James Born - Shock Wave

They’d come straight from the interstate and headed toward the Orange Bowl, then cut into this neighborhood. A kid on a bike said he’d just seen a man jogging and pointed them in his direction. They knew he had to be here somewhere, but this street was about to end at some pine trees. Then Sutter intended to go left toward the Orange Bowl and send the FBI man right back toward the interstate.

Sutter started to notice a second uncomfortable sensation other than being winded. He was starting to sweat. In good slacks and a nice shirt. That didn’t happen to a cop that was thinking properly.

Then came the blast. Just the concussion and sound made Sutter and Jimmy duck. He looked over his shoulder and saw the fireball rising from a few blocks behind, the orange and yellow dissipating into the sky.

“Oh shit!” Sutter said. “We need to check on Tasker and Bolini.”

Jimmy Lail was too far ahead of him to hear.

When Sutter was about to yell to him, Jimmy saw something at the corner and aimed his gun. He waved excitedly.

Sutter used his sprinter’s speed and was up to Jimmy in a few seconds and immediately saw the idling semi tractor-trailer with Wells in the front seat. A smaller tanker was hitched behind the cab. Sutter didn’t want to think what was in it.

Jimmy said, “I’ll stop this asshole.” He marched forward with his pistol out for Wells to see.

Wells opened the truck’s cab door, leaned out and popped two rounds off with a small-caliber pistol.

Jimmy Lail immediately dodged behind a parked car and crouched.

Sutter moved toward the truck, his Glock drawn. He fired once at the truck cab to keep Wells’ head down, then advanced quickly. He could hear Jimmy, behind him now, start to shoot, too. The sound of the nine-millimeter rounds smacking into the semi cab made Wells duck.

The truck started to move, but when Sutter raised his pistol he felt a stabbing pain in his left foot and ankle. He went down, watching as Wells carefully drove around him to get the big rig moving. Sutter turned and saw Jimmy dive out of the truck’s path as Wells blasted the giant air horn.

Now Camy in the Honda turned down the street. She squealed to a stop next to Sutter and burst out of the car to him. She looked at him, then pulled a white gym towel from inside the car and immediately held it to his ankle, saying, “You’ll be okay.”

“What happened? I thought I twisted my ankle.”

Jimmy was with him now. “Man, are you okay? I’m so sorry.”

Sutter just looked at him. “Don’t tell me.”

“I didn’t mean to shoot you.”

Sutter wanted to smack him, but turned to Camy. “Catch the truck, catch the truck. Wells is in it.”

She looked up quickly, but no one was sure where the semi had gone after it took the first turn.

Tasker felt like a train-wreck survivor. He was wobbling his way through the neighborhood after his partners and Wells, blood running down his face, hair burnt in patches, legs bloody and soaking wet. This was no dignified day at the office.

Bolini was checking the area of the blast for injuries and to explain to responding cops what happened. Tasker couldn’t risk losing Wells. He was about to sit down and rest for a second when he heard the gunfire. It was coming from the end of the street. He picked up his pitiful pace.

He reached the last street just in time to see a semi tractor-trailer driven by Daniel Wells roll down the street, blaring his horn. In its wake he saw Jimmy Lail standing with Camy over Sutter, who was down, a block away. He turned and moved as fast as he could to the injured Miami cop.

“What happened? You all right?” he gasped as he came upon his partner.

Sutter seemed more pissed than injured. “That jerk-weed shot me.”

“Why?”

Jimmy, walking up behind, mumbled, “It was an accident.”

Tasker stood up and spun to meet the FBI man face to face, but instantly realized how embarrassed Lail was and that it really had been an accident.

Camy started to jump in the Honda. Jimmy followed her. She said, “We need to find the truck.”

Tasker nodded his head. “Go, go. Bolini will be here in a second.”

A minute later, Bolini pulled up in his Ford Taurus and Tasker grabbed Sutter, then piled in, Sutter careful with his leg but fully mobile.

As the car started to roll, Bolini said, “Wells shot you?”

Sutter shook his head but didn’t elaborate, and Bolini let it ride.

“Which way?” asked Bolini.

Tasker said, “He’s gotta be headed to the area where the undercover Miami cop saw him. Head toward Biscayne, we’ll pick him up.”

Bolini stepped on the gas.

From the front passenger seat, Tasker turned around to Sutter. “That’s it!”

“What?”

“The van was a diversion. The real attack is the tanker. He wanted to drive the tanker into the small side streets. That’s why he learned to drive the big rigs.”

Sutter’s eyes widened. “You mean he’s gonna detonate the tanker?”

“Exactly. And that’ll make the van look like a firecracker.”

Bolini pushed the Taurus up to fifty in the tightening traffic, swerving in and out and up over curbs. He fumbled with his Nextel. “Hey,” he yelled into the handset. “It’s Sal. I need every swinging dick in that office out here. I’m going down to Biscayne by Bayfront Park. We got a semi that may be used as a bomb.” He listened to someone, then said, “Now!” And shut the phone. He turned to Tasker and said, “We gotta get to him before he arms the bomb. I’m no bomb tech. None of that red-wire, blue-wire bullshit.”

“I’m with you,” said Tasker. He still didn’t trust the FBI man, but he’d been a help and now seemed to realize the truth of the situation. Sutter sat, quietly simmering in the back. Tasker was impressed with Sutter’s restraint, unless it was due to loss of blood.

Tasker turned to face his quiet partner in the backseat. “You okay?”

Sutter, holding the red-stained towel Camy had given him to his ankle, nodded curtly.

Tasker’s Nextel chirped, followed by Camy’s voice. “We’re off the interstate, headed for Biscayne. I’m gonna call Miami PD and fill them in.”

Tasker responded, “Ten-four. We’re near the interstate, coming up on Fifth Street.”

When Bolini made a turn onto Fifth, heading for the Port of Miami, he said, “Up there, straight ahead.”

The tanker was slowing in the growing traffic. There were still a lot of cars between them and Wells.

“Shit,” said Bolini, slowing to a stop behind traffic and pounding the steering wheel in frustration.

Tasker yanked the door handle and was gone.

Wells was glowing. He had slowed in exactly the kind of traffic he had expected. No cops questioned the tanker’s movement because all the cops had hightailed it to Interstate 95 a minute after his van went up. Now, with the radio playing Toby Keith and the air conditioner humming, Wells felt like he was in control and about to send the whole world out of control.

He shifted his eyes to look out the side rearview, but remembered he’d banged it off on the gate to Emerson-Picolo Transportation. Since leaving the little neighborhood by the Orange Bowl, he had knocked off the left side mirror, too, and taken out a mailbox, a parked moped, two parked cars and clipped a lunch truck. The truck was the only one anyone noticed. The owner jumped out, screaming something in Spanish while shaking his fist. Wells just waved and got back into the groove of the music.

He looked at the buildings on both sides of the street. It would be better to go three or four blocks south, closer to downtown. This road was still a little open for traffic to the port and Bayfront Park.