Kay David - The Target

Their fight still stung. Why in the hell couldn’t he commit? She was too damn old for the hot-and-cold, up-and-down, crazy connection they shared. They’d argue, then he’d charm his way back into her good graces. A month or so later, they’d repeat the cycle. Their romance was becoming as unstable and erratic as the bombs they encountered, and she was getting tired of it. The only constant between them—their lovemaking—had yet to suffer, but that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? When Quinn touched her, Hannah put everything else aside, including, she’d determined lately, her brain.

Buckling her seat belt, she recalled the previous night’s argument. It’d been the same as always: she wanted kids, Quinn didn’t. He’d used the old excuse of their jobs, but other techs had families—look at Bobby.

It was time to make a decision.

And this time, she actually meant it. She’d had her fill. She wouldn’t succumb to Quinn’s lingering kisses and slow hands anymore. After dinner tonight, she’d tell him exactly what she wanted and if he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—change, then she had to move on. They’d been together two years and she loved Quinn so much it frightened her, but she refused to continue this way. She wanted a husband, a home and children.

The decision to abandon the relationship made her world sway. All at once, she remembered something Quinn had told her…how when a bomb exploded, the universe shifted, and things were never the same again. Ever.

She usually didn’t get Quinn’s mystical pronouncements and this one had been no different, but she suddenly understood. Turning as if to stare out the window, she blinked rapidly and told herself she was doing the right thing. She had no other choice if she wanted to keep her self-respect and have the family she’d always dreamed about. After a few painful seconds, she forced everything to the back of her mind—she had to concentrate on the moment. Nothing could take away her focus from what was ahead.

That’s how bomb techs got killed.

They headed northeast, speeding up South Broad, toward the rough side of New Orleans and the Central Business District, Quinn taking the corners on two wheels, the sidewalks still busy with a late-lunchtime crowd of locals who flashed by the window in a blur. Ten minutes later, as the truck neared the site, they were forced to a crawl on a street already packed with TV cameras and excited reporters, each hoping for some blood for the five o’clock news. Hannah cursed the milling crowd under her breath—half the thrill for the bomber was witnessing his chaos on television. She was convinced EXIT’s number of calls would be drastically reduced if the nuts who made the bombs were deprived of their publicity.

With Quinn blasting the horn, they finally got past the media, and Hannah spotted the Metro Bomb Squad’s rig, two blocks down. The two-ton truck carried the local team’s equipment: their suits, X ray equipment, the PAN disrupter and demo kits among other things. It also pulled the TCV—the high-impact steel globe could suppress an entire explosion inside its inch-and-a-half-thick walls. All the techs had to do was pick up the bomb with their Andros robot, put the package inside the basket, then move the TCV to a safe place for controlled detonation. Contrary to the movies, no one grabbed the device at the last minute and tossed it out a window to save the day.

Unless, of course, they had to.

Mark cursed loudly and Hannah turned. He pointed to the neighborhood and she nodded slowly. It was a dismal and depressing place. A elementary school in need of paint sprawled directly across the litter-filled street from the TCV. The buildings were ringed by a chain-link fence, but in too many places to count, the wire had been pulled away and folded back to create gaps and holes. Gang graffiti decorated the walls.

On the other side of the ragged pavement, an even sadder building sat, fronted by a lopsided sign that announced Tiny Town for Tots. Built of concrete blocks with a low flat roof above, the day care gave off a shimmer of almost visible hopelessness. The windows were locked and barred, the empty playground filled with dilapidated toys. Hannah felt a wave of sympathy for the “Tots” who visited this “Tiny Town.” Their mothers must have felt the same way, but with no other options nearby what could they do? Another pang hit Hannah, this one even harder, but again she pushed it aside.

Spotting the commander of the local city team, she jumped from the SUV before Quinn had time to fully stop. Tony LaCroix had a little too much testosterone floating through him for Hannah’s taste, but he did a good job. She decided he looked relieved when he saw the team this time, though. With EXIT there, he was no longer responsible for the situation; they were the feds. The other techs caught up with her as she reached Tony’s side.

“Am I glad to see you guys,” LaCroix confessed, confirming Hannah’s suspicions. “I think this might be the guy you’ve been tracking. I was just about to put in a request for assistance.”

“Give us the rundown,” Quinn ordered.

NOPD-Central had caught the call about the suspicious box first, LaCroix explained, then a second telephone warning had come into the Metro bomb squad itself. The messages were the same, short and to the point. There’s a box by the back door of the Tiny Town Day Care. It’s got a bomb in it. Tell them to leave from the front and do it now.

The uniforms who had responded confirmed the caller’s story. In the alleyway, leaning against the rear entry of the center, was a shoe-box-size container. Wrapped in stained brown paper, the unlabeled, lopsided package definitely looked suspicious.

“Everyone’s out?”

LaCroix looked at Hannah as if she’d lost her mind. “Yes, Hannah. Everyone’s been evacuated.”

Quinn spoke. “Have you X-rayed yet?”

“There’s not enough room to get the machine in there.”

“So Arnold’s too big, too.”

LaCroix nodded at Quinn’s assessment of the robot they used. “Way too big. Our mini’s out of service and the four-by-four won’t fit. The alley’s less than three feet wide.” A pained look crossed LaCroix’s face. “We can’t ray it and we can’t bring the damn thing out.”

“How about BIPing it?”

LaCroix shook his head at Mark’s idea. “We blow that puppy in place, and the shit’ll hit the fan.” He jerked a thumb toward the back of the building. “There’s low-income housing behind that fence. The mayor would have a cow.”

Everyone’s stress level increased. “Have they been evacuated, too?”

He nodded at Hannah’s question.

“Then we’ll have to try the PAN,” Bobby said. “It’s all we’ve got left.”

Bobby was a specialist with the bomb disrupter. The device fired a variety of projectiles and was designed to disarm bombs without detonation. So far, they’d had no luck with it on any of Mr. Rogers’s bombs.

“I don’t think we can get it in there, either. The damn alley is so full of trash and crap—” Before LaCroix could continue, a minor riot seemed to break out near the perimeter of the cordoned-off area, then someone screamed—a piercing shriek that sent a sharp chill down Hannah’s spine. She turned in time to see a black woman in a flowered housedress push past a uniformed officer, her face contorted with agony.

Mark cursed again, and Hannah cut her eyes to Quinn. He was staring, too, but of all the people there, he would know what to do. He was great at his job, but he was even better with people. His ability to connect with them amazed her; Hannah would rather deal with a live bomb than an upset civvie.

The woman half ran, half stumbled to where they stood. Quinn stepped out to meet her and she collapsed in his arms, tears and sweat streaming down her face, her words coming so fast they were unintelligible. Hannah stood by helplessly, the same way, she imagined, Bobby felt as he looked on, his dark eyes rounded with concern for the clearly distraught woman.