut through the crowd and saw Sutter still sitting across Wells’ legs.
Sutter’s face brightened as he saw the three men slowly come toward him. “Praise Jesus,” smiled Sutter. He stood and, to Tasker’s surprise, hugged him. Tasker used his remaining functioning arm to return the gesture.
On the ground, face down, with his hands cuffed, Wells said, “Hey, this is uncomfortable.”
Jimmy Lail, in his Texas drawl, said, “You’re about to b
e as uncomfortable as a June bug in a fishing tournament if you don’t shut up.”
All three men stared at him.
From across the street, Camy Parks cut through the crowd and ran toward them. Jimmy turned to face her and held out his arms. She ran past him to Sutter and kissed him hard on the lips.
Tasker settled back as he heard a host of sirens approaching from every direction. Then he laid back on the ground, shut his eyes and took the deepest breath of his life with his sore lungs.
Jimmy Lail’s face flushed red every time he looked over at Sutter being treated by the paramedics, with Camy sitting next to him like a puppy. He’d just risked his life to save the city and she ran to that jerk. He tried not to glare but knew he wasn’t concealing it well.
Sitting next to him, Wells, with his hands cuffed behind his back, said, “Women, they can be a pain in the butt.” He nodded and smiled.
Jimmy looked at him and said, “If you open that redneck hole in your face again, you’ll wish you were on that tanker.” He nodded toward the still-burning hulk on the bridge; firemen were spraying it with a white foam.
Wells just shrugged.
Jimmy looked back at his former girlfriend and took a deep breath. He was a young, good-looking guy with a great job. What chick wouldn’t want to hook up with him? He was just killing time with her anyway. He felt a little better until he saw Camy kiss Sutter on the lips again as the paramedics started to take him away.
Jimmy stared at them and said out loud, “I don’t want to hear anything from you. You’re in enough trouble.” He turned to make sure his message had gotten through, but there was no one there.
Jimmy twisted his head in every direction, looking for the missing Wells, or Bolini for help. The crowd was milling all around, and Jimmy couldn’t see any sign of the handcuffed man.
“Oh shit!” He started to run through the crowd.
thirty-six
A week later, Bill Tasker sat on his patio, Derrick Sutter in the lounger next to him. A week of rest had helped him recover only a little. He still wasn’t supposed to drink beer because of the antibiotics and painkillers he was using, but he decided one Icehouse with his partner wouldn’t kill him. Even though he had seen a lot of corpses that looked better than he did right now. He had thirty stitches in different cuts in his legs. Fifteen on his arms. Ten in one gash along his hairline. One wrist was broken, which he hadn’t even realized at the time. Both legs had torn muscles, and his right ankle was sprained. He’d had to have a buzz cut to remove his burnt hair and allow the doctors to examine his head properly, and he had a couple of decent burns on his face and shoulder.
Sutter, on the other hand, had a bandage on his foot near his ankle and a pair of crutches. Dressed in a sharp pair of pants and button-down Oxford shirt, he was casually telling Tasker about his passionate affair with the lovely Camy Parks.
“I’m telling you, Billy, sometimes she’s like a wild animal, and sometimes she really is a princess.”
Tasker held up his hand. “I get the idea.” He looked toward the sliding glass door. “My girls are inside.”
Sutter shrugged. “Sorry.”
Tasker asked, “How long you gonna be out of work?”
“They say I can be back at light duty next week. What about you?”
“Won’t say. Need to be evaluated Friday. I figure two weeks.”
Sutter smiled. “Why? Take some time. Two weeks ain’t shit. You need a couple months, all you been through.”
“How’s Jimmy Lail doing?”
“Camy says he’s obsessed with finding Wells. She says he’s on surveillance every day, looking for him.” Sutter started to laugh. “You heard he had his car stolen, too?”
“Really. The Honda? Where?”
