Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (28 page)

forty-one

The recessed doors
were
the first of a set of three opening into the left-hand wall of the ballroom. Double doors along the prefunction area, then triple doors halfway down and another set of double doors at the far end. The nearest doors got in towards the back of the room, and the first thing Grant noticed was, like everything else he'd encountered in America, how bloody big the room was. It was huge. A curved ceiling ran the length of the roof, designed to look like skylights, with hidden lighting giving an outdoors look even though they weren't real windows. There were hidden wall dividers that could be deployed to turn the enormous function room into three separate areas. None were deployed. This was one big motherfucking room filled with more people than Bradford.

That was going to be a problem.

It wasn't the main problem.

The main problem was he should have come in the bottom doors because they were nearest the stage and presentation area. Grant had forced Delaney through at the back of the room, leaving a long way to go to charge down the suicide bomber.

The suicide bomber looked pale and frightened, even from this distance. She was also the spitting image of her sister. Anna Simonovich was beautiful. Her pale complexion, immaculate and well-cared-for skin, and high cheekbones set her apart from the other women in the audience. It would make it all the more difficult for Grant to shoot her, but if her hands made any sudden movements, that's exactly what he'd have to do.

Kincaid and Cornejo came in behind him. Kincaid went left, Cornejo right. Grant went straight to the aisle that ran down the middle of the room between row upon row of chairs facing the stage. The rows towards the back were empty; the organizers must have overestimated the appeal of a bunch of oil barons and the local politician, but the seats from halfway down all the way to the front were full, interspersed with tables for the wealthier guests. Clayton certainly had sex appeal on his side, the widower coming over somewhere between Kevin Costner and that guy from
Sex and the City
and
The Good Wife
—Chris Noth, if Grant was up to date.

Nobody noticed the intruders for a good ten seconds. That gave Grant time to make it down twenty-five rows. The podium speaker was the first to realize they weren't just a bunch of latecomers. The podium speaker was Senator Clayton. His smile faded. Concern furrowed his brow. The look on his face prompted half the audience to look round. Somebody gasped.

Kincaid raised his voice. “Police officers. Please stay in your seats.”

Cornejo picked up speed, the
police
jacket flowing like a cape.

Grant kept Delaney moving and put the detective's shield away. He'd need the hand free. He slid it round his back and drew the .45 out of his belt but kept it behind him. His eyes never left the girl's, while at the same time taking in everything about the podium guests.

Senator Clayton was standing at the lectern, both hands resting on the sloping top. Anna Simonovich, the dutiful wife substitute, was standing to his left and slightly behind him. Further to the left was a long, heavy table draped to the floor with an expensive white cloth. Five oil company delegates, two Americans and three
Middle
East–types, sat behind the table. The Saudi prince sat slightly apart, between the table and the lectern, in a bigger chair. Not quite a throne, but Grant reckoned that was the intended image. Half a dozen foreign security guards stood behind the prince, hands cupped loosely in front. They were the danger element. Unpredictable.

Kincaid's security team were covering the doors, with a token presence at either end of the stage. Two men. This hadn't been a high-threat level until the crown prince showed up. Even then, it wasn't a case of national security. The place wasn't swarming with Secret Service or FBI in their black sunglasses and earpieces.

Anna Simonovich saw the intruders and took half a pace away from Clayton. Grant watched the movement and relaxed his grip on the .45.

He glanced up at the clock on the back wall.

Two minutes left.

The two cops and the ex-marine surged forward. They were passing the posh seats now, the front three rows interspersed with tables and flower displays. The Saudi bodyguards recognized the threat and reacted accordingly. Three closed in around the prince. The other three separated for a better field of fire. All six drew their weapons.

The girl locked eyes with Grant. She stared unblinking until her eyes watered. Her face was pale with fear. Grant saw indecision flicker behind her eyes. Noticed her hands twitch. The flowing gown hung limp around her body. One hand moved slowly towards a gap in the folds. She looked resigned. Her shoulders sagged. The hand was six inches from disappearing into the opening.

