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“Spare me the moral relativism. At least she’s democratically elected.”
“Was she?” Evan said. “I seem to recall she assumed the office after her predecessor prematurely expired.”
“Are you going to complete the mission?”
Evan pictured Ruby lying on the floor of that Mattapan apartment, the shape of her brother outlined in blood on the wood beneath her. “If I do,” he said, “it won’t be because of legislation.”
The silence stretched out and out. “I’ve been instructed to remind you that if the mission isn’t completed on the specified terms, there will be no reinstatement of unofficial immunity for you.”
Evan smiled gently, gazed down at his bare toes on the knot rug. The soft texture felt soothing. “You’re better than this, Naomi.”
“Your move, X. What are you going to do?”
Evan cut the line.
It was time to meditate.
Tomorrow was going to be a big day.
57
Sticky and Immovable Tonnage
It is harder than one might think to produce a dump truck full of old tires.
But not impossible.
Less difficult to douse said tires with gasoline.
Tipping the truck over takes some doing, sure, but if one is trained in tactical driving and knows how to hit a curb sideways off a skid, it’s not as hard as it might seem.
Seat belt recommended.
Ignition is of course a breeze. A flicked match as you fade away into the thickening night, and everything goes boom.
The conflagration of sticky and immovable tonnage provides an excellent clog to a choke point like, say, the one at Halsey Neck and Meadow Lane.
It will likely demand a response not readily mustered by beefed-up private security teams and local PD.
You should try it sometime.
Sticky and Immovable Tonnage
Shouting and commotion erupted on Meadow Lane. Agitated officers bellowed into their radios, getting back equally adrenalized squawking. Cruisers lighting up, peeling out from the curb, sirens squealing. Security teams tightening around perimeters. Shouted exchanges from guard stations to patrolmen, everyone in a tizzy.
You’d think it was the first time they’d ever dealt with a flaming overturned dump truck heaped with tires.
A low fog had crept in from the sea, puffy wisps and streamers that cut visibility, adding to the commotion. As the cops washed up the beachfront strip toward its intersection at Halsey Neck, a female cop in a formfitting police uniform sliced through the front gardens of Tartarus.
Candy kept the brim of her peaked cap low over her eyes and the generic long-sleeve uniform shirt unbuttoned slightly but not yet seductively.
She rang the doorbell, which echoed sonorously throughout the house.
Rathsberger ripped the massive door open, coyote-tan M17 9-millimeter aimed through the gap at her boots.
“What are you doing?” Candy said. “I’m police.”
Rath’s face trembled with alertness, his right eye lost to a smear of scar tissue. “Lemme see badge and creds. Badge and creds or no one comes in.”
