Cherry Bomb

CHAPTER 18

THE HONDA’S SPEEDOMETER is up over ninety mph, and has been for close to half an hour, but Alex hasn’t seen a single squad car on this stretch of highway. None hidden. None passing. Not even one coming in the other direction on the opposite side of the street.

It’s discouraging. Don’t cops have monthly quotas? Who’s protecting our nation’s roads from reckless drivers?

Finally, after blowing past an obvious speed trap semi-hidden by a cluster of bushes, Alex grows a red and blue tail. She waits for him to hit the siren before taking her foot off the accelerator and rolling to a stop. Traffic on the interstate is sparse at this time of night. They’re past the city limits, in the country. No stores, houses, exits, or oases, for two miles in either direction. Just plains and trees, stretching out and fading into unpopulated darkness.

The cop parks behind her, but farther out on the shoulder, protecting himself from being accidentally run over. He aims his side-door spotlight directly in Alex’s rearview. She angles it downward, deflecting the glare, and turns around in her seat to see him coming, hoping he’s not too short or fat.

Alex likes speed, and because of that she has been stopped many times in the past. Flirting, flattering, showing some leg, has gotten her out of many a ticket. But with her face the way it is, no cop will be anxious to get her phone number.

This time, however, she’s not looking for a free pass.

He climbs out of his car, and Alex is surprised. He is actually a she.

Girl cop. Cool.

Alex digs into her purse, palms the stun gun. Waits.

“License and registration.”

The cop is standing a foot behind the driver’s-side door. One hand is on her belt, near her holster. Alex squints behind her, doesn’t see a partner in the squad car. She opens the door.

“Stay in the car, ma’am.”

It’s an order, delivered with authority. The cop’s hand has now unsnapped her holster and is on the butt of her pistol. It’s hard to tell with the light silhouetting her, but Alex guesses her at about thirty years of age, tall, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds. A pro, by the way she’s conducted the traffic stop so far.

But Alex is a pro too.

Alex fumbles with her purse, pretending to search for her wallet.

“Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry, I know I was speeding, I can’t find my license, my boyfriend, he hit me-”

“Get back into the car, ma’am.”

Alex takes a step toward her, hand still in her purse. The cop’s name tag reads Stark.

“The hospital, I need the hospital, look what the bastard did to my face-”

Now Officer Stark draws her weapon, aims at Alex’s chest.

“Drop the purse and hands above your head!”

“Why? I didn’t do anything. My boyfriend-”

“Drop your purse and hands above your head! Now!”

Alex halts. She’s excited, even a little scared. Alex drops the purse, slowly raises her hands.

“Turn in a complete circle!”

Alex complies, her shirt riding up, showing the cop there is nothing in her pockets or her belt.

“Get on your knees! Hands behind your head!”

Different cops arrest suspects in different ways. Some order them to palm the car or the wall. Some order them to lie facedown on the ground and spread out their arms and legs. Some prefer the knees and the hands behind the head routine.

Which Alex had been hoping for.

“On your knees! Hands behind your head!”

Alex nods quickly, getting down, the asphalt cold beneath her jeans. She puts her hands on her neck, under her long red hair. If Stark had ordered her to palm the hood of the car, Alex first would have fallen to her knees and faked sobbing, face in her hands. If Stark had wanted her to eat the tarmac, she would have complied, but put her hands behind her head. But any way it went down, Alex still would have been within easy reach of the stun gun she’d stuck in the hanging hood of her sweatshirt.

“Look the other way!”

Alex turns her head, knows that the cop will approach her from a different angle to keep her off balance. As expected, Officer Stark comes at Alex on her left side, snicks the cuff on Alex’s right wrist with her left hand, grabbing Alex’s thumb to hold her steady. But it’s impossible to fully handcuff a suspect while holding a pistol. Stark has to holster her weapon before slapping on the other cuff. As she does this, Alex’s free hand snakes into the hoodie and grabs the Cheetah. Alex tilts left, twisting around under her armpit, and jams the stun gun into the officer’s hip, letting her feel a million volts.

Officer Stark folds in half and drops to the street. Alex reaches for the gun, but it’s secured by a strap. She takes a second to find the release, then the pistol-a Sig Sauer.45-comes free. Alex sticks it in the back of her jeans.

A car whizzes by, doesn’t slow down. The cop moans. Alex juices her again, then drags her between their cars, onto the dirt beyond the shoulder. She unclips a Maglite from Stark’s belt and takes her pepper spray and radio. The handcuff keys are in her breast pocket, and Alex removes her bracelet and binds Stark’s wrists. Then she waits.

The cop stirs, opens her eyes. Alex focuses the beam on her.

“Full name and car number.”

“Ma’am…you’re in a lot of trouble.”

Cops like Maglites. Illumination is only one of the reasons why. Alex raises it, heavy with six D batteries, and brings it down on Officer Stark’s leg. Not hard enough to break it-that would cause a delay-but hard enough to hurt like hell.

This produces a sound somewhere between a whimper and a howl. Alex repeats the question.

“Val…Val Stark. Car Five Victor Seven.”

“Good. Now on your hands and knees. Back to your ride.”

Alex follows while hunched over, keeping out of sight of the occasional passing car. She helps Officer Stark into the backseat.

“Be right back, cutie.”

Alex winks and slams the door. Then she gathers up the items from the back of the Honda and transfers them into the passenger seat of the cop car, save for a fist-sized chunk of PENO, a pyrotechnic blasting cap, and four feet of pink thermalite fuse. She pushes in the Honda’s cigarette lighter, then spends a few dirty minutes crawling under the chassis. Alex hums as she works, sticking the PENO to the gas tank, and the combined fuse and cap into the plastic. The road, and the undercarriage, are still damp from the earlier rain, but the explosive sticks like peanut butter.

Boom time.

Alex pops out the lighter, admiring the orange glow. She hesitates, savoring the moment, letting some anticipation build.

The fuse ignites, hissing and sparking and making Alex feel like she’s ten years old again, behind Father’s barn with Charles, lighting cherry bombs and blowing up tin cans.

Four feet of pink thermalite equals eighty seconds. Alex pockets the lighter and strolls to the police car, no hurry, and climbs into the driver’s seat. Officer Stark has left her keys in the ignition, the car still ru

Eighty seconds pass.

Nothing happens.

The radio squawks, making her jump.

“Five Victor Seven, status on the 10-73. Over.”

Alex locates the handset, picks it up.

“This is Five Victor Seven.” Alex’s pitches her voice higher, to match Officer Stark’s. “Standby, Central.”

“Ten-four, Five Victor Seven.”

Still no explosion. Alex wonders if the wet road snuffed out the fuse. Or if she grabbed an electric blasting cap by mistake. There could be a dozen reasons why it didn’t go off, but going out and checking doesn’t seem like the brightest of ideas.