James Born - Shock Wave

Camy searched the streets for any sign of the other agents working with her, then started to jog in the same direction as Jimmy had run. She left his Honda locked and hoped it wouldn’t get towed from the no-parking zone where it sat.

Tasker mashed down on the brakes, bringing the lumbering machine to a stop past the base of the bridge headed toward the port. The American Airlines Arena was to the left and back toward the city a few hundred feet. He didn’t hesitate to leap off the truck onto aching legs and start to run back downhill toward the snarled traffic. There was not another vehicle on the bridge. What kind of moron would follow a tractor-trailer that had just smashed fifteen cars? He ran about ten steps and realized that in his present condition he’d never clear the tanker before it detonated. He took a sharp turn, cut across the two empty lanes and headed for the side of the bridge. As he climbed the small guardrail and prepared to jump the forty feet into the Intracoastal Waterway, he heard another engine and saw a large truck cresting the hill coming from the port. He stood high on the rail, waving his hands to stop the truck, then heard a faint beep from the tanker. He turned and saw only a flash.

Sal Bolini, with Jimmy Lail’s help, had dragged Wells to the intersection to watch the tanker’s labored climb up the incline of the bridge. Why didn’t Tasker shift gears? Bolini wondered. He stared at the tanker, willing it to move faster. Then he did something he hadn’t done since high school: he prayed. “Please, God, let him get out.” He closed his eyes and repeated the prayer. When he opened them, Tasker was hobbling along the side of the stopped tanker. He mumbled, “Thank you,” out loud.

Bolini’s grip tightened on Wells’ arm as Tasker turned toward the north side of the bridge. Tasker climbed onto the rail, then hesitated.

“Jump,” Bolini said. “Fucking jump!”

Tasker turned and stood and started waving his arms.

Bolini looked up the bridge and saw a tractor-trailer headed over the span of the bridge. The driver saw there was a problem and stood on the brakes, causing the box trailer to slide sideways across the four lanes of the bridge, nearly jackknifing, but stopping well away from the tanker.

Then the tanker exploded.

The sight and sound of the blast took him by surprise. It looked like a mini atomic bomb as it flashed, then traveled vertically, instantly melting the electric and communication cables over the bridge. The signal on the stop gates on the bridge crackled and popped, the lenses shattering. The grass along the arena property withered instantly as the flame licked all the way down the bridge and to the sides. The paint on the side of the building bubbled and changed colors as the sign over Bongos Restaurant popped and sizzled.

Everyone ducked instinctively, and the sound of the blast echoed through the streets and into the spaces between buildings.

Part of the fireball shot straight down the bridge, guided by the rails and ocean breeze until the intersection flashed with flames. No people were still in the vicinity. The smashed Chevy closest to the bridge instantly ignited, as did the two cars next to it. One, a Chrysler, burned out immediately. The other started to burn from the tires up. Black smoke started pouring from both vehicles and drifted across the area, adding to the mounting confusion.

Bolini squinted to see through the smoke but couldn’t see Tasker.

Sutter, limping up to where Jimmy stood with Wells in cuffs, casually kicked the prone man just on general principle. Unable to see what they were all staring at until he reached the line of spectators in front of Wells and Jimmy, he pushed through the crowd just as the tanker blew up. The sound rattled his intestines, and the flash hurt his eyes.

“Jesus, where’s Bill?” he shouted to Bolini as they both ducked.

Bolini just shook his head.

Sutter felt sick to his stomach.

He stared at the flame as it just sort of evaporated into the sky. If it had blown down here, the blast would’ve killed fifty people. He himself never would have thought fast enough to move the tanker to an open place.

He went to one knee and felt tears build in his eyes.

…

Wells stared at the unfolding scene. This was getting pretty good, with the black, sooty smoke filling the streets and the people screaming. The tanker wasn’t where he would’ve put it and hadn’t done nearly its potential, but people were scared and it was because of him. This was cool.

Bolini and Jimmy bolted into an all-out run to the bridge. Sutter put his hand on Wells and forced him to prone out on the ground again. Then he sat across his legs. The crowd was starting to grow as more people left their cars to see what the hell was going on.

Bolini reached the bridge and started the long slog up the incline. Finally he had to move all the way to the right because of the heat of the burning hulk of the tanker. The cement guardrail was flashed with a brown, burnt color. They looked down at the water for any sign of their partner.

Jimmy hopped onto the rail at the spot they’d last seen Tasker, then leaped down into the water before Bolini could protest. It looked like a long way to Bolini, but Jimmy hit the water with a splash and was immediately up and thrashing around.

Bolini leaned over the side, anxiously looking over. “See anything?” he shouted.

Jimmy was too intent on the search and too far away to respond.

Bolini started to pray again. “Help us out- please, God.”

At that moment, Jimmy broke the surface with Tasker, unconscious in his arms. Jimmy flipped his head so he was face up, cupped an arm across his chest and started for the seawall nearest him.

Bolini raced down the bridge faster than he realized he could run, and jumped to the embankment under the base. He half-ran, half-tumbled to the edge of the water, then scurried around the small bay on the seawall to meet Jimmy Lail.

“Here,” gasped Jimmy, holding Tasker’s motionless body up from the water. Bolini grabbed his shoulders and tugged. With effort they had him up onto the grass, and Jimmy pulled himself up.

Tasker had the cuts and bruises from earlier, and now his hair was singed. His left eye had swollen shut.

Bolini said, “You know CPR?”

Jimmy laid Tasker out completely flat, and as he was tilting his head back, Tasker coughed and water sprang up out of his mouth like an oil well.

Tasker coughed again and gasped, “Anyone hurt?”

Bolini let out a laugh. “No, I don’t think so.”

“What about the truck on the bridge?”

Bolini paused, then stood, looking up past the burning tanker. “He’s stopped right at the crest.” He kneeled back down to Tasker. “You did good. With both bombs. Maybe you should be a bomb tech.”

Tasker coughed and let out a slight smile, “No, thanks.” He sat up. “Where’s Wells?”

“We got him. Sutter is sitting on him.”

Jimmy Lail chuckled. “Literally.”

“Get me to them,” said Tasker, slowly standing to his feet.

Tasker didn’t intend to argue when the first paramedics arrived and told him he had to go to the hospital. He walked slowly, with Jimmy and Bolini on either side of him. They cut through the crowd and saw Sutter still sitting across Wells’ legs.

Sutter’s face brightened as he saw the three men slowly come toward him. “Praise Jesus,” smiled Sutter. He stood and, to Tasker’s surprise, hugged him. Tasker used his remaining functioning arm to return the gesture.

On the ground, face down, with his hands cuffed, Wells said, “Hey, this is uncomfortable.”

Jimmy Lail, in his Texas drawl, said, “You’re about to be as uncomfortable as a June bug in a fishing tournament if you don’t shut up.”