As she nudged the platform of the dolly underneath and pushed with her hand on the upper lip of the keg, she noticed a small black box with red flashing numbers situated where she would insert the tap in a few seconds. Not understanding either the weight or the black box, she edged the keg back onto the floor and leaned over to inspect it further.
“What the hell is this?” she whispered to herself.
The flashing light read 00:08…
00:07…
00:06…
00:05…
Even her simple, uneducated mind figured it out with about two seconds remaining.
“Oh, my—” she said, backing away.
Groomsman No. 1 was pulling onto I-85 when he heard a dull thud in the background. In his rearview mirror he saw dust pouring out of the coliseum in a large, billowing cloud. Oddly, he felt no guilt. Yet for some unexplained reason, the use of nerve gas seemed unfair to him. He had placed 30-minute time-delay fuses on the VX nerve gas aspirators that would release a fine, toxic spray just as the first responders were arriving to help those unfortunate few who might have survived the blast.
Regardless, it was not a bad day’s work. It would be nice to have Cartagena off his ass. The groomsman blended anonymously into society, never to be heard from again.
CHAPTER 8
Groomsman No. 2 felt the sweat trickle down the base of his spine. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. The basement tunnels of the Mall of America were deathly quiet. The only noise was the water moving along the miles of plumbing and air-conditioning pipes.
He clipped his cell phone to a small wire that ran through one of the ventilation ducts to the roof of Macy’s department store. He had installed the wire the previous week in preparation for the “wedding.”
The groomsman’s job as an inspector working with McGraw Maintenance Systems over the past six months allowed him unlimited access to the maintenance tunnels under the mall. He engineered his route, covering nearly a mile of passageways beneath the huge complex, using the blueprint he had downloaded from the Architectural Digest Web site.
Two years earlier, after his release from the Minnesota State Prison at Stillwater, he was contacted by an old Earth Liberation Front buddy, who invited him up to do some muskie fishing. After a week this friend, Chasteen, had sold him on Ballantine’s plan. It sounded like a good thing — a second chance. Besides, he had grown tired of spray-painting sport utility vehicles and setting fire to new housing developments, clearly the minor leagues for eco-terrorists. And Chasteen’s offer to strike a blow against the largest symbol of capitalism in the Midwest held an additional attraction for him. It would graduate him to the next level.
Moreover, knowing Chasteen like he did, the groomsman understood that once he had been made aware of the plan, he would either accept the invitation onto the team or wind up as mulch around Ballantine’s boxwood hedgerow. He preferred option A.
He opened his cell phone as he watched the green flashing light turn red, indicating an incoming call.
“Anything on sale today?” a voice asked.
“Wedding gifts seem to be the item of choice,” he responded.
“I’m sure the bride will be impressed.”
That’s it, the groomsman thought, shutting the phone. Time to get to work. He stuffed the phone in his pocket, looked to his right, and armed the first of twenty-nine high-explosive devices placed near structurally important supports. He then moved out like a rat in a sewer to arm the others.
Groomsman No. 2 moved quickly along the tunnel, checking the last few arming switches, making sure the explosives were synchronized to detonate at precisely the same time. Arriving at his destination, he stooped low to avoid some water pipes and then stopped at his last set of explosives.
He worked quickly as he flipped the metal toggle and watched the red numbers begin their countdown.
He had chosen his route so that he would finish arming his last igniter near the restrooms downstairs. This would allow him to exit up the escalator and out through any variety of doors on the main level. He could get in his truck, which he had parked near Macy’s, and escape the carnage about three minutes before it occurred.
The groomsman grabbed the metal knob and pulled the gray door open. A burst of light met him as he stepped onto the tile floor of the mall’s bottom level.
“Hey, Mister Saunders,” a little boy said, smiling as he stepped away from the ladies’ room door.
Groomsman No. 2 stopped, nearly tripping over his feet, as he noticed eight-year-old Erik Larsen standing by himself. Quickly regaining his composure, he said, “Hey, Erik, where’s your mom?” He had graduated from Braham High School with Erik’s mother, Joan. They had dated for a time and remained friends ever since.
“She’s in the bathroom with the girls,” he said. Erik looked down, and noticing that he had drifted from the spot where his mother had told him to wait, he took two steps back toward the wall and looked up. “Mama told me not to move.”
“Then you best stand still.”
“Yes, sir.”
Saunders wiped his sweaty palms on his tan workpants and then pulled his baseball cap down over his forehead. His eyes shifted left and right, his body telling him he needed to move out, and quickly.
“Tell your mom I said hello,” he said.
At that moment, Joan Larsen came tumbling out of the ladies’ room with her three other children in tow, all relieved and ready to go shopping.
“Hey, Johnny, what are you doing here?” Joan smiled, happy to see a familiar face so far from home.
“Oh, hey there, Joan. Just doing some window shopping,” he said nervously. “Look, I gotta run.”
Joan frowned. “Oh. Well, I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
In all his time walking the maintenance tunnels beneath the mall, Johnny had stayed out of contact with the people above, like a bridge troll who never came out of hiding. He walked over to Joan Larsen and kissed her on the cheek. He rubbed a hand in three-year-old Chelsea’s hair.
Chelsea hugged his leg and said, “Bye, Mister Johnny.”
“Goodbye, Joan,” Johnny said, his eyes beginning to burn. He promptly turned and began running toward the exit, leaving Joan confused. He figured he had about two minutes.
Joan watched as her childhood friend sprinted up the steps and through the Macy’s door. She stood a moment, staring into empty space, until Erik said, “What’s wrong with Mister Saunders, Mama?”
It took a minute, but in typical fashion, she shrugged it off and gathered up her troops.
“Okay, gang. Where we going first?”
Chelsea started to say, “Camp Snoopy,” but the explosion prevented her from ever uttering the words.
Groomsman No. 2 pulled out of the parking garage in his rusted Ford pickup truck, turning his head as he heard the detonations. He knew that those not killed by the explosions would suffer from anthrax poisoning.
His job done, he would never be heard from again.
CHAPTER 9
Groomsman No. 3 waited impatiently, toying with his cell phone. Did it work? Would they call? He continued to check the black Motorola StarTac. Sure enough, it was on.
His forty-two-foot Newport sailboat rocked softly in the gentle current of the Delaware River. His left hand rested atop the captain’s wheel, his right hand palming the phone. He looked at his mainmast, the sail wrapped tightly around the aluminum pole. The stiff breeze funneling down the valley caused him to huddle against himself, and he wondered whether there were others performing the same tasks this evening, or if he was the lone operator. He guessed the prison network had produced other operators looking for an easy payoff, and perhaps a bit of revenge against the system.