For his part, Wells was game. He took the blows and returned a knee that just missed Bolini’s crotch. He had the upper hand for a second and appeared about to capitalize on his advantage when the tractor-trailer started to move forward. Both men froze in their belligerent embrace and stared at the big rig as it jerked forward, bumping a car harmlessly out of the way, then bumping another. It started to pick up speed, and rolled over the rear of a pickup, squashing it under its massive tires. Now people were abandoning cars in the tanker’s path as it crushed and grinded several more, then knocked a light pole down. Finally, it hit some open space near the intersection and its blasting horn stopped.
Wells completely let go of Bolini and stood up to watch. He was mesmerized. “Now that is some good chaos,” he said, still staring at the truck.
Bolini stood next to him, also watching the progress of the tanker. Tasker was doing a good job of getting it away from the buildings and other cars. He snapped back to reality and smacked Wells in the head with his pistol. He looked down at the man on the ground holding the back of his head and said, “That effectively ends our association, shithead.”
thirty-five
Tasker had never been in a big truck like this before. Still, the clutch was on the left, gas on the right and brake in the middle. The gear shift had a diagram with what looked like ten gears. He stomped on the clutch and jammed the shift stick into first, grinding the gears in the process. He eased off the clutch and on the gas, feeling the huge truck start to inch forward. He thought he hit a curb, then realized it was the hood of a Ford Mustang as the Freightliner rolled right over it. He spun the wheel to the left to try and center the semi tractor-tanker in the road and squished an abandoned Toyota, then a Corvette. The rig straightened out and he hit the gas as he found he had more room. Driving this big rig didn’t seem that hard, except for the cars that kept getting stuck under his wheels. He had to blink hard to clear the blood and sweat out of his eyes. He could see that people were getting the message and abandoning their cars. In front of him, a whole family fled from all four doors of a brand-new Buick. He prayed that no one was stuck inside any of the cars he had already flattened. He had no choice. He knew the buildings would intensify the blast’s shock wave. He headed for the causeway leading to the port. At least it was open. He hit the intersection at Biscayne, and traffic cleared. He stomped on the gas and heard the engine rev higher. He wasn’t sure how to shift gears, so he just pointed the tanker toward the open road. When he spotted the bridge, he looked behind him. The timer read 00:42 in red numbers.
Camy had left Jimmy’s Honda a block off the interstate, away from the growing traffic problem on Fifth. Jimmy had already sprinted toward the semi tractor-trailer they could just see in the distance. She had tried to raise Tasker and Sutter for an update, but had gotten no response. She had already gotten the Miami cops off their asses and heading this way, but they would have been moving already once they saw cars were starting to jam the roads of the city.
Camy searched the streets for any sign of the other agents working with her, then started to jog in the same direction as Jimmy had run. She left his Honda locked and hoped it wouldn’t get towed from the no-parking zone where it sat.
Tasker mashed down on the brakes, bringing the lumbering machine to a stop past the base of the bridge headed toward the port. The American Airlines Arena was to the left and back toward the city a few hundred feet. He didn’t hesitate to leap off the truck onto aching legs and start to run back downhill toward the snarled traffic. There was not another vehicle on the bridge. What kind of moron would follow a tractor-trailer that had just smashed fifteen cars? He ran about ten steps and realized that in his present condition he’d never clear the tanker before it detonated. He took a sharp turn, cut across the two empty lanes and headed for the side of the bridge. As he climbed the small guardrail and prepared to jump the forty feet into the Intracoastal Waterway, he heard another engine and saw a large truck cresting the hill coming from the port. He stood high on the rail, waving his hands to stop the truck, then heard a faint beep from the tanker. He turned and saw only a flash.
Sal Bolini, with Jimmy Lail’s help, had dragged Wells to the intersection to watch the tanker’s labored climb up the incline of the bridge. Why didn’t Tasker shift gears? Bolini wondered. He stared at the tanker, willing it to move faster. Then he did something he hadn’t done since high schooclass="underline" he prayed. “Please, God, let him get out.” He closed his eyes and repeated the prayer. When he opened them, Tasker was hobbling along the side of the stopped tanker. He mumbled, “Thank you,” out loud.
Bolini’s grip tightened on Wells’ arm as Tasker turned toward the north side of the bridge. Tasker climbed onto the rail, then hesitated.
“Jump,” Bolini said. “Fucking jump!”
Tasker turned and stood and started waving his arms.
Bolini looked up the bridge and saw a tractor-trailer headed over the span of the bridge. The driver saw there was a problem and stood on the brakes, causing the box trailer to slide sideways across the four lanes of the bridge, nearly jackknifing, but stopping well away from the tanker.
Then the tanker exploded.
The sight and sound of the blast took him by surprise. It looked like a mini atomic bomb as it flashed, then traveled vertically, instantly melting the electric and communication cables over the bridge. The signal on the stop gates on the bridge crackled and popped, the lenses shattering. The grass along the arena property withered instantly as the flame licked all the way down the bridge and to the sides. The paint on the side of the building bubbled and changed colors as the sign over Bongos Restaurant popped and sizzled.
Everyone ducked instinctively, and the sound of the blast echoed through the streets and into the spaces between buildings.
Part of the fireball shot straight down the bridge, guided by the rails and ocean breeze until the intersection flashed with flames. No people were still in the vicinity. The smashed Chevy closest to the bridge instantly ignited, as did the two cars next to it. One, a Chrysler, burned out immediately. The other started to burn from the tires up. Black smoke started pouring from both vehicles and drifted across the area, adding to the mounting confusion.
Bolini squinted to see through the smoke but couldn’t see Tasker.
Sutter, limping up to where Jimmy stood with Wells in cuffs, casually kicked the prone man just on general principle. Unable to see what they were all staring at until he reached the line of spectators in front of Wells and Jimmy, he pushed through the crowd just as the tanker blew up. The sound rattled his intestines, and the flash hurt his eyes.
“Jesus, where’s Bill?” he shouted to Bolini as they both ducked.
Bolini just shook his head.
Sutter felt sick to his stomach.
He stared at the flame as it just sort of evaporated into the sky. If it had blown down here, the blast would’ve killed fifty people. He himself never would have thought fast enough to move the tanker to an open place.
He went to one knee and felt tears build in his eyes.
…
Wells stared at the unfolding scene. This was getting pretty good, with the black, sooty smoke filling the streets and the people screaming. The tanker wasn’t where he would’ve put it and hadn’t done nearly its potential, but people were scared and it was because of him. This was cool.
Bolini and Jimmy bolted into an all-out run to the bridge. Sutter put his hand on Wells and forced him to prone out on the ground again. Then he sat across his legs. The crowd was starting to grow as more people left their cars to see what the hell was going on.