Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [32]
Geronimo, hands buried inside front pockets of his faded jeans, walked through this throng, trying to find the guilty lurking among the curious.
It didn’t take long.
The man was young and well dressed, gray slacks tailored, brown loafers buffed, blue button-down shirt visible under a navy blazer. His brown hair was combed straight back and gelled, the clear complexion of his freshly shaven face shining in the glow of the morning sun. He resembled what he wanted those around him to think he was: a young executive derailed on his way to work.
But the eyes betrayed him.
Geronimo kept his distance, half hidden by a trio of schoolgirls lugging large L. L. Bean backpacks on their shoulders. He saw the man’s eyes scan the empty warehouse, knowing which window to peer at and which door the bomb unit needed to enter. There was a bomber’s hunger to those eyes, a sense of anticipation, a confidence that maybe on this day the police would be a poor match for his expertise.
They were eyes waiting for blood.
Geronimo stepped around the three girls and edged closer to the wooden barricade. With his back to the bomber, he glanced at the ground, checking only the motion of the stranger’s shadow. He heard a lighter click behind him and watched a thin stream of tobacco smoke as it filtered past. Geronimo turned his head toward the man, and the two exchanged looks.
The man saw the badge dangling around Geronimo’s neck.
Geronimo saw the man’s right hand bunched up in the folds of his jacket pocket, cigarette gritted between teeth, sly smile across his face.
A cool breeze brushed past the cop. His body relaxed, the way it did instinctively when he was left in a room alone with a device. He took his hands from his pockets and moved closer to the suspect.
They were surrounded by two dozen people—old women on their way to the deli, workers on morning break, mothers taking toddlers out for a stroll. All attention was focused on the building and the commotion in front of it. The children gleefully watched the squad cars parked at odd angles, bright red lights twirling. The duty cops, backs turned to the crowd, talked about logged overtime, unconcerned about the gawking bodies.
“Hello, Bomb Man,” the man in the jacket said to Geronimo. “I thought you’d be in on this.”
“You know me?” Geronimo asked.
“I know what you do,” the man said, still holding the grin. “And you know what I do.”
“How much time?” Geronimo asked.
“Five minutes.” The man directed his eyes toward the building. “Not one of my better works. They should be able to dismantle without much effort. Even without you.”
“Gonna be the last one you plant,” Geronimo said. “Should have given it your best.”
“I’m not finished yet,” the man said.
Geronimo reached behind his sweater, pulled out a .45 Colt, and aimed it at the man. He spread his legs apart and cocked the trigger.
“Hands high,” Geronimo said, ignoring the cries of the people around him. “Where I can see ’em.”
“Anything you say, Bomb Man,” the man said.
He raised his free hand first and then slowly took the other out of the jacket pocket. Geronimo looked at the hand and raised the scope of the Colt a half inch higher, toward the center of the man’s head.
The man’s fingers were wrapped around an unpinned grenade.
“I drop this and we all die,” the man said gleefully and in a voice loud enough to be heard by the people around him.
“You’re dead before it touches ground,” Geronimo said.
“I hope so,” the man said.
A woman screamed.
Two men knocked over the wooden barricade, trying to get out of the way.
A young woman in a sweat suit pulled her baby from the stroller and stood there, shivering with fear, inches from the man and the grenade.
Two cops were up behind Geronimo, guns drawn, aimed at the man.
“They say you’re the best, Bomb Man,” the man said. “You think that’s true?”
“Let the people go,” Geronimo said. “Then we’ll talk.”
“There isn’t a bomb you can’t beat,” the man said. “That’s what I’ve read.”
“Let them go,” Geronimo