“Yeah, everyone’s afraid because of you, Andy. Now, keep an eye out. How goes the outage?”
Andy pulled his laptop from back under the seat. “It’s all the way to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It’s slowing down, though. Whoever is into the back doors is good, but we have time. Even if they counteract it now, it would take at least a few hours to get the grids reset and the power back on. Am I good, or what?”
“You and Gunther. Make sure it’s down long enough so we can place the bomb.”
“I’m doing my job. You do yours,” Andy said. “More me than Gunther; you think about it. Hey, everything would be perfect if you hadn’t gotten me shot.”
Patience, patience. “Right,” Matthew said, “and you’re the idiot who left the memory sticks behind, you’re the one who ran when the FBI saw you. If you’d played it cool, you would have been fine. But you panicked and got yourself shot.” How many times had he said this already? His hand fisted on the steering wheel to keep from punching Andy, maybe knocking him out of the truck and running over him, the idiot.
The little idiot pouted, no other word for it.
“Matthew, you’re going to have to place the bomb yourself. I can’t limp in there, now, can I? I’d draw attention. The police aren’t stupid; you know they’re looking for us. This place is crawling with Secret Service, too. I’m staying in the truck.”
“Grow a pair, Andy. We’re in this together.” He sounded calm, in control. Wasn’t he the Bishop?
“I don’t know you anymore. I mean, lots of girls screw guys. So Vanessa played you, Matthew. She played all of us. She was really good and she hurt your feelings. You shot her, killed her dead, paid her back, so don’t take it out on me.”
Matthew saw the blood flowing into her hair, turning it stiff and black. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it this time. He struck out with his right fist and punched Andy in the jaw. Andy’s head snapped against the window with a crack.
Andy yelled, “You bastard, you hit me, you hurt me. Without me, you’d be back in Belfast jerking around with Ian.” He began to rock back and forth as he held his jaw.
Matthew whispered through clenched teeth, “Listen to me, you moron. You will do as I say or I will cut out your tongue and leave you bleeding next to the bombs with a sign nailed to your chest saying you planned the whole thing. Then I will drive to your mother’s house and do the same to her. Do you understand?”
Andy didn’t say a word. He turned to stare out the window. Matthew thought he might be crying.
“Answer me,” Matthew repeated quietly. “Do you understand?”
Andy put up his hands to ward off another blow, drew his legs up to his chest. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll do it. Stop threatening me.”
“Then stop trying my patience, Andy. Stop your whining, your mouthing off. There’s too much at stake. We’ve got to focus.”
He pulled the truck to a stop. A man in a black suit hurried over. “Don’t screw it up,” Matthew whispered between clenched teeth. He got out of the cab and said, in a thick Virginian accent, “Hiya.”
“Papers, please. We’ll need to check the truck, too.”
“No worries.” He handed over the clipboard with the bill of lading on it. “Droppin’ the load off.” Matthew cocked his head a bit so the baseball cap hid his face.
I’m a good old boy doing my job. Don’t make me kill you.
The agent was thorough. After five minutes, though, he waved them through.
Matthew got back into the rig, slammed the door, and slapped the rig in gear. He drove toward their spot, careful not to pop the air brakes as they went down a slight hill.
Andy said, “I’m setting the timer, Matthew. I’ll be ready to drop the code.”
55
ROOK TO E1
FBI Headquarters