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A backpack and gloves. There could be wires from the gloves. A bomb could be triggered by either hand. Odds it was the right one.
I could see the guy, ambling down the street, with his focus beyond my left shoulder. The bus was going to pass the man in forty seconds, or less.
The chopper was almost overhead. If we were filmed... The CCTV on this street had been masked. Overhead footage from a chopper wouldn’t show much, but with what I wanted to do, we’d be followed if the chopper spotted the incident.
Forty seconds.
The man stepped past the door to the shop, heading toward the bus.
“Let’s do this.”
“We shooting? Going in for a capture?” Romano spoke from behind. He’d be ready to slip through the door.
“No. Too risky.” Pinning down a bomber’s arms didn’t guarantee safety. “This.” There was a machete souvenired from a rack in my hand. Quieter than a gun, though there’d be more blood. The main advantage was the severing of any wires. They’d be inside the wrist.
I twisted the door handle. It’d lock behind us once Romano let it shut. Do or die. The hard plastic grip of the machete had finger indentations, and I settled my hand around it. The weight was good. I twitched the weapon to feel how it moved.
I pulled the door inward and walked out with the machete pointed down and held behind my leg.
Noise, sweat, the rotten fruit from the garbage bin, they whammed into my senses, but all I paid attention to was the tap of the man’s feet.
My heart thudded steadily as if counting down the seconds.
Professional, remember. Do the job. Every step has been trained for.
Every single step.
The traffic was slow, and the bus crawled up to us.
Three strides let me nearly catch up to the man, by his side, next to the street. I glanced at the man’s hands; both of them were tucked into the backpack straps. The bus surged and roared closer. Our target pivoted, raising his right hand as if to grab the mirror of the bus.
If it were his left that held the trigger, they’d be vaporized.
If he jammed himself against the door of the bus and detonated, not many of those inside would survive.
If it was a bomb.
I pushed the luxury of doubt aside.
Time had run out.
This would be messy, and there would be a fuss. Already I raised the machete.
Sounds faded. The people around us blurred as I zeroed in on that wrist. I swung. Bringing it down was gratifying. Seeing it slice through the man’s wrist, hearing his gasp then scream, then the pop of Romano’s pistol as he put a shot in the back of our target’s head—even better.
I felt the satisfaction of doing the right thing.
The man slid boneless to the ground, limbs kicking and flailing as last-minute nerve impulses fired. He gasped, once, as I leaped over him. Blood spattered and sprayed like a delicate sun shower of red.
The escape routes were planned to the nth degree.
Kids were screaming, people shouting, their mouths gaping as they scattered before me and Romano.
We ran, ignoring everything that didn’t seem a threat. Some of the kids in the bus had plastered their faces to the glass, their eyes wide, following us. This day would stick in their memories.
Better than being dead. Better than dead.
Sirens were blaring, and the chopper hovered somewhere behind us. A few black vans swept past, heading toward the dead man. Dark-tinted windows concealed the occupants, but I knew it was the FBI.
