Read Online The Last Line by Anthony Shaffer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anthony Shaffer
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us,â the passenger said, taking the bags and handing one to Manuel. âDiez minutos, Ignacio,â the driver said. âNo más.â
Ignacio Carballo glanced at his watch, then nodded. âKeep the motor running.â
The two slipped out of the backseat onto the sidewalk and sauntered toward the looming, ultramodern façade of the shopping center, through two sets of glass doors, and into the main interior boulevard of the mall. The air-conditioning was cool and pleasant.
This was an upscale part of the city, between Santa Monica and Beverly Hills. The shoppers, Carballo noticed, tended to be young, bored looking, and well dressed; even the cutoff jeans and T-shirts looked like theyâd come with designer labels. He didnât see a single black or Hispanic face, and for just a moment he felt afraid. He and Mannie stood out in the crowd.
They had to get this started now, before a guard or a cop challenged them.
Halfway up the lane of shops and boutiques, Carballo pointed to a Starbucks on the other side. âAllá,â he said. âStart there.â
â¡SÃ! ¡Vámonos a soltarse el pelo, âmano!â
Carballo shook his head. âJust go! Letâs do it!â Manuel Herrera was a good guy, but right now he was flying on that hit of mosca. Turning to face back the way heâd come, he reached into his canvas bag with his right hand, removing a baseball-sized steel sphere, a U.S. Armyâissue Mk 1 hand grenade. His left hand holding the bag by its carry strap, he hooked his left forefinger through the cotter-pin ring and yanked it free. With his right hand, he flipped the grenade backhand and to the right, sending it clattering into the front of a Frederickâs of Hollywood.
Continuing to walk briskly, he pulled another grenade from the bag, yanked the pin, and tossed it into the next shop along, a gift store featuring lots of cut glass ornaments and bric-a-brac. Then to the next shop, counting under his breath. â⦠y tres ⦠y quatro ⦠y cincoâ¦â
He heard a shrill scream from somewhere behind him, and in the next instant an explosion thundered from the lingerie shop. Glass windows and splinters from the wooden door frame erupted into the central aisle like a shotgun blast. Opposite, the grenade Manuel had tossed into the Starbucks detonated behind the counter. Glass display cases turned into blast-driven shards, razor sharp and deadly, scything through the cluster of customers waiting for their expensive morning coffee.
More screams, shrill and terrified ⦠and then the next blast went off ⦠and the next ⦠and the next. The shopping mall had become a storm of chaos, blood, and death. People were running in every direction, none of them knowing which way to go, just that they had to run. Others lay on the polished tiles of the floor, many of them splattered with blood, their own, or the blood of others. When Carballo glanced back over his shoulder, he saw horror. A young man propelled from a shop, colliding with an elderly woman. An overturned stroller, an infant in pink pajamas squirming on the ground nearby. A womanâthe childâs mother, perhaps,âlying on her back, eyes staring at the skylights overhead, her face a mask of blood â¦
Carballo didnât think about it, didnât let himself think about it. There was a job to be done. He and Herrera continued to walk down either side of the aisle, tossing grenade after grenade into each shop front as they passed it. Each of them had started with twelve grenades in his bag. Carballo was down to his last three when he saw a mall security cop ahead, running toward him.
Mall cops werenât armed, but they could still be trouble. Without slowing his walk, Carballo reached into his bag, extracted a Mini-Uzi, released the charging handle, and sent a burst of 9 mm rounds slamming into and through the security guard. The Mini-Uzi, a
Ignacio Carballo glanced at his watch, then nodded. âKeep the motor running.â
The two slipped out of the backseat onto the sidewalk and sauntered toward the looming, ultramodern façade of the shopping center, through two sets of glass doors, and into the main interior boulevard of the mall. The air-conditioning was cool and pleasant.
This was an upscale part of the city, between Santa Monica and Beverly Hills. The shoppers, Carballo noticed, tended to be young, bored looking, and well dressed; even the cutoff jeans and T-shirts looked like theyâd come with designer labels. He didnât see a single black or Hispanic face, and for just a moment he felt afraid. He and Mannie stood out in the crowd.
They had to get this started now, before a guard or a cop challenged them.
Halfway up the lane of shops and boutiques, Carballo pointed to a Starbucks on the other side. âAllá,â he said. âStart there.â
â¡SÃ! ¡Vámonos a soltarse el pelo, âmano!â
Carballo shook his head. âJust go! Letâs do it!â Manuel Herrera was a good guy, but right now he was flying on that hit of mosca. Turning to face back the way heâd come, he reached into his canvas bag with his right hand, removing a baseball-sized steel sphere, a U.S. Armyâissue Mk 1 hand grenade. His left hand holding the bag by its carry strap, he hooked his left forefinger through the cotter-pin ring and yanked it free. With his right hand, he flipped the grenade backhand and to the right, sending it clattering into the front of a Frederickâs of Hollywood.
Continuing to walk briskly, he pulled another grenade from the bag, yanked the pin, and tossed it into the next shop along, a gift store featuring lots of cut glass ornaments and bric-a-brac. Then to the next shop, counting under his breath. â⦠y tres ⦠y quatro ⦠y cincoâ¦â
He heard a shrill scream from somewhere behind him, and in the next instant an explosion thundered from the lingerie shop. Glass windows and splinters from the wooden door frame erupted into the central aisle like a shotgun blast. Opposite, the grenade Manuel had tossed into the Starbucks detonated behind the counter. Glass display cases turned into blast-driven shards, razor sharp and deadly, scything through the cluster of customers waiting for their expensive morning coffee.
More screams, shrill and terrified ⦠and then the next blast went off ⦠and the next ⦠and the next. The shopping mall had become a storm of chaos, blood, and death. People were running in every direction, none of them knowing which way to go, just that they had to run. Others lay on the polished tiles of the floor, many of them splattered with blood, their own, or the blood of others. When Carballo glanced back over his shoulder, he saw horror. A young man propelled from a shop, colliding with an elderly woman. An overturned stroller, an infant in pink pajamas squirming on the ground nearby. A womanâthe childâs mother, perhaps,âlying on her back, eyes staring at the skylights overhead, her face a mask of blood â¦
Carballo didnât think about it, didnât let himself think about it. There was a job to be done. He and Herrera continued to walk down either side of the aisle, tossing grenade after grenade into each shop front as they passed it. Each of them had started with twelve grenades in his bag. Carballo was down to his last three when he saw a mall security cop ahead, running toward him.
Mall cops werenât armed, but they could still be trouble. Without slowing his walk, Carballo reached into his bag, extracted a Mini-Uzi, released the charging handle, and sent a burst of 9 mm rounds slamming into and through the security guard. The Mini-Uzi, a
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