A knock on the hotel door jars me from sleep. I'm not ready to get up, but chances are, it's one of Karl's men. I need that student ID so I can buy magnesium ribbon from the lab store. Otherwise, my bomb has no fuse. And, I'm going to need quite a bit of ribbon, considering it burns at a rate of about thirty seconds per foot.
I jerk back the sheets and stumble to the door. The moment I pull it open, I realize it could be hotel staff.
Lucky for me, it's a man in casual clothes, clutching an envelope.
I hold up my hands. He thrusts the package at me and walks away.
“Good morning to you too,” I call after him and slam the door shut.
The package contains the student ID for Alex Parker, just as requested. I now attend the University of California. I should check my classes online and stop by one, just for the hell of it.
No time. I have an anthropology center to destroy.
I pull the sheet from the bed and drape it over my science experiment, then make my way out of the hotel. The sky is partially overcast, but with big white clouds that seem harmless.
I head toward the lab supply store. The GPS takes me the long route, but I eventually arrive. Then I grow nervous again.
What if they ask what I'm using the supplies for?
“Just making a bomb, ma'am,” is probably the wrong answer.
Maybe I should find out what normal people use magnesium ribbon for before venturing inside. I glance at my phone. The day staff should be leaving the archeology center soon.
Tonight is the night.
I will be setting it off, without a doubt.
***
The supply store doesn't ask, not even in passing, why I'm buying magnesium ribbon. They don't even request to see my student ID.
I will file away that tidbit of information for the next time Karl wants me to make soot out of a building. Also, I won't mention to him that I called in an unnecessary request.
Back in my hotel room, I run through the how-to videos one more time because I feel like I have missed something. Bomb making should not be quite this simple. Granted I've been creating, scraping, and drying rust for half a day, but the Internet has provided everything I need.
Everything I need to take down a relatively large building.
If I was still in Arizona, I would drive to the middle of the desert and test out one of these Balloons of Mass Destruction, but I don't know my way around California enough to risk it. Time is short. I want to finish tonight.
According to the bomb directions, I will need either a super hot flame or a way to flatten the magnesium ribbon. I opt for both and swing by the store for a hammer, a small blowtorch, and a backpack. Then I pull behind a shopping center, roll out the magnesium ribbon, and start pounding away.
Each echoing thud is like a sucker punch to my brain. Aspirin isn't going to touch this headache, because the driving power is the hum.
I need to hurry up and blow up the lab. But first I have to take the loot.
Back in my car, I frown and shuffle through the case file again. No indication of where the books could be. I don't even have a map of either of the two floors in the facility. The Internet has let me down.
I don't know what books I'm looking for. They're in a box and they have gold colored spines. Other than that, I'm clueless.
Pretty sure Karl won't appreciate if I bring back copies of The Poky Little Puppy.
Somehow, I will need to get into the lab, find the books, set the bombs, and escape.
And if I plan to do this before the hum goes Emeril Lagasse on me and kicks it up a notch, I have to clean up the hotel room and get moving.
***
I carry the backpack at my side as I enter the anthropology center. My interior jacket pockets hold my phone, my gun, and the blowtorch.
The lobby contains a curved reception desk and a badge-activated door. The receptionist looks up. She has a pleasant face. A mother, a wife. She has had an easy shift. Too bad it's her last day—on Earth.
The thought sinks to the pit of my stomach.
“Can I help you?” She smiles, and her question sounds genuine.
I stare dumbly, as I usually do when I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.
“Yeah, I … ” My brain dies. Like a junk car. Why don't I ever work out my script before I show up? “I have a class here tonight. I think. For school.”
The phone on her desk rings. She puts up a finger to signal me to wait, then answers the phone. As she engages into the conversation, I remind myself to keep the backpack low. No need to draw attention to it, since I can't risk being searched. I'm loaded up like Bomberman.
She tilts the phone away from her mouth. “Can I see your student badge, please?”
She's talking to me.
I start to reply. “I don't … ”