“Off Biscayne. The day we chased Wells. With everything else going on, no one made a big deal about it.” He looked back at Tasker. “Camy says he doesn’t care about the car, or anything but Wells.”
Tasker nodded. “I know the feeling.”
“But he’s got help. Now the FBI knows what one of their snitches tried to do. They’ve got everyone out beating the bushes. Lot of local cops, too. But the FBI is definitely leading the charge.”
“The name Eric Rudolph mean anything to you?”
Sutter smiled and nodded.
Tasker thought about the similarity between the Atlanta Olympics bomber and Wells. Both had gotten away with it for a while. Rudolph had evaded a massive FBI hunt for five years, until some local cop found him digging in a dumpster. Tasker decided he wouldn’t hold his breath until Wells was captured.
Sutter tapped a Miami Herald on the table between them. “You okay with this bullshit?”
Tasker smiled, looking at the headline: FBI AVERTS DISASTER. “Yeah, it’s true. Bolini came through.”
“But you risked your ass.”
“We all did.”
“I just think that’s absolute bullshit.”
Tasker shrugged. He really didn’t care. He’d accomplished what he set out to do. Wells would turn up. Nuts like that always make mistakes. They’d have time to find him. No one had seen or heard from him or Alicia in the seven days since the tanker exploded. Tasker figured they were together.
Sutter looked at Tasker and said, “That reminds me.”
“What?”
“You guaranteed me I wouldn’t get shot by the FBI if I helped on this case.”
Tasker smiled. “I think I said I could almost guarantee it.” He sat up on the lounger. “Besides, what are you bitchin’ about? The wounds are getting less severe every time. Next time it’ll probably just be a graze in the arm.”
Sutter and Tasker sat on his patio in Kendall and laughed together over all the things that had happened in the past few weeks. They laughed so long and so hard that Tasker’s girls came out to make sure everything was all right.
Tasker put his arms around their small shoulders and kissed them each on the forehead.
“Yep, girls. Everything is just fine.”
thirty-seven
Daniel Wells took the exit off Interstate 10, heading south toward New Orleans. They weren’t going to stay here more than a night, but Wells needed to look around. He had an idea about his next show. It had been a long drive, but the kids had slept most of the way. Alicia had apologized from Tampa to Tallahassee about helping the cops, but he said he understood. He didn’t know what he’d do, either, if someone threatened to take the kids.
It had been one wild week. Starting with his attempt to light up Miami… all the way to this road trip. He’d been lucky in Miami and knew it. When old Sal Bolini slapped the cuffs on him, he had tightened his fists and pulled his hand up so Sal had closed the cuff on his left fist instead of his wrist. Then, when the younger FBI guy was not paying attention, he had just stood up and walked away a hundred feet or so, letting the crowd swallow him up. The cops all rushing to the scene were too intent on the burning tanker to notice anyone filtering through the crowd. Slipping his left hand out of the cuff had been a lot more painful than he’d thought it would, but it only took a few seconds of determined struggle. A few blocks away, he’d found a tricked-out lowrider Honda, popped the window, jumped in and took the fast little sucker all the way to Tampa. He’d used a twenty he’d found in the car’s console for some gas and a sandwich at the gas station on the west side of Alligator Alley.
Now he held the steering wheel to the Ford station wagon with his right hand because his left wrist was still sore from slipping the handcuffs in Miami. He had a white bandage over his knuckles on his left hand and still couldn’t move his thumb. Considering the alternative, he wasn’t upset by the injuries.
He had been a little disappointed that his stunt had not gotten more than a day’s play in the national news, but the memory of that scene was burned into his head. He still felt the charge from it.
Alicia, snoring lightly, snuggled up under his arm closer. He hugged her.
Still, the tanker would be nothing next to hi
s next plan. He smiled when he saw the sign for the Superdome, then glanced down at the book he’d stolen from the Miami Public Library: The Principles of Nuclear Fission.
James O. Born
***
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