Page 56 of On Fire

“Two blocks up. Carlson’s got a team moving there right now. You need to get that thing out of there. Carlson’s men will detain the driver in the tunnel until the last float.”

The truck clears the tunnel and I grip the wheel. When a bomb goes off, you don’t know it, so gripping isn’t going to help anything. I relax my hands. Sweat trickles down my back.

“Is there a clear way out?”

“Keller and Bryce are working on that. Take the next right on Stoneyhill. A bomb unit will meet you at the basketball courts, staging area D. Repeat. D You exit the vehicle immediately.”

“Copy.”

“You are out of that truck in four minutes, right?”

“You got it.”

The crowd is undulating, laughing, people eating ice cream, drinking sodas, beers, children waving little rainbow flags. All I’m looking for is a clear passage.

And there it is. Bryce and Keller are at the corner and both men tower over everyone, they wave their arms, trying to get people to clear the side street so I can make that turn.

I hook the curve and floor it as soon as I clear the corner. The crowd, like an amoeba, regroups, filling in the area almost immediately.

Keller catches my glance and his face is drawn, serious. He’s a mass of worry. I have to look away. I can’t take that kind of concern right now.

Every minute that ticks by seems like an hour. People thin out and then there, on the left, making the weight on my chest lift, is the bomb squad and the basketball court. The station is set up.

I drive to the center of a white mat and the moment I cut the engine, there is a flurry of activity, and people in full heavy EOD gear position themselves. I open the door and two approach, one on either side. They run me off the site, down around the corner where cement blocks have been set up. One guy leaves immediately with a wave, but the other guy stays for a moment. The EOD suits are large, white, and so padded makes it nearly impossible to see the person.

The one that remains, tilts his head. “You good?” he asks.

I nod but place hands on knees for a moment. My heart is pounding either from adrenaline, from the quick exit, or from holding my breath—or all three. I tap my earpiece, panting slightly.

“I’m clear. Bomb squad is on it.”

“Good work. Get back here as soon as you can. Meet Bryce at Stoneyhill and Main.” The relief in Finn’s voice is audible.

“Copy, over,” I say.

Glancing at the guy in gear, I jut a thumb back in the direction of the parade. “I have to get back to my post, which route?”

I can’t see the man’s face, but he waves for me to follow him around some large trash bins and then points to Winter Street—the wrong direction.

“You want me to go up and over.” I shake my head. “That’ll take too long, What if—”

But I never get a chance to finish the sentence.

I’m not clear what happens next. I bring a hand to my forehead to shield my eyes and see where the guy’s pointing. Then a train slams into me.

His EOD suit probably weighs a hundred and twenty pounds and whoever he is, he’s big too. He’s got me off balance. A heavy, gloved hand strikes hard at my carotid artery and I go down.

It’s an instant way to render someone unconscious.

I land, hard on my back. My vision narrows and his full weight is on my chest squeezing. He flicks the piece from my ear and all I can hear is blood rushing.

If possible, the pressure grows worse. He sits on my chest, then rises and falls again, air escaping and then a wet cloth is pressed against my face and there’s a sweet smell.

Chloroform.

I have about four minutes before this kicks in but the blow to the carotid makes it quicker. I’m already incapacitated.

With the rag over my nose and mouth it’s hard to fight back. With every breath, strength ebbs.

I try to rise up on my hips, trying to get him off me, but whoever it is just keeps pressing hard. A terrible weakness sets in the pit of my stomach and radiates outward down both legs, then my arms. I make a grab for his mask, but there’s no place to hold on. I try pulling him close, to use a reverse leverage maneuver, but my hands slide uselessly down his suit.

I struggle to breathe. He’s not letting up. He rises again, landing hard on my chest. I think a rib might break . . . and that cloth is so tight. I can’t tell how much time has gone by. One hand stays firmly planted over my mouth and nose. He reaches into my suit jacket with his other hand. My arms are useless. Then there’s the cracking, hollow ring of my cell phone smacking against the back of the trash cans.

He's making sure I won’t be tracked.

The sky, so blue, begins to flicker and then . . . nothing.