? ? ?
The NOPD Bomb Squad, the FBI, the ATF, and a few other initial-agencies took over my house, my yard, and my life. They had insisted the entire street evacuate, but I had refused to go. No way was I going to leave my home with a bunch of cops in it. Not with all the toys in the hidden room. I hadn’t checked it lately, but I had a feeling that Eli had begun keeping bigger and better weapons in there, weapons that the ATF might have been unhappy for us civilians to have. Somebody had to guard the place. The Younger brothers were human and a bomb would kill them, so they had to go; I wasn’t and didn’t, not that the cops knew that. The token firefighter in boots and heavy gear looked over at me, measuring the level of what he thought was my stupidity. Okay. Maybe I couldn’t survive a bomb blast. I wasn’t leaving until I had to.
I sat, alone, at the back of the living room, Bruiser’s huge bouquet in my line of sight, watching the activity in the front part of the house, eating a stick of Eli’s beef jerky, which reeked of spices I usually didn’t ingest, and drinking iced tea. Fingering the business card given to me by the officer in charge. Wanting to rip it into small pieces, except I might need the contact info later on. I was mad, and, well, mad.
The firefighter glanced at me again, and I saluted him with the stick of jerky, ripped off another bite, smiling, or maybe snarling, from the way he reacted. I chewed and swallowed and ate another chomp.
The Kid had called me several times, explaining that the pizza delivery had been rerouted and was delicious, and updating me on law enforcement’s progress. Not that he was supposed to know. He had hacked their communication systems, which (according to him) had only basic, elementary firewalls and protection. He was in heaven; his brother was torn between the need for intel and the need to keep Alex out of jail; I was ticked off that someone had sent me a bomb. A bomb. Really? Couldn’t they do something inventive? Something creative? Like an attack by mutant blood-sucking mosquitoes, a rogue-vamp attack, or even a drone attack? One with a bomb in its fuselage. No. They had to send me a letter bomb. A package bomb. I was too busy for this crap.
My cell rang again. “Yeah?”
“A robotic bomb detection and defusing device is rolling down your street,” Alex said, his inner geek turned up to max. “Can you see it?”
“Not from here. They won’t let me near the front of my house.” But the padded fireman was nowhere in sight at the moment. “Hold on,” I whispered into the cell. I raced to the kitchen window and looked out. Streetlights meant I could see about fifty feet to either side in both directions. The street was lined with marked and unmarked cop vans, cop cars, fire trucks, and sundry emergency vehicles with flashing lights. There wasn’t a single POV—personally owned vehicle—anywhere. Placing my face to the window glass, I could see farther down the block where news vans were blocking the street both ways, and overhead I could hear the steady thump-thump-thump of a helicopter. From the far left, in the middle of the street, something moved.
The robot could have been designed by Caterpillar Inc. in miniature, a long, lean, low, bright orange body with tanklike track wheels. It had a single long arm mounted on the deck, with four tweezer-type fingers on the end, and a tall, slender black box mounted higher, housing a camera and the remote controls and a mini flashlight. The robot was maybe three feet long and a little more than a foot wide, and looked like something a kid would love to get for Christmas. “Cooool,” I whispered, drawing out the word.
“Ma’am. You said you’d stay—” I jolted, guilty, and whirled on the firefighter who had managed to get back in the living room without me seeing him, smelling him, or hearing him. He heaved a disgusted breath. “Never mind. You have to leave now.”
I said, “Are you leaving?”
He made this gesture that probably involved his whole body under the firefighting gear, and though I saw only his hands and shoulders, I could tell he was annoyed. “Yes, ma’am. I’m heading out that side door”—he pointed to my kitchen door—“with you, walking on your own feet, or tossed over my shoulder, however you want it.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, daring him to try, and then heard Eli over the cell. “Jane, you’re acting like a civilian. Get out and let them do their job.” Civilian was an insult from Eli. I frowned, closed the cell, and walked to the side door and out into the backyard. The padded firefighter followed, leaving the door open behind us as he went out the narrow side drive to the street. Open door . . . to help equalize the pressure should the bomb blow? I took a last look at my house. Replacing windows was getting expensive. I hoped that was all I would need to do before the night was over.
CHAPTER 10