Not even his daily six-mile runs, weight training, and swimming could have prepared him for the grueling reality of 674 steps as the brisk French wind tore through the open structure and blasted his face. That wind—something he may have enjoyed were it a romantic night under the stars with Megan—now filled him with dread. Spider would’ve counted on this wind, holding out, biding his time, waiting for the perfect French night when the wind was strong but there was no rain. Because that’s how dirty bombs work. They explode with a blast only as strong as whatever ordinary explosives they’re packed with—C4, or more likely, plain dynamite.
But the fallout . . . the fallout would be the real killer. Spider would’ve packed his bomb with pounds of radioactive waste—the kind of thing a man working in nuclear energy could have obtained—exhausted rods from the reactors that fueled power plants, cut into small pieces and packed inside a lead case around the explosives. That package would be so radioactive that even though Spider would’ve worn protective gear, some of it still would’ve saturated his skin. Enough to set off Wolfgang’s watch when he searched Spider’s lifeless body.
Then Spider would’ve taken that bomb to the top of the tower. It would be heavy, necessitating his use of the elevator. He wouldn’t have stopped at the first floor, or even the second. He would’ve taken the bomb all the way to the top of the tower, almost one thousand feet in the air, where the wind was the strongest.
And that’s where he’d set it off. High above a densely populated city, where the dynamite would blast outward in all directions, and the nuclear waste would be carried by the wind over thousands of city blocks, there to rain down on unsuspecting civilians and poison them with a certain death that would take days, if not weeks, to materialize.
It was enough to bring down the city. It was enough to break the French economy, which would topple the European Union’s economy and then bring down the world economy. And that would bring chaos. Anarchy. Because Spider was an anarchist, and chaos is a hell of a weapon.
Wolfgang ran, pumping out one step at a time, panting, and not pausing for a second as he reached the first floor of the tower, 187 feet off the ground. He spun to the next set of stairs and ran.
He wasn’t sure how many minutes had ticked by, but he knew the wind was growing stronger, blowing out of the west and ripping through the open superstructure of the tower. With every blast in his face, he imagined a sudden detonation high above him. He imagined the tower shuddering as metal blasted outward amid a ball of fire and a boom so loud it would shake the ground.
But then nothing. The noise would fade, and people would stand in shock and stare at the shattered top of their beautiful tower, unaware that death itself was in the wind, only seconds away.
Wolfgang leaned on the rail and heaved, his head spinning. He wasn’t sure how much farther he had to go. He hadn’t counted steps, but he knew he was at least halfway to the second floor. After that, there was only one way to the top—a final elevator.
Wolfgang pushed himself up the steps, refusing to stop. Megan was someplace in the city, unprotected, unaware. Lyle and Edric and Kevin would all certainly die if he didn’t reach the top in time.
The steps blurred, and he heard the scream of police sirens far below. He glanced down to see blue lights flashing near the Ferrari, but he didn’t care. He only cared about reaching the top in time.
Another hundred steps rocketed past in a blur. Wolfgang’s legs burned, his chest heaved, and his head swam, but he kept going.
The second floor opened around him in a flash. Wolfgang skidded and slid, grabbing a railing and heaving. He looked around the observation deck and blinked in the blast of the wind as it ripped through the tower with a vengeance. Spider had picked a good night.
Wolfgang found the elevator to the top floor surrounded by the tattered remnants of torn construction tape. The control panel was also smashed, like the first elevator. But unlike the first, this panel was built directly into the thick steel of the tower framework, and while the buttons were busted, the housing was still intact. He pressed the top button, smacking and wiggling it a few times until a dim light lit up behind it. The doors rolled open, and Wolfgang lurched inside, then hit the button for the top floor. The doors closed as distant shouts drifted up from someplace farther down the tower. The police.
A dull whine rang from the motor, and the car began moving up the final six hundred feet to the top. Wolfgang closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe evenly. The bomb could detonate at any moment, and if it did, he would certainly die. But if there were just five minutes left before the bomb went off . . .
The car rose, gaining speed. Wolfgang braced himself and suddenly wondered what he was going to do when he reached the top. He didn’t know a thing about disabling a bomb. Did he cut the red wire or the blue?
The car ground to a halt, then the doors rolled open, and a fresh blast of wind ripped straight through Wolfgang’s tux. Only a few feet ahead, the wall of the tower rose to waist-height, with a chain-link fence covering the space from the top of the wall to the tip of the tower. Observation scopes were mounted at intervals along the wall, and the observation deck