Grant reached the foot of the stage and whipped the .45 forward and up.

Six assorted weapons snapped into the firing position. All aimed at Grant.

Somebody screamed in the audience, and there was a sudden gush of sound as chairs toppled and people ran for the exits. Panic filled the room. Bad news. Panic was infectious. The oil company delegates shifted their seats away from the crown prince. Senator Clayton stared in horror but stood tall. Maybe he wasn't such a jerk after all. The girl continued moving her hand towards the gown.

Grant aimed front and center.

Kincaid saw what was going to happen and held his arms wide. “Police emergency. Lower your weapons.”

Six pairs of eyes focused on Grant. Six dusky faces with furrowed brows and beads of sweat. For a second Grant was in another place, with a different set of sweat-soaked dark faces. Dusty and noisy and dangerous. He saw machine guns and pistols and machetes. Dusty streets and a swinging stethoscope. The vision disappeared as quickly as it had come. He gulped down the moisture forming in his mouth.

The girl's eyes remained locked on him.

Grant stared at her.

The world slowed down. He felt like he was running through treacle. His heart thumped loud in his ears. Perceived wisdom was to always aim for the center mass. Body shot. Except when you were dealing with somebody strapped with enough explosives to level the third floor. He didn't translate that into the American system. He was English. Fuck the American system. His finger tightened on the trigger. He raised his aim. The throat. Empty the magazine at the throat to sever the spinal cord and stop any motor response of the fingers. Stop the girl pushing the button.

He stared into her eyes and saw someone else's.

A swinging stethoscope.

Anna Simonovich blinked.

Grant did not.

Cornejo took everything in. A split second—that was all it took in combat. You only had a split second to recognize the threat, make your decision, and act upon it. He began to move immediately, but everything happened slowly.

Kincaid yelled with his arms held wide.

Cornejo moved forward and in front of Grant.

The girl blinked, twice.

Grant picked his spot and made his decision.

His finger relaxed but remained in place. The .45 didn't waver. Grant stared into Anna Simonovich's eyes and shouted above the commotion. “We've got your sister. She's safe.”

Hope flooded the girl's eyes. Grant kept moving forward. “Keep your hands up where I can see them.”

She held her arms out wide, like Jesus on the cross, and the irony of the pose was not lost on the Resurrection Man. Grant began to lower the .45 to the ready stance, but it was too late. Panic is infectious. Six guns pointed at the Yorkshire detective. It only took one to overreact.

The gunshot sounded loud beneath the vaulted ceiling. Grant was halfway up the three steps to the stage. Cornejo got there before him. He threw himself in front of Grant and took the bullet full in the chest. He wasn't wearing the Kevlar vest. It was still hanging over the barstool in Delaney's kitchen. The impact dropped him to the floor and tripped Grant, who stumbled forward onto the stage, Delaney in tow.

Kincaid stepped in front of the security guards, yelling.

Six firearms were lowered, one still smoking.

The crown prince turned and slapped the shooter across the face.

Grant had no time to mourn his fallen comrade or find another bomb disposal expert. He rolled back onto his feet, dragging Delaney up the steps with him. The clock was ticking. He jammed the .45 down the back of his jeans and grasped the gown. “Sorry.”

He ripped it open. There was no gasp of amazement. Everyone was too shocked at the shooting and the mass exodus. Senator Clayton was the only one to show surprise. He stepped forward to put his arms around the woman who was his lover, but Grant pushed him back. The harness was complicated and heavy. The bra straps had been reinforced and the condoms securely fastened. Wires circled her body and the firing mechanism was small but deadly. A pushbutton trigger hung at her waist. Including the stockings and suspenders, she looked like the most dangerous dominatrix in the world. She also looked like the most frightened bondage freak he'd ever met.

Her eyes pleaded with him.

Grant looked for the timer but couldn't see it. He wasn't sure if it was best to know. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Time was up anyway; unless WCVB had managed a miracle, the signal blockage had been lifted. The first phone call to match the device's frequency and they were all goners. Fast and decisive action was needed to disarm the bomb. The only person who could have done that was gurgling blood onto the stage.

