do in the face of this insanity.
He levels the gun at Cavell’s face. ‘What’s going on, Tremaine? Talk to me, man.’
Cavell continues to stare and to suck hard on the air, like he’s having trouble getting enough oxygen into his system. Alvarez rushes toward him and puts the gun to his nose, squashing it
against his face.
‘Who you talking to, Tremaine?’
He puts his left hand around Cavell’s throat and forces him back against the wall. Cavell almost screams his protest: ‘My back, man! Watch my back!’
The shock of Cavell’s cries sends Alvarez reeling away from him.
He looks Cavell up and down and thinks, I frisked the guy. He’s not strapped. What did I miss?
It strikes him then how warm it is in this apartment. The heating is turned up high. And yet Cavell – the man who earlier today was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt in near-freezing conditions
– is now hiding his muscles under a zip-up sweatshirt.
Alvarez takes up a two-handed shooting stance, the gun aimed at the exact center of Cavell’s chest.
‘Take off the sweater,’ he orders.
‘What? No, man.’
‘Do it, Tremaine, or I start shooting.’
Cavell’s eyes seem to shiver in their sockets.
‘Do it!’ Alvarez barks.
Slowly, shakily, Cavell reaches for his zip and starts to slide it down. He talks over his shoulder again. ‘I have to do what the cop is asking. Don’t do nothing now, okay? Stay
cool.’
He takes off the sweater, lets it drop to the floor.
‘Now the shirt,’ Alvarez says.
Cavell consults his invisible friend again. ‘It’s okay, man. This ain’t nothing. Just ride it out.’
He pulls the T-shirt over his head and lets that drop too. His muscular torso glistens with a sheen of perspiration.
‘Turn around,’ Alvarez tells him.
Cavell swallows, his eyes saying to Alvarez, I hope you know what you’re doing.
Slowly, he turns to face the wall, and that’s when Alvarez sees it.
The package is taped high up, nestling in the deep channel between Cavell’s shoulder blades. The hooded top had covered the bulge, and Alvarez had missed it in the pat-down.
Shit!
Alvarez raises his eyes from the sights of his gun and refocuses on the package. There are wires – for a microphone of some kind. Somebody has been listening in to everything that has been
said in this apartment.
But this isn’t just a listening device.
Alvarez recalls what was in the note. The note which Cavell hasn’t yet seen . . .
. . . and that’s when he decides it’s the moment to get out of here.
In that instant, time slows to a trickle. Alvarez turns toward the door. Run, he tells his legs. Run like fuck!
But it is like trying to swim through treacle. He can see where he needs to be, and he knows what he needs to do to get there, but he’s like a toy with a dying battery.
A sudden realization descends on him that he will never reach his goal. Not like this. Not unless he can sprout wings and fly.
And then his wish comes true. He is flying. Flying while the heat and the light and the pressure overwhelm his body and tear it apart.
Sitting in the hired Ford van, behind its blacked-out windows, the man listens to the reverberations of what he has just done.
His finger is still on the button, pressing so hard that the nail has turned white. He removes it, watches the blood rush back.
It worked. There were moments when he had his doubts, when he worried that he was trying to be too clever, too ingenious.
He had worried, too, about the amount of explosive to use. A bigger charge could have been stashed in the apartment somewhere, but it carried the risk that Cavell would have run away from it at
the first opportunity. Turning Cavell into a human bomb like that, along with a microphone that would reveal any attempt to remove the package, was a stroke of genius. He can still picture the
moment when he told Cavell. He’d put a gun to Cavell’s head, forced him against the wall, slapped the bundle onto his back. Stepping away,
He levels the gun at Cavell’s face. ‘What’s going on, Tremaine? Talk to me, man.’
Cavell continues to stare and to suck hard on the air, like he’s having trouble getting enough oxygen into his system. Alvarez rushes toward him and puts the gun to his nose, squashing it
against his face.
‘Who you talking to, Tremaine?’
He puts his left hand around Cavell’s throat and forces him back against the wall. Cavell almost screams his protest: ‘My back, man! Watch my back!’
The shock of Cavell’s cries sends Alvarez reeling away from him.
He looks Cavell up and down and thinks, I frisked the guy. He’s not strapped. What did I miss?
It strikes him then how warm it is in this apartment. The heating is turned up high. And yet Cavell – the man who earlier today was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt in near-freezing conditions
– is now hiding his muscles under a zip-up sweatshirt.
Alvarez takes up a two-handed shooting stance, the gun aimed at the exact center of Cavell’s chest.
‘Take off the sweater,’ he orders.
‘What? No, man.’
‘Do it, Tremaine, or I start shooting.’
Cavell’s eyes seem to shiver in their sockets.
‘Do it!’ Alvarez barks.
Slowly, shakily, Cavell reaches for his zip and starts to slide it down. He talks over his shoulder again. ‘I have to do what the cop is asking. Don’t do nothing now, okay? Stay
cool.’
He takes off the sweater, lets it drop to the floor.
‘Now the shirt,’ Alvarez says.
Cavell consults his invisible friend again. ‘It’s okay, man. This ain’t nothing. Just ride it out.’
He pulls the T-shirt over his head and lets that drop too. His muscular torso glistens with a sheen of perspiration.
‘Turn around,’ Alvarez tells him.
Cavell swallows, his eyes saying to Alvarez, I hope you know what you’re doing.
Slowly, he turns to face the wall, and that’s when Alvarez sees it.
The package is taped high up, nestling in the deep channel between Cavell’s shoulder blades. The hooded top had covered the bulge, and Alvarez had missed it in the pat-down.
Shit!
Alvarez raises his eyes from the sights of his gun and refocuses on the package. There are wires – for a microphone of some kind. Somebody has been listening in to everything that has been
said in this apartment.
But this isn’t just a listening device.
Alvarez recalls what was in the note. The note which Cavell hasn’t yet seen . . .
. . . and that’s when he decides it’s the moment to get out of here.
In that instant, time slows to a trickle. Alvarez turns toward the door. Run, he tells his legs. Run like fuck!
But it is like trying to swim through treacle. He can see where he needs to be, and he knows what he needs to do to get there, but he’s like a toy with a dying battery.
A sudden realization descends on him that he will never reach his goal. Not like this. Not unless he can sprout wings and fly.
And then his wish comes true. He is flying. Flying while the heat and the light and the pressure overwhelm his body and tear it apart.
Sitting in the hired Ford van, behind its blacked-out windows, the man listens to the reverberations of what he has just done.
His finger is still on the button, pressing so hard that the nail has turned white. He removes it, watches the blood rush back.
It worked. There were moments when he had his doubts, when he worried that he was trying to be too clever, too ingenious.
He had worried, too, about the amount of explosive to use. A bigger charge could have been stashed in the apartment somewhere, but it carried the risk that Cavell would have run away from it at
the first opportunity. Turning Cavell into a human bomb like that, along with a microphone that would reveal any attempt to remove the package, was a stroke of genius. He can still picture the
moment when he told Cavell. He’d put a gun to Cavell’s head, forced him against the wall, slapped the bundle onto his back. Stepping away,
Similar Books
