Shock Wave

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 forward, 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.”