Dark Zone

111

Dean examined the boxes more carefully this time. They were definitely different units, but they were locked together somehow. The surface seemed to be a plastic material painted to look like metal at first glance. At the top of one of the boxes a small watch face had been inserted in an octagonal cutout; as Dean watched, time slipped away: 424, 423, 422…

He tried to pry the clock up and out of the indentation with his fingers, but it wouldn’t budge.

He could break it, probably, by slamming something into it. But would that stop the timer or merely cause the bomb to explode prematurely?

Where was the stinking Art Room when he needed them?

Dean climbed up over the seats and squirreled around to the back of the car. He saw the dim outline of the power car down the tracks; it sounded like it had been started up again.

Whoever was in it would be waiting for the gunmen.

He stepped back, thinking there must be a way to close the door manually. But it wasn’t obvious, and after a moment searching he decided he was better off trying to figure out how to defuse the bomb.

There were now a little more than 350 seconds left — less than six minutes.

He could break the timer as a last resort.

He began hunting for another switch, looking at each side of the device. When he didn’t find one, he thought it might be possible to pry the watch out and reset it. He reached into his pockets, looking for his keys, only to remember that he didn’t have any. He bent to the dead woman whose body rested against the bombs. Her pocketbook was on the floor near her seat. He opened it and fished around. There was a small nail file at the bottom.

As he started back he heard a sound at the end of the car. He pulled the pistol from his belt as he ducked behind the seat back.

“You going to shoot me?”

“Lia.”

“That thing there’s a nuke,” she said, limping toward it. “Johnny Bib says it’s put together like building blocks. We have to pull one of the blocks away.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Oh yeah, I made it up.”

She reached forward and put her fingers on the crack at the side, pulling. It didn’t budge.

“We have to pull it apart? It won’t explode?”

“I have no idea, Charlie Dean. Just help me.”

“Wait,” said Dean. He ran to where he’d dropped the MP-5, thinking they might be able to use it as a pry bar.

“What happened to your leg?” Lia asked, pointing to the bloodstain.

“I bit a ricochet. How’s your calf?”

“Still here. Johnny Bib’s a nut, you know.”

Dean couldn’t get the muzzle of the weapon into the razor-thin opening between the boxes. He started using the gun like an ice pick, hammering away. Nothing moved.

“This back one, here,” said Lia. “Look, there’s more of a crack. Give me that nail file.”

She took the file and began wiggling it in. It hit something about an inch in.

“Slam the file down,” she said. “I think I hit a lock or something. Come on.”

As Dean positioned himself, he saw the time draining — they were in the two hundreds now.

“Here, come on, come on,” said Lia. She grabbed the gun and together they slammed it down on the file. It broke, but the box moved about a quarter of an inch away from the others, just enough to slide the gun in.

They pushed together, once, twice — and the third time was the charm. The box moved perhaps an inch away.

“More!” Lia yelled.

Dean got up on the seat back and kicked at the gun, forgetting that he had hurt his leg. The knee twisted and the pain was so bad he felt his whole body go weak and then numb.

But the box moved about six inches.

“Again, come on,” said Lia, and she twisted around to help him. He put the pistol down and they pushed, once, twice, three times, a fourth, a fifth — the snaps at the bottom finally gave way and the box tumbled down with a heavy crash.

So did they, rolling into the seats and then onto the floor, Lia barely avoiding getting crushed.

As Dean looked up, a shadow came around the comer at the back of the train. He dove for his pistol.

Mussa heard something as he climbed onto the train. What were Muhammad and Kelvin up to?

He checked the machine gun he had taken from Ahmed. He’d have to kill them, too. There were only a few minutes left, no sense keeping them alive now.

As he turned the corner, the bomb seemed to explode. His first thought was that Allah had permitted him the sublime ecstasy of seeing his weapon erupt.

And then he realized he was very wrong. Someone was trying to take it apart. He was so shocked it took a moment before he could lift his weapon.

Donohue crouched at the back of the car, trying to decipher what was going on from the others’ conversation.

The woman had found a man, on either the train or the tracks. They were American agents. They were talking about a bomb. A nuclear bomb.

Had Mussa stolen a nuclear device?

Donohue ran into the car, starting to say that he would help. As he did, he saw not the woman or the man she’d found somehow, but Mussa, standing at the far end.

There was a submachine gun in his hand.

Lia’s head slammed hard on the floor and the box crashed alongside her, a half inch from her face.

She was in Korea, in the terminal. There was a man at the door, yelling.

The old man who’d been with her before the other plane arrived. He was in charge of the terminal or something, some sort of civilian official.

He stood in the doorway. The officer whirled back in anger, pulling out his pistol, but the old man remained there, a solemn look on his face, shaming him.

He said something.

The officer started to raise his gun, but the old man gave no ground.

Silently the officer waved at the others. They left, and so did he.

Why had she forgotten that? Why had her brain pushed it away? The old man had saved her.

God bless him for his courage.

Mussa couldn’t believe it: Donohue stood at the end of the car.

Donohue!

He turned his submachine gun toward him and began to fire.

Dean heard the submachine gun rattle as he grabbed the pistol. He twisted upward. The shadow lurched forward — the man with the submachine gun was firing at the far end of the carriage, ignoring him.

Dean’s first bullet struck the side of the man’s head. It seemed as if it had no effect. With the second shot, the head disappeared backward, blood flying in a thick spray everywhere.

“Come on! Come on!” Dean yelled, scrambling to get up. “Let’s get out. Come on.”

Lia lay on her stomach on the floor between the seats and the piece of bomb that they had moved. Tears were flowing from her closed eyes and her whole body heaved with sobs. Dean grabbed her, pulling her past the man he’d just shot, a light-skinned Arab dressed in the uniform of the train crew. He half-carried, half-dragged her to the end of the car. He let go of her, thinking he would jump down to the tracks and reach back for her. But when he got to the ground she had already clambered down.

“I can do it on my own, Charlie Dean,” she said as he tried to help her.

“For once in your life, accept some help, damn it,” he told her. “Just shut up and be thankful.”

“I am thankful,” she whispered as he hoisted her over his shoulder. “And not for once, either.”