“Five of them.”
Ahead of them two cops were walking a police barrier into place. Cooper burped the siren, pointed at his chest, then at the street beyond. The nearer cop nodded and rotated the barrier out of their way. Cooper tossed them a salute as he steered the Escalade through the gap. Every nerve in his body was screaming for speed, but in the crowd of tourists and sightseers they had to creep forward at five miles an hour. Someone banged on the back window of the truck. A blonde stopped right in front of him to pose for her pimply-faced boyfriend. Cooper laid on the horn.
1:53.
“What did they look like?”
“Like in the movies. Blocks of gray putty. They weighed about fifteen pounds.”
“Total?”
“Each.”
It had gone on like that the whole ride in, every question leading to an unhappy answer. Eventually Evans had started repeating himself. When it was obvious they’d gotten out of him all they were going to, Quinn had used a second pair of cuffs to secure his hands to his opposite ankles. It was an awkward, uncomfortable position, and the big man was bent nearly in half, weeping softly.
“Shut it,” Quinn said. He’d climbed up to the passenger seat, and when he saw Cooper looking at him, he cocked his head and took a breath, his nostrils flaring. It was a look that read, Well, we’re in it now. “We could evacuate.”
“The politicians, maybe.” Cooper rode up on the curb to pass a cop on a horse. “Not all these people.”
“Some of them. Use the cops, SWAT—”
“It’d be panic, people trampling each other. Besides, we don’t know it’s on a timer. If Smith sees everyone running, he’ll blow it early.” Ahead a row of fast-food vendors had parked right in the middle of Broadway. He grimaced, thought about plowing through the falafel truck, threw the truck into park instead. 1:56. “I’m going to have to try to stop this myself.”
“Yourself? Bullshit. I’m coming—”
“You have at least one cracked rib.”
“I can take the pain.”
“I know you can. But you’ll slow me down. Besides, all I know about disarming bombs comes from old cop shows. Unless I just pull the red wire, I’m going to need help.” He popped the magazine on the Beretta. Eight rounds left. “I need you to get me a bomb squad.”
“They’ll never make it. Not in this crowd.”
“Then get them ready to talk me through it. I’ll be on the earpiece. And call Peters, let him know what’s going on.” He took a deep breath, then opened the car door. The crowd noise enveloped him. “And, Bobby, just in case—”
“—arrange ambulances and emergency services, I know. But make sure it doesn’t come to that, okay?” The fear in his partner’s eyes wasn’t for his own safety or for Cooper’s. It ran deeper than that, and broader. Cooper recognized it because the same thoughts had been running through his head. It was a fear of what would be unleashed if he failed. A fear of the cracking of the world.
Cooper slammed the door and began to push through the crowd. 1:57.
The ceremony won’t start on time. These things never do. And John Smith likes theater. He’ll wait until every camera is watching.
But then he will blow it. Unless you stop him.