Grant looked at Kincaid. “Get everybody out. Now.”

Kincaid surveyed the complex network of wires and explosives, then looked back at Grant. He didn't nod or smile or say anything. He just acted. That was always the way with the best. Cornejo hadn't hesitated. Neither did Kincaid. Grant felt proud to have known both of them.

The oil company delegates didn't need any persuading. They were out the door as soon as Kincaid clapped his hands and yelled for everyone to leave. The prince was practically carried out as his security team swarmed towards the door. Senator Clayton was the only one reluctant to go. He had tears in his eyes as he reached out for the girl who'd become so close to him. Kincaid yanked the senator's arm away and frogmarched him out of the ballroom.

The vaulted ceiling echoed with their footsteps. The doors slammed shut. The room fell silent. Grant looked at the half-naked woman and for the first time felt his pulse racing. No amount of relaxation technique was going to work this time. He stood frozen to the spot. His mind went blank. He simply didn't know what to do. The wires were too complicated. The timer undiscovered. And he had absolutely zero idea where to start.

A hand grabbed his leg.

The tool bag slid across the floor in front of him.

John Cornejo dragged himself around the podium and pointed two fingers at his eyes, then jabbed them towards the walking IED. He was coughing up blood. He tapped his waist, then nodded towards the girl. Grant followed his gaze. The button dangling at her waist. Grant reached out for the detonator and turned it over. A red numerical display shone from the reverse side. It was counting down fast. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. There weren't any hours. The seconds were changing too fast to read. The minutes had just clicked down to four. Delaney whimpered when he saw it.

None of that mattered if anyone started getting phone calls out in the hallway.

Cornejo forced himself to speak. “No tamper devices.”

Grant opened the tool bag and shuffled around inside it. It was a standard car emergency toolkit, not bomb disposal tools. All he came up with that might be useful was a pair of pliers with wire-cutting blades and a sharp knife. He held up the pliers hopefully. “You mean I can just cut the wires?”

“No. That'll set it off.”

“What then?”

Cornejo mimed undressing. “Just take it off her.”

Of course. Grant had given Freddy Sullivan too much credit. He might have enjoyed blowing shit up in the woods of Jamaica Pond, but the Bradford burglar hadn't grasped the first rule of suicide bombing: don't let the bomber take the device off. She might change her mind. The only reason she hadn't done that was the threat to her sister. Or maybe she was so frightened she hadn't realized she could have simply undressed from her deadly wardrobe.

Grant reached forward, but being handcuffed to Delaney hampered one hand. He whipped out the keys and unlocked the cuff on his wrist. He paused for a second, not wanting to let Delaney go, then snapped the cuff on the girl's wrist. The bastard responsible wasn't going anywhere without the bomb he'd set in motion. Delaney let out a strangled cry. “No, please.”

With both hands free, he set about unfastening the harness. There was the webbing belt around her waist and reinforced straps of her bra. He undid the belt and it fell open, suspended by the bra and myriad wires tangled around her body. Next he spun her around and unfastened the bra. The weight of her breasts pulled it forward, and he turned her forwards again. Her breasts swayed. He'd never felt so detached from such a spectacle. The bra hung loose but didn't come off.

The girl's eyes burned into him. “Pliss.”

He had to force himself to concentrate.

He picked up the knife from where it had dropped on the floor and cut the shoulder straps. The device still didn't come away. There were too many wires holding it in place. Maybe Sullivan hadn't been so stupid after all. The wires formed their own anti-tamper device. They had become knotted and tangled like the random knotting of an extension cable when you weren't careful about unraveling it. Ropes and cables had a mind of their own and could tie the most intricate knots when you least intended. The girl was completely tied up. He couldn't cut the wires to free her. He couldn't rip the condoms from the harness.

The red numbers counted down.

The girl's eyes leaked panic. Tears formed. She closed her eyes.

A mobile phone rang in the hallway.