antifreeze. On the other side of the door was a large metal toolbox, the kind with wheels and dozens of drawers.
She turned back toward the alley. Her eyes instantly fell on an object just inside the door. A number of objects, actually. Two metal tanks were chained together and resting on a hand trolley. She moved closer and studied both tanks, listening carefully for the sound of approaching footsteps. One tank came up to her waist. It was painted a pale shade of green, and there were two gauges sticking out from a brass valve at the top. A hose ran out from the valve, but she couldn’t see where it went, as it was wrapped into a bulky mass on the other side of the cart. The second cylinder was unpainted and about twothirds the size of the first. It also had two gauges, and a red hose ran out from the top. Looking closer, she realized the hoses were joined along their length with plastic ties, and both ran into some kind of metal fitting at the top. Most interesting of all were the markings on each tank. The larger read OXYGEN in bold letters. The smaller was marked ACETYLENE.
This was what she was looking for. Without hesitation, she moved behind the trolley, grabbed the handles, and dropped her weight forward. The tanks rocked back on the trolley, and she wheeled them around, carefully navigating the slight bump where the door frame met the asphalt. Soon she had the trolley out in the alley and next to the van. Letting go of the handles, she thought for a moment, then peered in through the driver’s window, searching for the fuel gauge. She found it quickly and immediately realized that since the van wasn’t running, the gauge wasn’t any use to her. She debated starting it up to see how much fuel was in the tank, but then decided not to waste the time. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could go and fill it up if it was low.
Moving back to the trolley, she carefully wheeled it next to the rear fender, then lowered it onto its handles. With a little effort, she managed to wedge the trolley behind the rear tire on the driver’s side. Both tanks were now parallel to the ground, approximately 7 inches above the asphalt. Stepping back, Naomi appraised her work. She had no idea if her plan would work. The gauges seemed to indicate that the cylinders were nearly full, but she couldn’t be sure of the end result. She had worked with all kinds of explosives at Camp Peary, but the training regimen had not included a lecture on the explosive properties of acetylene. Or oxygen, for that matter. Still, this was the only thing she had at hand, and she didn’t have time to consider another course of action. She examined the tanks once more, then hesitated, thinking about the Glock 9mm tucked into the top of her jeans. It occurred to her that the tanks would be well constructed, considering what they contained, and when she squeezed the trigger, she’d have to be as far away as possible. A 9mm round might not be powerful enough to penetrate both cylinders.
Jogging around to the other side of the van, she pulled open the door and climbed inside. Opening the lockbox bolted to the floor, she checked the inventory. There was one weapon left inside, a ParaOrdnance P14. She could tell from the size of the gun that it was chambered for .45 ACP cartridges, but she checked one of the fully loaded magazines to be sure. Satisfied, she pushed the magazine into the well and chambered a round. Then she climbed out of the van and shut the door. As she walked back toward the street, she pulled out her phone, hit the speed dial, and lifted it to her ear. Petain answered a second later.
“I’m set on this end,” Naomi said.
“What do you want us to do?”
“You’re still inside the trailer, right?”
“Yes.”
“Wait thirty seconds, then move. You might still have to deal with one or two, but that’s better than half a dozen. Whatever you do, don’t head for the gate you entered through. It looks like all the police cars are sitting on the east side of the site, so head for the opposite gate. Okay?”
“Got it. What will you—”
“I’ll be in touch when I can,” Naomi said, anticipating the question. “
“Yes, I think so.”
“Then good luck.”
Naomi hit the END button without waiting for a response. Slipping the phone back into her pocket, she did her best to conceal the P14 as she reached the street, holding it down behind her right thigh. She turned and looked back at the tanks, squinting into the afternoon sun. The van was sitting about 15 meters away, which meant it was much, much too close. Still, she had run out of room. If she kept walking, she would be out of the alley and back in plain view, where someone might catch sight of the gun and raise the alarm. There was an overflowing dumpster to her left. Moving behind it, she dropped to one knee and raised the weapon with both hands. She aimed at the first cylinder, careful to expose as little of her body as possible. It was no good; her hands were shaking, and her breath was ragged. The nausea was worse than ever. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to relax. Then she opened her eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and squeezed the trigger. The air inside the trailer was incredibly thick, both operatives waiting on edge for whatever Naomi was going to do. Kealey had already pulled off his T-shirt and used the damp cotton to wipe most of Ghafour’s blood from his hands and arms. Looking around, he found a couple of discarded flannel shirts on the couch near the door—too warm for this kind of weather, too conspicuous, but they would have to suffice. He pulled one on and tossed the second to Petain, whose eyes were locked on Ghafour’s still form. She caught the shirt at the last possible second and looked over.
“What do you want me to do with this?”
“Put it on,” he told her. “We’ll wear the hard hats out of here. It won’t help much, but a few seconds of confusion is better than nothing at all.”
She nodded her consent and pulled on the oversized shirt. As she zipped up the front, she gestured to Ghafour and said, “What about him?”
Kealey glanced over, then returned his gaze to the door. “He’s dead. How long has it been?”
He sensed more than saw Petain look at her watch. “Forty seconds,” she murmured. “Why haven’t we heard anything?”
“Give her time. Just listen for movement out—”
The second part of his sentence was cut off by a distant boom. As the noise faded away, Kealey heard the officers shifting around outside. There was a babble of voices, then the sound of fast-moving feet. He realized that some of them must be moving back to the street in response to the explosion. Moving carefully, quietly, he stepped forward, separated the blinds, and looked outside. There were two officers left. Both were facing the street, their backs to the trailer. The others were running across the site, toward the east gate. Beyond the chain-link fence, Kealey could see a thick pall of smoke rising into the clear blue sky. It was a strange, disconcerting sight, but he recognized the diversion for what it was: the only thing that might get them out of there in one piece.
“Grab the money,” he said.
“What?”
“
“Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
Kealey put his hand on the door and began to count. When he hit three, he flung open the door and took in the scene, moving forward the whole time. Both officers started to turn at the noise. The first was about 3 feet from the door.
“?Ayudenos!” Kealey shouted. “That guy in there is crazy!”
The closest officer hesitated as he turned, his eyes looking past Kealey to the open door. It gave Kealey the split second he needed. His right foot shot out, catching the officer beneath the left knee. He started to go down as Kealey pushed off his right foot, shifting his weight to the left. It was a fast movement, but not fast enough. The second officer’s right arm swung around with surprising speed, and Kealey had no choice. He fired once but didn’t see where his round hit. The officer started to fall back as Petain advanced, her gun drawn, and aimed . . .
Kealey turned back to the first officer. He was clutching his knee and groaning, his service weapon lying a few feet away in the dirt. Kealey leaned down and snatched it up, then shoved it into the deep right pocket of his work shirt. He removed his hard hat, tossed it aside, and turned to Petain. She had already collected the other man’s weapon; her FN Forty-Nine was still trained on the fallen officer, whose hands were raised in surrender. Looking closer, Kealey could see that his round had hit the man in the right side of his abdomen. As long as the wound was treated soon, it wouldn’t be lifethreatening.
“Let’s go,” Kealey said. Petain nodded her assent, but he didn’t see her acknowledge his words. His attention
