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.
Or maybe the guy had figured he’d caught a lucky break, and if he didn’t blow up when everyone else did, he wasn’t going to. Or he didn’t care; terrorists loved their blazes of supposed glory.
He shot past the first group of responders and ran four red lights, heading up to a hundred miles an hour. It was one in the morning and the streets were empty. He saw tail lights ahead, the only set.
A small moving van.
He’d caught up with the last bomber. He steered with one hand, the one with the broken fingers, fished out the gun with his hand.
‘Dad – here, you’re the better shot.’
‘My hands.’ Warren raised them and for the first time Luke saw them, misshapen. Several fingers had been broken.
What those bastards had done to his father. He shoved down the accelerator, caught up with the moving van. ‘Dad, get in the back.’
His father obeyed, sliding over the seat, Aubrey helping him.
Luke raised his gun, came even with the van.
The bomber leveled a gun, fired. Luke felt the heat of the bullet pass in front of his face, like a bolt, and he steadied his arm and fired. Missed. He fired again at the same time as the bomber; the bomber’s bullet hammered into the Navigator’s roof, two inches from Luke’s head. A black dot of blood appeared above the bomber’s ear, his head jerked, the van careened onto the sidewalk. It crashed into the front of a closed laundromat, sheets of windows shattering. Luke stopped, ran to the van. The bomber lolled, eyes open, dead.
‘Luke. Get back here! We’ll call the bomb squad. They’ll know what to do,’ Warren called.
Luke ran back to the Navigator. His father moved into the front seat, staring at Luke as though he’d never seen him before, as though looking for traces of the lost boy in the man.
‘Dad. Oh, God. You’re okay. You’re alive.’ All the things Luke wanted to say began to bubble up in his chest. ‘Really alive.’
‘I know you have a million questions.’
‘No. Just one. Why?’
‘Okay, I know. But let’s go, before the police arrive. Now.’
Luke obeyed, pulling out onto the road. He set the gun down between him and his father. He didn’t want to touch one, ever again. He turned onto the highway that led back toward downtown Chicago.
Silence filled the space between the three of them. A horrible, uncomfortable quiet. The adrenaline made Luke eager to talk but he didn’t know what to say. Aubrey started to speak – Luke could hear the catch of her breath – and then she stopped.
Luke kept his gaze on the black ribbon of the street. He found his voice and it was calm. ‘So. Dad. Why? Why?’
Warren started to answer ‘I know that there is no…’ then he stopped.
‘I want to forgive you,’ Luke started. ‘I just need to understand why-’ he couldn’t go on, his chest heavy with grief and shock.
His dad said nothing.
Luke glanced at his father and saw the cool barrel of the gun against the back of his father’s head.