Page 55 of On Fire

I push my way through the crowd and then wave to an officer that I’m crossing the line. He’s one of Carlson’s men. I dodge between two marching bands and sprint up to the backpack just as a teenager lifts it. Slipping two arms in he stares at me.

“Sorry,” I say. “I thought it was abandoned.” I quickly and discreetly flash my security info. “I need to see what’s inside.”

“Is this like a shakedown?” The boy looks nervous.

“No. There have been some security concerns, however. I’d like to check if you don’t mind.”

Most people don’t if you remain polite.

It feels way too light to have a bomb stashed inside, so I break protocol and go ahead and open it. There’s just a bong, a bag of weed, and a crumpled lunch sack. I hand it back to him.

“So, you’re not going to say anything?”

“It’s all yours,” I say, glancing up the street.

The first set of five floats are about to pass through the tunnel and then I see something I did not see at the staging area: a pickup truck with a giant martini glass loaded into the bed and encrusted with flashing lights. It isn’t the fake paper martini glass that catches my attention. It’s the giant cherry and the single furry die, at least a cubic foot of white synthetic hair dabbed with black paint. Both rest inside the glass.

This float wasn’t at the staging area. It’s been added somewhere along the route.

That’s the piece of information that makes the pulse begin in the back of my throat. Young people laughing and walking with linked arms are throwing candy and Mardi Gras beads at the crowd and all I can think of is, evacuate.

I touch the earpiece.

“Unregistered float martini glass with white die, repeat, white die. Am going to intercept.”

Carlson’s voice crackles in my ear.

“Do not intercept,” he says.

“I have to. There are too many civilians.”

Carlson’s voice growls in my ear. “We’ve got a bomb squad moving in right now. You can help clear the area around it but do it at a pace. If he’s watching, too much activity might be enough for him to pull the trigger.”

“Repeat.” I’m almost at a place where I can dodge into the street.

“Don’t be obvious.”

Don’t be obvious.

Half a block away is the rainbow bridge. Balloons and multicolored paper flowers move in the breeze. The truck entered, and I follow twenty feet behind.

Just before I duck inside the tunnel, I spy two plainclothes detectives on the opposite side of the street trying to get through to the vehicle as well.

But I’m first on the scene. Walking quickly alongside the truck, I wrench open the door and slip into the passenger seat.

“What the hell!” the startled driver says, a young guy in a rainbow onesie, lipstick, and a baseball cap.

“You need to exit the vehicle, immediately.” He reaches for the dashboard, and I grab his wrist in one hand and the steering wheel in the other.

“What the hell, asshole!” He struggles for a second, but I’ve got a vice grip on both the wheel and the wrist.

Just then, the two plainclothes show up on the driver’s side and open the door.

“Exit now,” they say and yank him from the truck. The vehicle’s trajectory wavers for a moment as I slide into the driver’s seat and check the rearview mirror. They’ve got him on the ground, patting him down, looking, I’m sure for a remote. Something jams against my foot, and I glance down. It’s his cap. I slip it on, pulling the brim low over my face.

Just as I’m about to exit the tunnel, Finn’s voice crackles in my ear. “The man was paid a grand to drive.”

“Where did he enter the parade?”