“Eight digits. That’s, like, a billion possible combinations. . . .”
“Just get out of there!” From outside, Hala’s voice comes into our ears.
Her advice seems better than anything else I can come up with. Caitlin grabs my sleeve and we both run like crazy for the door. I’m fleetingly pissed off about all the evidence in here that might be lost, but I’m right behind Caitlin as she flies outside. We start bolting across the yard toward our bikes when something touches us, like a burn. Involuntarily, without thinking, we both turn and run back inside the warehouse.
Caitlin and I stand there on the threshold, staring at each other.
“What the hell was that?” she asks.
I shake my head. It felt like a searing heat, no more than a second, maybe two, but it took away all my control. Call it a reflex, or primal self-preservation, but something outside my rational mind was impelled to stop moving forward and get back. And clearly Caitlin felt the same, or we wouldn’t both be standing here, inside a booby-trapped warehouse, scared to leave.
“Let’s try again,” I say. “We can’t stay here.”
We venture out once more, but as soon as we step out of the door, the same heat hits us, and I try not to let it stop me, but it’s impossible to power through the pain. Both of us are compelled to retreat back to the warehouse. Caitlin shines a light onto our faces and limbs. No injury, no burns.
“What’s wrong with you?” Hala growls in our ears. “Get out!”
“We can’t,” I pant.
“I saw this tested when I was in active service,” says Caitlin. “It’s an ADS.”
“Can you not be an army nerd for two seconds?” I snap.
“Active denial system. It’s a military weapon that heats up water and fat molecules in the top layers of skin, so it feels like a burn, and it makes you run. There are scaled-down versions in lots of countries, used by law enforcement to scatter protesters, or on boats to stop pirates attacking. . . .”
While she’s talking, I’m back at the locker, watching the bomb tick down to two minutes and forty-eight seconds. I use my own flashlight to scan around the warehouse—there are no other windows or exits. So now I wave the beam around searching for something, anything, that could help me here. In a corner, near a rusted sink, is a power cleaner—one of those things that uses a water jet to dislodge heavy stains like oil or paint. In the meantime, Caitlin is explaining to Hala what the ADS might look like, so she can try to find it and disarm it. From London, Amber comes in too, scouring satellite images of our location in case she can see anything that could help.
I lift the cleaner to the sink and run water into it, willing the cascade from the tap to gush faster. Then I drag the machine over to the explosives. Under two minutes left.
“What if we somehow resist the urge to retreat and keep going past the ADS?” I ask Caitlin as I peer at the nozzle on the end of the cleaner. Made of metal, it forms a high-pressure jet of water, activated with a trigger handle.
“If we stay in its range, we’d be cooked,” Caitlin says. “Microwaved like popcorn.”
So either Hala has to find the ADS and disable it, or I need to defuse this bomb. Either solution has to happen within ninety seconds.
Caitlin helps me move the machine and plug into the closest wall socket. The clock taunts me, moving backward. 1:18, 1:17 . . . Really, I need more power than an ordinary electrical outlet can give me, something to create a burst of harder pressure. A proper bomb disposal squad would use a PAN disrupter on a device like this—something like a small water cannon. A length of shock tube, a controlled explosive charge—enough to make the stream of water it shoots cut through the pipe. I have no idea if my homemade version will hold up, but I have to try. I fire it up with fifty seconds left and aim it at the pipe. At least the pipe is PVC, not metal. The thin water jet starts to cut through, and I’m practically panting from both adrenaline and a sense of relief that this could work—when the jet stops. In fact, the whole bloody machine shuts down.
I stare at it, wild-eyed. The motor must have a safety switch that cuts off the power when the jet pressure gets too high. It’s the kind of standard safeguard that manufacturers put into basic household equipment, but it’s the last thing I need right now. I smash open the plastic door that houses the motor of the cleaner, pulling at wires in desperation.
“I see a guy, top floor of the warehouse next door. He’s holding something,” Hala says from outside. “I’m going for him now.”
“Forget it, don’t risk it,” Caitlin instructs.
We both know we need at least thirty seconds to make it out and clear the blast zone. Even if Hala disarms the guy or scares him off, there’s just no time for me and Caitlin to run.
We’re down to twenty-five seconds now, so I have to make this water jet work. My fingers fumble with wires, successfully shorting out the safety switch. Within a split second, Caitlin’s turned the machine back on again. My arms are shaking so badly that I can hardly aim the thing, but her hands close over mine to steady them . . . fourteen seconds.
The jet spray bursts out, covering our faces in a fine mist, but it bores through that pipe, slowly but surely. I watch the clock tick down to five seconds, four . . . And then the outer layer of pipe breaks apart, the water floods the casing, and the clock goes blank. My eyes are bursting out of my head. It takes a moment before I can gasp for breath, becoming aware of Hala’s voice from outside, in my ear, desperate.
“Talk
