“That’s our boy’s MO,” Dwight said. “All right, kill the car.”
Butch raised his rifle and took aim. Four out of four shots hit the tires.
Dwight again used the bullhorn to order the occupant out of the car.
There was no response.
Dwight’s cell phone buzzed at his hip. It was the West Valley captain, who’d been monitoring the events on his radio. “Dwight, fall back and wait for the bomb squad.”
Dwight grunted. Another delay-the last thing they needed.
“Dwight? Don’t fuck with me. That’s an order.”
Dwight ended the call, relayed the order to Meg, and muttered under his breath. “We’re just giving this shitbird more time to do his worst.”
Meg nodded, but she agreed with the captain. If it was Evan Cutter in the car-and she was fairly sure it was-she wanted all the backup they could get. Meg liked the idea of being a hero, just not a dead one.
Dwight signaled for the detectives parked behind him to fall back. They retreated and crouched behind the open doors of their cars.
Police helicopters arrived, and the air above the school parking lot filled with the whop-whop of their propellers. Off in the distance, media helicopters hovered, waiting for the chance to move in.
Dwight’s cell phone buzzed again. “Yeah?” he answered, irritated.
It was the head of the bomb squad. “We’re trying to get there, we’ve got sirens and lights going, but the traffic’s a bitch-”
“How long?”
“Hard to tell right now. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“Shit.” Dwight huffed. He gave Meg the news.
“Figures,” she said. “It’s morning rush hour. Nothing they can do about that.”
Dwight shook his head. He didn’t care whose fault it was. Cutter obviously couldn’t escape, but Dwight didn’t think that was the plan. He was staging his finale. Dwight fully expected him to come out shooting at any second. That’d be just his style. And what if he had grenades? Dwight looked at all the officers and detectives holding the perimeter. How many would die? They couldn’t afford to wait for the bomb squad. Dwight spoke to Meg in a low whisper. “Stay back and don’t let the others move until I tell you.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say a word, Dwight had turned and begun to move toward the beige Chevrolet.
Hunkered down to make a smaller target, his gun held out in front of his body, arms shaking with tension, Dwight slowly edged toward the car. Meg couldn’t let him do it alone. Against her better judgment, she followed. But she held up a hand to signal that the detectives behind them should stay back.
The detectives, seeing her signal, exchanged looks and reached a silent agreement. All six of them quietly fell in behind her. Slowly, the phalanx inched forward, guns held at the ready.
When he got to within ten feet of the car, Dwight thought he saw movement in the driver’s seat. He stopped and tried to peer in through the rear window. Behind him, Meg and the other officers stopped and watched. Meg could feel a pulse throb at the base of her throat, imagined a bullet-or a piece of shrapnel-lodging there. She swallowed and tried to slow her breathing.
Dwight stared at the driver’s seat. Another movement? It looked like it. He raised his gun and took a step forward. But in that moment, he heard a low rumble, like the sound of a gas flame igniting. Dwight yelled, “Get down!”
Everyone dropped to the ground just as a thunderous explosion split the air. Fire shot out through the cracks in the doors, and flames engulfed the car. Seconds later, two smaller explosions, muffled and weak, followed. Smoke billowed out and spread through the parking lot.
For a brief moment, Dwight, facedown on the asphalt, heard nothing. Was he dead? But a few seconds later, he noticed that his ears were ringing. Not dead. But he couldn’t feel his arms, his legs. His heart began to race as panic set in. He’d had nightmares about being paralyzed ever since his former partner took a bullet to the spine. Squeezing his eyes shut, he begged his body to move. With an effort, he managed to roll onto his side. He could at least move his body. He opened his eyes. The smoke stung and made him tear up, but he could dimly make out shapes through the haze. He could see. He inhaled but pulled in smoke, and his body convulsed in a hacking cough. But as he struggled to catch his breath, his knees reflexively drew up. His legs felt okay. He straightened his arms, then curled his hands into fists. A smile spread across his face, and he almost laughed with relief.
Slowly, head still swimming, he stood up. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and took a few shallow breaths. He looked down at his body. Unbelievably, there were only minor cuts and scrapes. Behind him, he heard coughs and sputters. Dwight turned to see that all the other detectives had advanced with him, Meg in the lead. Jesus, what had he done?
Dwight helped Meg up. Her forehead was badly scraped, but she was able to stand and dust herself off. She was wobbly, but okay. “Why didn’t you stay back?” he asked.
Meg shrugged. “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”
His heart was heavy with guilt. Dwight should’ve known she wouldn’t let him move without backup. He looked back at the rest of the detectives, who were wiping blood off of palms, cheeks, foreheads. “You guys okay?” The detectives nodded.
Dwight looked at the Chevrolet. He tried to see Cutter’s body, but flames and smoke obscured his view. When they’d cordoned off the parking lot, Cutter must’ve realized it was over and decided to make his grand exit. It struck him again just how reckless his move had been. If they’d gotten just a little closer, or Evan had a little more firepower…Dwight didn’t want to think about it.
The bomb squad arrived just as he was pulling out his phone. He restrained the impulse to say that “better late than never” really wasn’t their best motto. The truth was, he was glad to see them. He doubted the car was rigged with any more “surprises,” but after what they’d just been through, he was happy to let the experts make sure of it.
The head of the bomb squad, a big beefy type, jumped out of the truck and stomped over to Dwight. His voice was hot. “Ya just couldn’t wait, could ya? Ya had to be a friggin’ hero. You’re just damn lucky you didn’t get your whole team killed.” Dwight heaved a sigh, but said nothing. He’d known this was coming. And he knew he deserved it.
Dwight turned back to look at the Chevrolet. Now the only sound coming from the car was the crackle and whoosh of flames eating whatever would burn. They stood and watched, and waited.
The bomb squad took statements from Dwight and his team, examined the debris that had blown from the car, and studied the car itself through binoculars. After they’d huddled, the head of the squad marched up to Dwight, his jaw clenched. “Rosenberg, I know I said you got lucky. But now we have a better idea of just how lucky. You need to hear this: he had three bombs rigged up. Only the smallest one detonated. The other two were duds. If things had gone as this asswipe had planned, you, your team, and a whole lot of others would’ve been blown to smithereens.” He gave Dwight a hard look. “Get it?”
Dwight swallowed. He hadn’t thought he could feel any worse. “Got it.”
“Good. You can let the fire dudes in now.” He headed back to his truck.
The fire department moved in and put out the fire. Now even more smoke poured out through the shattered windows. Dwight grabbed a rag, doused it with water, and covered his eyes. He wanted to move closer, but the heat coming from the car was still so intense it was hard to breathe.
When the air had cleared somewhat, Dwight moved in and peered into the driver’s seat through streaming eyes. The body was charred, burned, and now soaking wet-with odd bits of the black balaclava still clinging to the head-but it was Cutter.