7
Preparations
Jack unlocked the trunk of the Ford Explorer.
It was five years old, and he maintained it himself and had as much confidence in it as he would in something brand new. Maybe more.
He’d done all the modifications—expensive and time-consuming—himself. The standard safety glass had all been replaced with reinforced shock-absorbent windshields and side windows, the same glass they once used in the armored cars of the well-heeled in Sao Paulo.
Sao Paulo? Gone years ago.
A layer of sheet metal covered all the vehicle’s side panels and undercarriage. The hood got a double layer of the same steel. The SUV would be better than a Humvee in an accident.
Or an attack.
Tires were a problem. Even the best tires could be ripped and gouged and turned into a useless piece of spinning rubber.
But the latest steel-belted battle tires used on the NYPD’s patrol vehicles were layers thick. A puncture, even a good-sized one, couldn’t come close to deflating them. Jack made sure he carried two spares.
He unlocked the compartment hidden under the mat of the luggage area, revealing the cases containing guns and ammo. Two S&W .40 pistols, a pair of Glock 22s, and—in two pieces—an M16. Beside the guns, a foam “egg shell” held three compact C-4 explosives—“door-busters” the cops called them, all fitted with timers.
He shook his head.
If Christie saw all this, she would freak. Was it just paranoia? Or was bringing all this firepower borne of years of being on the streets, while the Can Heads kept on coming?
He’d wear his service revolver on his ankle as well. Christie had grown used to that.
“Just like your father,” she had told him. “You feel undressed without your gun.”
He’d smile at that.
And carefully not say anything in response.
Undressed? No. More like unprotected.
He slowly shut the back hatch door, gently, so no loud thump filtered upstairs.
Jack tried to do a good job of acting enthused about the trip. His family deserved that.
He walked to the side of the car—near the front, just below the engine—and knelt down. The SUV had been driven around for a few days, and he wanted to see if the most recent alterations he’d made to the underchassis looked completely intact.
He dug a small flashlight out of his back pocket.
The right leg at the knee sent out a painful burst as it hit the stone floor.
Ignoring it, he craned down and looked under the car.
Checking it day after day.
As much as he didn’t want to accept it, he knew the answer.
His hand felt the reinforced underside of the car, the steel plate that ran from bumper to bumper, installed with the help of his cop friend Tim, who lived nearby. Jack then helped Tim do the same thing to his decade-old Land Rover.
But this new addition?
Nobody knew about that.
Positioned mid-car, in the center, it looked like a meter-long protrusion an inch and a half below the rest of the steel plate on the undercarriage.
The protrusion was lined with reinforced steel as well; it was also a compartment. Nobody would notice it. Not unless they did what he was doing now, sliding under the vehicle, a flashlight between his teeth.
And inside the meter-long compartment? Two rows of a mix of pentolite and RDX explosives. Compact and powerful. The NYPD used them to blow up and seal the holes made by Can Heads in their relentless desire to get under barriers.
He looked at the metal tube with its shielded wiring streaming from the compartment and to the front, up to just below the dashboard.
Did he look at this every day because he needed to comprehend what his fear—what installing this really meant? Was that why?
He slid out from under the car. Stood up. Opened the driver’s door and crouched down.
Jack aimed the light at a place to the right of the SUV’s steering column. The light showed the two-step switch that he had installed. There would be no chance of accidentally triggering it.
No, to make the switch active, he’d have to turn and open a protective cap a full 360 degrees. Only then would the detonation switch become active and be revealed.
And then—a single flick would send an electrical charge down to the compartment and explosives … and blow the car to pieces.
He straightened up, and sat back in the passenger seat.
Such a crazy precaution. Insane, really. But as long as no one knew, there’d be no harm.
Right?
His paranoia would be his alone.
And in what scenario would he actually throw that switch?
Despite his tendency to imagine the what-ifs, the possibilities, the dangers in detail—
Part of his job, to be sure.
—for this, he didn’t allow himself to go there.
* * *
“So where were you?”
“Just puttering with the car.”
“That car gets more attention than me.”
Christie’s tone was light—but Jack heard a dig anyway.
Then she said: “The kids are crazy excited, you know. I have them packing.”
He nodded.
“And it’ll be great. For them. For you. For us.”
“I know,” Jack said.
Then: “Think I’ll take that shower now.”
8
Home
“I’ll have some more,” Jack said.
