Bix heard the blast, stood up. “What the f—”
At that moment the second bomb went off. This explosive — planted under the Jaguar itself — was an incendiary device. When the hot jet of burning plasma met the flowing oil, a roiling ball of fire instantly engulfed the interior of the garage, incinerating everything in its path. The fireball was quickly followed by an explosion so large it not only leveled Bix Automotive, it also destroyed the abandoned tool and die factory across the street.
Balboa burst into the uniform storage room, stripped off his waiter’s apron and jacket while he spoke in hushed tones with his brother. Stella sat at the table, buffing her polished fingernails. The little girl Pamela cowered on the floor, hugging the coloring book to her chest.
“What happened?” Pizarro demanded.
“I gave the woman the cart. She followed my command.” Balboa bunched up the uniform and tossed it into a corner. “The alarms went off and I returned here.”
“Why triggered the bells?”
“I don’t know,” Balboa replied. “Perhaps someone found one of the truck bombs. It doesn’t matter. They could not have found them all. It’s too late to stop us now.”
Pizarro glanced nervously at his watch. “We must go, move on to the rendezvous.”
Stella rose, straightened her dress. “What about the kid?”
“Take her,” Pizarro commanded. “We’ll use her as a hostage if we need to. Once we’re clear of the hotel, we can release her—”
“Then I’m coming with you, back to the old country, or wherever the hell you’re from,” Stella insisted. “No way I’m staying in the USA. Not with a kidnapping rap hanging over my head.”
Pizarro thin lips parted in a toothy grin. “Very well,” he said.
His brother Balboa frowned, turned his back on the pair. “I will fetch the elevator,” he said, stepping through the door.
“We’re leaving, kid,” Stella said, yanking Pamela’s arm.
“I don’t want to go,” the girl sobbed.
Stella smacked Pamela across the face. The unex
pected blow stunned the girl to silence.
“If you stay here, you’ll get blown up just like your mother,” Stella yelled. “Now come on, the elevator’s right outside.”
“Hurry,” Pizarro cried. “We’re running out of time.”
Two uniformed officers of the Babylon’s security staff took it upon themselves to break into the white Sprinter and defuse the bomb they’d discovered inside. Neither had knowledge or experience with explosives, let alone deactivating bombs, but they figured if they yanked out the detonation cords it might be enough to save hundreds of lives.
The doors were locked, the keys snapped off, so Gus Fellows used a fire extinguisher to smash the windshield. “Cub” Tanner, the smaller partner in the team, climbed through the shattered window to the front seat, then clambered into the back of the panel truck.
It was quieter inside, shielded from the shrill fire alarms booming through the garage. But peace of mind was short lived. Behind rows of potted flowers, Tanner spied the detonation cords, the barrels of C4, the timer clock ticking down. He wanted to run, right then and there. Instead, Cub grabbed detonation cords with both hands and yanked them loose.
“Am I still alive?” he asked, wires dangling from his hands.
His partner’s head was thrust through the broken windshield. The man was all smiles.
“You did it,” Fellows hooted. “You’re a goddamn real life super hero.“
At that moment, the other four trucks exploded — four bombs detonating at precisely the same moment, each with the force of tons of TNT.
Contained inside the parking garage, the explosive power of the multiple blasts was magnified many times. Cars were tossed like leaves in a windstorm. Mimicking water seeking its own level, the force of the blast flowed up elevator shafts, through air conditioning ducts and exhaust vents, along corridors and hallways. The main tower of the Babylon Hotel and Casino trembled as if subjected to an earthquake.
The parking garage collapsed instantly, the top floors crashing down onto the lower levels, the concrete slabs stacking up like pancakes, obliterating those unfortunates who were in their cars, or moving through the parking garage when the blast occurred.
In the ballroom, Senator David Palmer felt the floor tremble, then the entire building seemed to lurch. Screaming, people were thrown to the ground. Tall windows shattered, raining cutting death down onto partygoers buried by the torrent of crystal shards.
Amid the chaos, Senator Palmer searched for his wife. She’d excused herself to go to the powder room, promising to return before he began his speech. But Sherry had been gone a long time. Now he had to find her.
Before he took a step, David felt a tug on his arm. He looked down to see a young waitress, face pale, eyes wide with fright. She pointed to a cart covered with flowers.
“It’s a bomb,” she cried. “A man brought it in here.”
David pushed her aside, reached the cart in two steps. He scattered the flowers, saw only a smooth, white tablecloth.
“Underneath,” Lilly Sheridan said with a frightened sob.
Palmer ripped the cloth away, saw the blocks of C4 tapped to the underside of the cart. He lifted the wheeled carrier with both hands, held it over his head.
“Out of the way!” he shouted. Stumbling to the broken window, then outside to the glass-strewn balcony, Palmer ran to the edge of the building and tossed the cart over the side.
The bomb went off, knocking him backwards. Blinking away the flash motes in his eye, he crawled to his feet and went back inside the ballroom. The woman who’d warned him about the bomb was gone, and Palmer didn’t really care. What happened was a mystery to sort out later. Right now, he had to find his wife.
Sherry Palmer was six floors below the ballroom when the bombs detonated. She’d gone searching for Lev Cohen, who was missing with her five million dollars. As soon as she got out of the elevator, Sherry heard the first alarms going off. She didn’t panic, figuring if there was a real emergency, fire marshals would show up and order everyone out of the building. For all she knew, the alarm resulted from nothing more than an elevator that was stuck.
She went to Lev’s room first, pounded on the door, then finally used her own pass key to enter. Lev wasn’t there, and there was no sign he’d even returned from the meeting with Jong Lee.
Sherry decided to visit Jong Lee next. She waited five minutes for the elevator, then gave up and used the stairs to go down two floors, to Lee’s room. She’d just knocked on the man’s door when she felt the explosions under her feet. Then the entire building seemed to teeter on its foundations, tossing Sherry against the wall, then down to the carpeted floor. Behind closed doors, she heard screams, shattering glass, the sound of furniture breaking. The trembling subsided quickly, but the hall began to fill with a white haze.
Sherry pounded the door again. “Mr. Lee? Are you all right?”
A figure emerged from the smoke, a member of the housekeeping staff who was racing for the stairs. Sherry snagged her arm.
“My friend is in there. He’s hurt. Please open the door,” Sherry pleaded. The woman muttered something in Spanish while she fumbled in her pocket. Finally she produced a universal card key and slid it through the slot. The green light went on and Sherry pushed the door open.
“Thank you,” she said. But the housekeeper was already gone.
Lee’s suite had been battered by the blast, but there was no sign of occupation. The lamps were down, so Sherry tried the overhead light. The lights seemed dim, and Sherry deduced the power was low.
She searched the suite, found Lev Cohen in the bedroom. He’d been stabbed to death. The murderer had placed him on the bed, folded his arms across his chest, but had not bothered to close his dead staring eyes. Sherry stepped closer to examine the corpse, then stumbled backwards, choking back a sob. More smoke filled the
