35
Braden McKee passed the gendarme patrol and continued southeast on rue Saint-Luc, walking at an unhurried pace. He saw the church known as Saint-Bernard de la Chapelle, the landmark for their safe house. He began counting alleys and turned down the fourth one. He found himself in a courtyard of brick, the small area full of broken wine bottles and newspapers, a rusty bicycle chained to a fence, its seat long gone. After a quick glance around, he entered a repugnant apartment complex through an unlocked gate made of black iron.
Walking by a rack of mailboxes, most with the hatch open or missing, he left the sunlight of the courtyard, the only illumination available. He entered a stairwell and turned on a flashlight to fight the gloom. He carefully walked to the fourth floor, stepping around the debris his torch revealed and breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell of urine. He used a key on the second door to the left, entering a small flat. Inside, there was no furniture. Just cracked linoleum and stained walls. He went to the bedroom and found a neat stack of boxes on the floor. Packages of RDX, rolls of detonation cord, and boxes of nails.
He went to work, first covering the windows on the eastern wall with sackcloth to block out any snooping eyes, then set about building the trap, working with no more excitement than a man hanging drywall.
Ringing the room in small packets of explosives, he worked to ensure the detonation was contained within this flat and that nobody in the flats to the left or right would be harmed. The only targets would be those who entered.
Once he was finished daisy-chaining the explosives to the detonation cord, he began mating them with the nails. He paid special attention to the entry door. It was here that the greatest chance of escape lay, either because of a bottleneck at entry, or because they’d figured out the trap and were rushing to exit.
He’d positioned four explosive charges, two low and two high, and now aimed the nail packages so they would crisscross two feet in front of the door, like four shower heads spraying out. They would eviscerate anyone unlucky enough to be standing in the cone of fire.
Finished, he surveyed the room, ensuring that at detonation no corner would be free from the hail of metal or flame. His last act was to set the Samsung phone on the windowsill, running its charger to an outlet just below. He checked to make sure the det cord and initiation device would reach the tail hanging from the mini USB plug of the phone.
Satisfied, he stood, hands on his hips. Proud of his work. The pain of the men receiving his creation never crossed his mind. The same way the United States hadn’t thought about his brother when he was ripped in half by an IED in Iraq.
Reap what you sow.