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Authors: Angela Knight
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duty.”
“And what if he gets himself killed before he gains an immortal’s ability to heal his injuries? What will those high morals be to you then, eh?” Morgana leaned forward and tapped a long red nail on the table. “I’ll tell you—ashes. Ashes in your mouth. Believe me, you won’t like the taste.”
Morgana rose to her feet and stalked off the patio, her red stiletto heels clicking an angry rhythm.
Gwen tossed down her fork. Suddenly she was no longer hungry.
The child’s backpack sat in solitary splendor in the middle of the empty parking lot, not far from the bright red building that had once been a Circuit City. Tinkerbell’s painted face smiled from the backpack’s plastic surface, seeming to watch the four-foot-high machine rumbling steadily closer.
The robot gleamed in the hot afternoon light, caterpillar treads clanking on the pavement. It stopped eighteen inches from the backpack and started maneuvering back and forth, working to position the two steel tubes mounted on its front. Finally the twin barrels were aimed squarely at the zipper on the backpack’s side. For a moment, there was no sound at all except the ping of metal heating in the sun.
Water exploded from one of the barrels in a furious, hissing blast. The zipper burst open under the pressure, and the backpack seemed to explode, scattering bits of equipment all around: an egg timer, the guts of a big lantern battery, wires, a thin silver tube about the size of a number 2 pencil, and three red sticks of dynamite.
Again, the parking lot went silent.
After a moment, a man lumbered down the steps of the bomb truck parked three hundred feet away, moving carefully in the massive green suit he wore. Made of Kevlar and fire-resistant Nomex, the suit weighed almost a hundred pounds, including thick metal plates tucked into chest and groin pockets. The helmet alone weighed thirty pounds, between its bulletproof faceplate and radio unit.
Ignoring the scattered sticks of dynamite, the bomb tech bent over to pick up the small silver tube in careful bare fingers. After securing it in a thick, hard plastic cylinder, he gathered up the tube’s dangling wires and twisted them together, then tucked them into the case. Finally, he put the cylinder into an armored box and locked its lid.
“Done,” he announced into the radio.
The door of the bomb truck swung open and the rest of the squad emerged to collect the scattered parts of the device. With the blasting cap detached and rendered safe in the ammo box, the rest was okay to handle.
Giada, trailing behind Logan, frowned at the tech’s bare hands. “Why doesn’t the suit have gloves or boots?”
Logan shrugged. “You wouldn’t have the dexterity you need to disarm a bomb if you were wearing gloves.”
“But what if the bomb went off?”
“They’d call me ‘Stumpy.’ ” The bomb tech pulled off his bulbous helmet and grinned, his face red and slick with rolling sweat.
Mark T. “Mount” Davis was a hulking six-two deputy with a boyish face and a dark blond buzz cut. The nickname came from his silver name tag, which listed him as “MT Davis.” This, Giada gathered, was considered sophisticated humor by cop standards.
Davis turned toward Samantha Taylor, who had driven the robot using the remote controls in the truck. “Good shot with the water cannon, Sam. You hit that battery dead-on.”
She grinned in pleasure at the compliment. Barely five-four in combat boots, Taylor was a sturdy thirty-year-old with a snub nose and a wicked smile. Between her build, her bulletproof vest, and her weapons belt, she looked like a redheaded fireplug.
Logan once told Giada that Taylor never hesitated to wade into any fight, which made her beloved of her fellow cops. He liked her because of her rock-steady calm—an invaluable quality for a bomb tech.
Sam slanted Logan a grin. “All I’ve gotta say is that it’s lucky Logan doesn’t build bombs for real.”
He’d designed the
“And what if he gets himself killed before he gains an immortal’s ability to heal his injuries? What will those high morals be to you then, eh?” Morgana leaned forward and tapped a long red nail on the table. “I’ll tell you—ashes. Ashes in your mouth. Believe me, you won’t like the taste.”
Morgana rose to her feet and stalked off the patio, her red stiletto heels clicking an angry rhythm.
Gwen tossed down her fork. Suddenly she was no longer hungry.
The child’s backpack sat in solitary splendor in the middle of the empty parking lot, not far from the bright red building that had once been a Circuit City. Tinkerbell’s painted face smiled from the backpack’s plastic surface, seeming to watch the four-foot-high machine rumbling steadily closer.
The robot gleamed in the hot afternoon light, caterpillar treads clanking on the pavement. It stopped eighteen inches from the backpack and started maneuvering back and forth, working to position the two steel tubes mounted on its front. Finally the twin barrels were aimed squarely at the zipper on the backpack’s side. For a moment, there was no sound at all except the ping of metal heating in the sun.
Water exploded from one of the barrels in a furious, hissing blast. The zipper burst open under the pressure, and the backpack seemed to explode, scattering bits of equipment all around: an egg timer, the guts of a big lantern battery, wires, a thin silver tube about the size of a number 2 pencil, and three red sticks of dynamite.
Again, the parking lot went silent.
After a moment, a man lumbered down the steps of the bomb truck parked three hundred feet away, moving carefully in the massive green suit he wore. Made of Kevlar and fire-resistant Nomex, the suit weighed almost a hundred pounds, including thick metal plates tucked into chest and groin pockets. The helmet alone weighed thirty pounds, between its bulletproof faceplate and radio unit.
Ignoring the scattered sticks of dynamite, the bomb tech bent over to pick up the small silver tube in careful bare fingers. After securing it in a thick, hard plastic cylinder, he gathered up the tube’s dangling wires and twisted them together, then tucked them into the case. Finally, he put the cylinder into an armored box and locked its lid.
“Done,” he announced into the radio.
The door of the bomb truck swung open and the rest of the squad emerged to collect the scattered parts of the device. With the blasting cap detached and rendered safe in the ammo box, the rest was okay to handle.
Giada, trailing behind Logan, frowned at the tech’s bare hands. “Why doesn’t the suit have gloves or boots?”
Logan shrugged. “You wouldn’t have the dexterity you need to disarm a bomb if you were wearing gloves.”
“But what if the bomb went off?”
“They’d call me ‘Stumpy.’ ” The bomb tech pulled off his bulbous helmet and grinned, his face red and slick with rolling sweat.
Mark T. “Mount” Davis was a hulking six-two deputy with a boyish face and a dark blond buzz cut. The nickname came from his silver name tag, which listed him as “MT Davis.” This, Giada gathered, was considered sophisticated humor by cop standards.
Davis turned toward Samantha Taylor, who had driven the robot using the remote controls in the truck. “Good shot with the water cannon, Sam. You hit that battery dead-on.”
She grinned in pleasure at the compliment. Barely five-four in combat boots, Taylor was a sturdy thirty-year-old with a snub nose and a wicked smile. Between her build, her bulletproof vest, and her weapons belt, she looked like a redheaded fireplug.
Logan once told Giada that Taylor never hesitated to wade into any fight, which made her beloved of her fellow cops. He liked her because of her rock-steady calm—an invaluable quality for a bomb tech.
Sam slanted Logan a grin. “All I’ve gotta say is that it’s lucky Logan doesn’t build bombs for real.”
He’d designed the
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