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“Well, hurry up already, would you please?” Mr. Beckett said, going to the aluminum blinds on the ambulance window that faced the target.
Chapter 58
I immediately spotted the commissioner and the acting mayor, Priscilla Atkinson, in attendance when I entered the huge, crowded conference room. As I glanced up to the nosebleed section of the amphitheater seating, I was happy to see Brooklyn Kale and Arturo and Doyle and climbed up and sat down next to them.
Down on the floor in the center of the room, I could see my new fair-haired leader, Lieutenant Bryce Miller, going over his notes. I was almost glad I’d been taken off as case lead. It was high time to allow another Christian to be fed to the lions.
Someone dimmed the lighting, and a satellite image of the Queens warehouse from yesterday’s raid appeared. Bryce had just stepped to the podium and was still adjusting the microphone when the conference room doors burst open and two uniformed cops rushed in.
One of them made a beeline for the commissioner and whispered in his ear. I sat up straight when the puzzled, annoyed look on the commissioner’s face became one of intense concern.
“Ms. Mayor, everyone, excuse me,” the commissioner said, standing as the lights came back on.
Brooklyn and Arturo and Doyle and I all looked at each other with the same wide-eyed expression.
“Good grief. What the hell now?” Brooklyn said.
“Something has come up,” the commissioner said. “I’ll explain in a minute, but right now I’m going to need everyone to please stand and calmly head for the stairwells and proceed outside.”
He cleared his throat as everyone started freaking out.
“Quiet, now, everybody, okay? Head for the exit immediately. We have a problem. A red terrorist alert has been issued. We need to evacuate the building.”
Chapter 59
“I told you, you stupid bastard,” Mr. Beckett said from the window, where he looked at the building through binoculars. “They’re coming out now! They’re evacuating! Blow it now!”
“One more minute,” said Mr. Joyce.
“No! Now!” Mr. Beckett cried. He watched as a truck pulled up in front of the building and a guy leaped out with a black Lab in tow.
“It’s the bomb squad! Do it now!”
“One second,” said Mr. Joyce, clicking away at the keyboard like a jazz piano soloist. “Just a couple more adjustments.”
Mr. Beckett tore a schematic in half and kicked the cooler.
“You’ve adjusted it enough! It’s now or never!”
Mr. Joyce ignored him, eyes on the screen, clicking buttons like mad.
Mr. Beckett looked through the binocs again, then started banging his head against the ambulance’s metal wall.
“Blow it,” he whimpered. “Blow it.”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” Mr. Joyce said. “It’s all about the placement, otherwise it’ll do cosmetic damage at best.”
“I don’t give a shit! Blow the damn thing now!”
“Fine,” said Mr. Joyce. “You win. Just so you know, it’s not ready.”
“Blow it!”
“First say that it’s your call,” said Mr. Joyce. “I don’t want you blaming this on me later.”
“It’s my call! It’s my call!” Mr. Beckett cried.
Mr. Joyce set off the detonators on the eighty pounds of plastic explosives with a soft press of his thumb.
