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By Root 638 0

stood in the center of lane six, shrouded in darkness. The only light in the alley was a heavy-watt spotlight shooting down from the back of the bar, beamed on the bowling cage. Pins was tied to the cage, thick cord rope binding his arms and upper body to the iron mesh. His face was swollen, one eye puffy and closed, blood trickled out of his mouth and nose. He was on his knees, his feet tied by wire, his head held up by a rope around his neck tied to a thin steel beam. Strapped to Pins’s chest were a dozen thick sticks of dynamite, a timer in the center clicking down from an hour’s limit. Six different-colored explosive wires were entwined around his chest, legs, and arms.

The entire bowling cage was wired and set, three separate devices timed at various intervals.

Boomer and Geronimo walked over to Pins. Mrs. Columbo and Rev. Jim stood behind them. Dead-Eye was searching the rest of the alley, two guns drawn.

“I didn’t see them,” Pins said, talking through swollen lips. “They came up from behind. There were three of them. I guess I screwed up.”

“You didn’t screw up anything,” Boomer said, taking a wad of tissues from Mrs. Columbo and wiping blood off Pins’s face. “You just breathe easy and leave the rest to us.”

Geronimo stripped off his jacket and sweater, tossing them in an empty lane. He took a knife from his back pocket, got on his knees, and started to run the blade along the wire lines.

“What do you see?” Boomer asked, sweat starting to flow down the small of his back.

“Six numbers,” Geronimo said. “Each attached to different wires. Two strings of wires are dummies. The chest timer is coded to blow in eight minutes, but that could be a decoy. And there’s two separate sticks up above, latched to the rope around his neck.”

“Can you break this?” Boomer asked.

“I need somebody to go to the car and get my kit outta the trunk,” Geronimo said.

“I’ll do it,” Rev. Jim said, waiting as Boomer tossed him the keys.

“After that I figure you should all get the hell outta here,” Geronimo said, “and leave me to my work.”

“Can you break this?” Boomer asked again. “I want an answer, Geronimo.”

Geronimo stood up, turned, and faced Boomer. “Probably not,” he said. “But I’ve got a better chance than any of you.”

Rev. Jim came running back in with a heavy black satchel and handed it to Geronimo. Mrs. Columbo stood off to the side, eyes closed. Dead-Eye came up behind her, his guns holstered. He stared down at Pins, his face flush with anger.

Boomer stooped down and leaned toward his friend. “I’m sorry I got you involved in this, kid,” he said softly.

Pins managed a smile around the blood. “Not me,” he said. “You guys made me feel what it was like all over again.”

“Like what was like?” Rev. Jim asked.

“Being alive,” Pins said.

And then there was silence. Until Pins tried to speak again.

“The guy that did this …” he said, swallowing a mouthful of blood, straining to get the words out.

“Wilber Graves,” Boomer said. “I know the name.”

“What you don’t know is, I wired him.”

It took a moment to register. The Apaches stared at Pins in amazement. He managed a nod, and forced a smile. The look in his eyes acknowledged their awe and accepted it gratefully.

“While they were workin’ me over,” Pins said, “I dropped a line in his jacket pocket. You can hear him on the scanner.”

There was silence again.

It was broken by Geronimo.

“Sooner everybody leaves, sooner I can get started,” he said. “I don’t have all that much time.”

Boomer stroked the sides of Pins’s face, his fingers red with the young man’s blood. The two exchanged a long look, then Boomer stood and left, followed by the other Apaches, each of whom saluted Pins with a closed fist to their hearts.

Geronimo jumped to his feet and tapped Boomer on the shoulder. “If I don’t crack the device, I’d like you to do me a favor.”

“I don’t wanna lose two of you,” Boomer said.

“The favor,” Geronimo said. “Will you do it?”

“Name it.”

“Blow that bitch away,” Geronimo said.

• • •

SWEAT RAN DOWN the sides of Geronimo’s arms and face. He was inching along on his knees, working