A Bomb Built in Hell

At 11:45, the Mayor arrived in a helicopter with three men who looked like politicians from the ground, but like bodyguards through the scope.

At 12:05 p.m., the first tugs steamed in, towing the ship. The crowd let out a major cheer, drowning the voices of the demonstrators. Wesley trained the scope on the face of their leader, searching carefully for anything dangerous. But he seemed too beside himself with rage to have planned anything that might get in the way.

At 12:35 p.m., the gangplank was lowered from the ship to the dock. An honor guard came first, flying the Haitian flag and the American flag in separate holders. The soldiers held their rifles like they were batons. As the TV crews trained their cameras toward the entrance to the gangplank, the reporters jockeyed for position at its foot.

At 12:42 p.m., Fat Boy started to walk down the gangplank. In what must have been a carefully orchestrated move, he stood alone, with bodyguards in front and behind, his fat body contrasting photogenically against the gangplank’s fresh white paint.

Fat Boy halted—from the way the men behind him halted too, the whole thing must have been rehearsed to death.

Fat Boy turned and waved to the crowd—a huge roar went up and surrounded him. Wesley felt a lightness he had never felt while working before—a glow came up from his stomach and started to encircle his face.... But it had too many years of breeding and training to compete with. Wesley focused hard on the scope, watching Fat Boy’s face fill the round screen. He watched the crosshairs intersect on Fat Boy’s left eye.

The crowd was now in a huge, rough semicircle around the base of the gangplank and the noise was terrific. The wind held steady at seven m.p.h. from the west—the tiny transistor-powered radio which picked up only the Coast Guard weather reports gave Wesley a bulletin every fifteen minutes. He had cranked in the right windage and elevation hours ago and stood ready to adjust ... but everything had held ... static.

Wesley slowed his breathing, reaching for peace inside, counting his heartbeats.

Fat Boy turned to his left to throw a last wave at the crowd, just as Wesley’s finger completed its slow backward trip—the sharp cccrack! came at a higher harmonic than the crowd-noise. It seemed to pass over everyone’s head as Fat Boy’s head burst open like a rotten melon with a stick of dynamite inside. The screaming took on a higher pitch and the bodyguards rushed uselessly toward the fallen ruler as Wesley smoothly jacked a shell into the chamber and pumped another round into Fat Boy’s exposed back, aiming this time for the spinal area. It seemed to him as if the shots echoed endlessly, but nobody looked in his direction. Still, it wouldn’t take the TPF too long to figure things out.

Wesley stood up, stuck the two expended shells in his side pocket out of habit, and ran to the window. Without looking down, he tossed the coil over the sill and followed it out. Wesley rappelled down with his back to the waterfront, both hands on the nylon line. Either the kid would cover him or he wouldn’t—he didn’t have any illusions about blasting somebody with one hand holding on to the rope. The bottom of his eyesight picked up the Ford as he slid down the last twenty feet. Wesley hit the ground hard, rolled over onto his side, and came up running for the back door, which was lying open. He grabbed the shotgun off the floor of the Ford, heard running footsteps, and saw the kid charging toward the car with a silenced, scoped rifle. The kid tossed the rifle into the back seat and the Ford moved off like a soundless rocket, as good as Pet ever could have done.

78/

The quiet car spun itself loose in the narrow streets of the area. The kid hadn’t said a word—he was watching the Halda Trip-Master clicking off hundredths of a mile. Just before the machine indicated 99/100, the kid slammed the knife-switch home. A dull, booming sound followed in seconds, but the echoes reverberated for another full minute after the Ford had re-entered the West Side Highway and was passing the World Trade Center on the left.

The Ford sped back to the Slip without seeming to exceed the speed limit. A touch of the horn ring forced the garage door up, and the kid hit it again to bring it down almost in the same motion. The door slammed inches behind the Ford’s rear bumper. Both men sprinted out from the Ford and jumped into the cab, which was out the door and heading for the highway again almost immediately.

Wesley inserted the tiny earplug and nodded to the kid who turned on the police-band radio under the front seat. It was more static-free than the regular police units and Wesley could hear everything clearly.

All units in vicinity Pier 40, proceed to area and deploy ... TPF is in charge ... acknowledge as you go in ... repeat: acknowledge as you go in ... unknown number of men spotted in building directly across from pier ... eighth floor, fourth window from left ... shots fired.

Central ... Central, this is 4-Bravo-21, K? We’re going to try the rear door. Get us some cover, K?

Four-Bravo-21, 4-Bravo-21: Do not enter the building. Repeat: Do not enter the building. Back-up is on the way. You are under the command of the TPF captain on the scene. Do not enter. Acknowledge.

Wesley slid back the protective partition between the seats, tapped the kid on the shoulder, “Slow it down, kid—they’re not even at the building yet.”

The kid did something and the cab slowed to a crawl, although it still appeared to be keeping up with the traffic stream. Wesley kept locked into the police-band. Minutes crawled slower than the cab.

All units now in position, acknowledge.

A series of 10-4s followed as each car called in. Central went back to a stabbing in Times Square. Wesley tapped the kid again, and the cab sped up unobtrusively.

The cab passed by the building on the highway very slowly; traffic was clogged as the drivers bent their necks to see what was happening. The Pier was crowded with people and ambulances. The cab finally came to a dead stop in the traffic. From where they sat, they could almost see into the blown-out window—the rest of the building was completely intact.

“I guess we got the window blown out in time,” Wesley said. “They never noticed the rope hanging down.”

“There was no rope hanging down—that’s what I was doing with the piece when you ran into the car,” the kid replied.

“You fucking shot the rope down?!”