Explosive Alliance. Susan Sleeman
Cash let go of his radio to catch her chin, forcing her to make eye contact. “Calm down, Krista. If you promise to stay right here, I’ll take care of your gramps.”
She stopped thrashing and eyed him suspiciously. “Really? You’ll get him out of here?”
After I get a look at that bomb and, if it’s legit, disarm it if I can. Thankfully, he was on duty tonight. His buddy Neil was a great guy, but he wasn’t a bomb expert. Cash had years of experience disarming explosives in the military and another year as the FRS bomb tech.
He looked around for another officer to hand Krista off to but found no one. “I’ll go, but you have to stay here. Right here on this spot. No moving at all. Promise?”
She nodded unreservedly.
He hoped she was sincere and wasn’t playing him. “I mean it. If I look back down here and see you’ve moved at all, I won’t follow through.”
“You’d leave him?”
No, but you don’t need to know that. “If you force me to.”
“I won’t move. I promise. Just go. Now! Hurry!”
Cash released her arm and surveyed the chaos as he formed a quick game plan. With crazed people flooding down the aisle, he’d have to climb over seats to reach the top, then hope the crowd had thinned enough, allowing him to shoot across the aisle to the bomb.
He started over the seats. One by one. Up. Higher. Toward the bomb.
“Be careful, Deputy,” Krista called out.
He felt his stride falter. Not for long. The briefest of moments, really, but long enough for the memory of his fallen teammates to come rushing back.
Stow it, man. Or these people could pay the price for your distraction. Keep calm. In control. Step by step. Work through it.
He could do this. He had to do this. If the bomb was real, it was up to him—him alone—to disarm the device. With fifteen minutes on the timer, neither his squad nor the Metropolitan Explosives Disposal Unit could arrive on time.
If he even had the fifteen minutes to get this done.
More likely he had less.
Putting a cell phone on the bomb said the bomber planned to detonate via a phone call and the timer was likely a fallback. A simple ring of the phone and the bomb could go off in a split second, killing everyone in the blast radius.
He upped his speed, reaching the top tier. He looked for a break in the crowd. A cold bead of sweat dampening his forehead, he shot across the aisle, found the backpack and gently opened it. The sight that greeted him sent his heart plummeting.
He shone his flashlight into the pack, following the detonator wire from the timer now at twelve minutes to demolition blocks stacked neatly inside.
He let out a low whistle, and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach followed.
There was nothing fake about this bomb. Nothing at all.
“No-o-o-o!” Raw fear uncoiled in Krista’s stomach. “Don’t mess with it. Opa first. Please!” Her words came from deep in her gut, but there was no chance Cash could hear her over the crowd.
Was he trying to be a hero? Trying to disarm the bomb himself instead of waiting for a trained technician?
Of course he was. He was a hotheaded cop like the ones who’d railroaded her toward a murder rap. And she’d trusted him. Stupidly. She was the worst kind of granddaughter. She’d left Opa a stone’s throw from a bomb, then trusted the wrong person again.
You’re a fool, Krista.
She was about to charge up there, but Cash turned and headed in Opa’s direction. He squatted in front of him. They talked, Opa responding with his usual animated gesturing. Cash patted Opa’s hand then stood and looked away. Krista waited for Opa to get up, but he sat there watching Cash walk toward the bomb.
What?
“No! What’re you doing?” she screamed.
He took a tool from his pocket and bent over the bomb. He was going to try to disarm it and leave Opa all alone.
Fear skittered down Krista’s spine. She couldn’t stand there any longer and leave her grandfather in extreme peril. She took off, following the trail Cash had left behind, pushing through people like a snowplow. She wouldn’t stop. No matter what. She was going up to Opa’s seat even if the crowd trampled her to death.
* * *
Adrenaline raced through Cash’s veins, leaving him light-headed for a moment. He took in a calming breath. Blew it out and replayed his radio conversation with Jake, the FRS leader. The team had an ETA of ten minutes, but once they arrived, they still would have to fight through the crowd streaming out of the stadium.
Translated, Cash was on his own.
So did he move the bomb? Disarm it? Jake had told Cash to use his gut feeling. His gut, right. His gut couldn’t be trusted. Afghanistan proved that.
He stared at the bomb for a moment. Thinking. Evaluating. His best option was to get the device away from people. Center field would be good, but safely moving through the crowd while carrying a bomb would be problematic. So then what?
He checked the timer.
08:29.
08:28.
08:27.
He had to act. Move it or disarm it, which was less risky? He just didn’t know. He used to be so decisive. Until the loss of his team.
He glanced around, assessing the number of people still in the blast radius, and saw Krista urgently climbing over seats to get to her grandfather.
Otto seemed like a fine gentleman. He’d thanked Cash for risking his life to disarm the bomb and for his willingness to sacrifice himself for others, then told him to go ahead with his job and not worry about him. He was counting on Cash to make the right decision. So was Krista. So were all the people in the stadium.
A lump formed in Cash’s throat, but he wouldn’t disappoint them.
He knew what he had to do. He flipped open his Leatherman and went to work on the antiremoval device. Each movement calculated. Precise.
The noise of the crowd. The announcer. The sounds of other officers who’d responded, all fading into the background. It was just him and the device. And the timer.
He wasn’t one for praying. Not since answers to his questions about the loss of his former team remained unanswered, but if any situation called for hope and prayer, this one did.
He sent up a quick request to keep everyone safe. To make his movements sure and true. He took a deep breath, held it and decisively disconnected the device.
With no time to spare, he moved on to the detonator, carefully pulling it from the Semtex and moving it well away from the explosives. The timer continued counting down, but with the detonator removed, it no longer mattered.
“Done!” he called out, then wiped perspiration from his forehead.
Before he could celebrate, in his peripheral vision he caught someone quickly advancing toward him. He was instantly on alert again.
He jerked around, his hand flying to his gun.
Krista raced across the now-deserted aisle.
“What’re you doing?” She rushed up to him, her eyes immediately going to the backpack. “The timer is almost down to zero and you promised to get Opa out of here. Let’s hurry. Now!”
He opened his mouth to tell her that he’d disarmed the bomb, but