‘Hardly. He didn’t.’ Warren snorted. ‘He would have risen to the highest posts in State or CIA if he had. Instead he’s hanging out with these nothings.’
Look at me, Dad, Luke thought, but Warren didn’t.
‘Shut up,’ Henry said. He swiveled the gun back toward Warren. ‘Shut up. Luke is my son now. Not yours. You gave him up. Shut the hell up.’
‘Luke. You know he’s a nothing. A nothing.’ Warren now met his son’s eyes. ‘He tried to kill me. Then your mother dies, under questionable circumstances.’
‘That was an accident!’ Henry screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.
‘Was it? Was it? Was it?’ Warren said in a low, hypnotic mumble.
‘It was an accident,’ and Henry brayed the last word as though a critical string had broken in his voice.
‘Let’s make peace, Henry,’ Mouser said. ‘Jesus, we’ve come this far. Let me talk to this bastard. Pry every secret from Quicksilver out of him.’
‘He won’t talk. He just needs to die,’ Henry said. ‘Luke, look away.’
‘No!’ Luke screamed. He lunged toward Henry.
And the world exploded.
57
Five of the trucks never made it out of the empty lot. Luke had been busy. He’d opened each box of bombs, picked one of the cell-phone timers connected to the Semtex explosive, and reset it to detonate in fifteen minutes. It had taken just enough time to load the trucks, light cigarettes, and gossip for a minute (the suggestion of going back in and killing Mouser and Henry had been floated and shot down).
The trucks – save one – all went up at once in blossoms of fire, within three seconds of each other, scattering debris and flaming tires and peppering shrapnel. The packed screws and twists of metal shredded the terrorists into raggedy men, tatters of flesh and bone.
The truck closest to the store was spared. Rushed to reset the timers, Luke had unknowingly pulled the wires loose on the last two cell phones, panicked to finish before he was caught, and did not realize his mistake. The cell phone’s alarm did not detonate the blasting cap. The driver – the hardest and oldest of the men, the tattooed man responsible for the Kansas City high school bombing – stared at the wheeling masses of what had been his colleagues’ trucks. He raised himself up from the truck seat. His windows were blown out, as were the storefronts of the mall. One of the trucks crashed in the deserted street, burning. He could see what was left of one of his fellows, halved and crisped, twenty feet in front of him.
The bombs, he thought, somebody screwed with the bombs. For the next ten seconds he waited, knowing if his timers had been tampered with he’d be dead and there was no point in running.
But the tampered bombs had all gone off at once. None of his boxes had. He realized, with a certainty, that he was safe. He wheeled hard out of the lot, pressing his foot against the accelerator, thinking he would still get the job done.
The edge of the blasts blew in the curtained windows of the second floor showroom, lifted Luke off his feet, and tossed him into Henry. Luke tumbled over his stepfather and he didn’t hear the gun’s discharge. Bright balls of aftershock fire blinded his eyes; he blinked past the pain.
Resetting the phones’ timers had worked. Luke scrambled to his feet. He saw Aubrey lying on her back, still tied in her chair, blood on her face. His father lay next to her, also knocked down by the explosions. Henry lay dazed. The gun that had been in his hands was gone.
Where was it? And Mouser?
Luke felt heat in a wave. Flame flickered along the curtains, blown in by fiery debris. The displays of imports: the African masks, the wooden tables, the bolts of Asian cloth – burst into flames, throughout the room. The building was ablaze.
He didn’t see Mouser.
Suddenly hands, from behind, closed around Luke’s throat. He felt a gun barrel jam up against his forehead. Luke hammered his head back and caught Mouser in the face. Luke twisted and seized the gun in his hands and the fired bullet smashed into the concrete flooring. Luke nailed Mouser’s jaw with a punch, the hardest he’d ever thrown. He felt the bone crack under his fist, felt his own fingers ache from the force of the blow.
Mouser staggered back, nearly tripping over Henry, who was struggling to his feet. The flames showed wild hate in Mouser’s eyes and with a howl of pure hatred and rage he launched himself again at Luke. Mouser tackled Luke and they skidded and rolled across the concrete, toward the now-flaming wall of windows.
They fought, arms grappling. Mouser’s face twisted in a naked and bitter hatred. He seized Luke’s throat. They bounced off the windows, the burning curtains, and then fell back onto the floor. Luke felt his hair, his shirt ignite. He dropped and rolled to douse the fire, clutching Mouser close to him.
Mouser screamed as the flames jumped to his own shirt. He yanked away; both men rolled to the floor, Luke smothering the blazing patch on his shirt. Mouser did the same and as he looked up, Luke kicked him savagely in the face, felt the man’s nose and teeth break. He seized Mouser by the throat and belt and threw him toward the wall, the pain scouring up his back. Mouser fell through the burning curtains and the shattered window, arms wheeling, flames catching him from head to toe, slamming headfirst into the asphalt.
He lay still, and through the flames Luke could see his neck, bent at an utterly impossible angle.
Through the lick of fire and the smear of smoke Luke could see five wrecked trucks, burning, ruptured.
Five. Not six.
‘One got away!’ he screamed. And he turned and saw Henry fleeing down the stairs.
No time to chase him. Luke pulled Aubrey to her feet, tore the ropes loose from her. She helped him free his father.
‘Dad! Dad!’ Luke screamed. His father opened his eyes, stared at Luke in shock.
‘Come on!’ Aubrey screamed.
They ran toward the back as the remaining windows exploded from the heat, the flames jumping and dancing into the showroom.
‘One of them got away,’ Luke said. No sign of Henry in the parking lot. They ran, Warren clutching him close, Aubrey holding his other hand. ‘We have to catch him.’
‘We don’t know which way he would go,’ Aubrey started.
‘He’s going to head for a highway,’ Warren said.
‘Then head west,’ Aubrey said. ‘Closest one.’
They could hear the police and fire sirens wailing. Cars in the street – a few – had stopped, people staring at the devastation. At the car Warren embraced Luke. ‘Luke, Luke.’ He cupped Luke’s face in his hands, tears on his face, shivering, shaking.
‘Dad. Okay, we’re okay, but we got to find this guy.’ A thousand words he wanted to hear and say burst in his head – his father’s explanations, his father’s love, his own anger to lash out at his dad for abandoning him – but it had to wait. The last bomber was running.
Luke remembered his father’s false goodbye, his words: I’ll miss you every moment. There had been years of missed moments as he stared at Warren Dantry. His father stepped back. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what happened to you. Let that be a start.’
Luke got behind the wheel, his father next to him, Aubrey in the back seat.
‘My God,’ his dad said. ‘My God. Luke. Oh, Christ.’
‘Dad. Are you all right? Aubrey, you okay?’
‘Yes. Fine. We’re fine.’ His voice was hoarse, blood caked on his lips. ‘My God. I can’t believe you did that. The timers, yes?’ Surprise and pride colored his voice and he let out nearly a choking laugh.
‘Luke?’ Aubrey, touching his shoulder, squeezing it in reassurance. He looked back at her and she was wide- eyed, shaking, rubbing her hands together as if for warmth. ‘I’m glad you came for us,’ she said softly.
Luke roared hard onto the street. Emergency vehicles were making their way down the road, a fire truck, police cars. He shot past them. The Navigator was faster than the van. The driver would have to be rattled. Maybe he’d dumped the bombs in the lot, afraid they’d been set for early explosion as well.
