The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 89

“Wait,” I said.

“Wait? You don’t understand, the truck—okay, okay. The first truck is coming down the road, it’s—okay. I get it. The second truck is waiting for the first truck to get out of the way because the road isn’t wide enough for both of them. The first truck—okay, the first truck has left, and the second truck…” Skarda took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “The second truck is on its way. Wow. Is this what you meant by complications?”

I didn’t know what to say to the man, so I said nothing.

7:02 P.M. and Skarda was now downright apoplectic. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” he kept chanting.

“What?” I said.

“The third truck is early. It’s heading up the road. The second truck—Dyson, the second truck hasn’t left yet.”

“It’s okay.”

“But Dyson?”

I glanced at my watch. If I had calculated correctly—always an iffy proposition—we were seven minutes away from the road. I tapped Rooney on the leg. “Let’s go,” I said.

“Go where?” Skarda wanted to know.

“Not you. You stay put. Watch the road.”

Rooney started the Cherokee, slipped it into gear, and accelerated down Highway 1. She had the look of someone driving to the dentist who already knew she needed a root canal.

“Hey,” I said into the cell. “This is what I meant by complications.”

7:05 P.M. “Dyson, where are you?” Skarda asked.

“What now?”

“The second truck just left. It just pulled out onto the highway. You should be passing it any second.”

I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. Along with the three vault guards, an armored truck crew would be hard enough to deal with. Two crews might have been one too many.

You are lucky, my inner voice told me.

Now, if it would only hold for a few more hours.

“We’re almost there,” I said.

“I see you,” Skarda replied.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t follow too close, but…”

“I know. Don’t follow too far behind, either.”

7:10 P.M. and Rooney deftly turned the Cherokee onto the dirt road. I made her halt when we reached the huge tree that Josie and I had spotted when we first found the vault. “Pop the cargo door,” I said, and she did. I jumped out of the car. My muscles ached from the uncomfortable way I had been sitting, yet I tried to ignore the pain. I circled the Cherokee to the back. Jimmy wanted to slide out of the cargo area. I told him to stay put. I rested the AK against the back bumper. Jimmy handed me the bomb. He seemed glad to be rid of it.

Late last night I had cut a hole into the frame of a cell phone, exposing its vibrator. I mounted the cell to a thin wooden board along with two metal screws, four double-A batteries, and half a block of C-4, approximately ten ounces. I ran two thin wires from the cell’s vibrator, connecting one to each of the two screws. I connected the top screw to the batteries using a crocodile clip. I used other crocodile clips to connect the batteries and the bottom screw to the blasting cap that I had inserted into the C-4. Actually, I did that last bit after I nailed the bomb to the base of the tree—I mean, I’m not an idiot—and activated the cell phone.

I had built two bombs. When Skarda asked why, I told him it was in case the first didn’t work. He suggested that if the bombs were identical and the first didn’t explode, the second would be a dud, too. I told him to go away, he was bothering me.

After setting the IED, I locked Jimmy in the cargo area, retrieved my rifle, and squeezed back onto the floor of the Cherokee. I told Rooney to keep driving. I hadn’t seen Skarda, but then, I hadn’t expected to.

7:13 P.M. The Cherokee reached the unmanned gate. Rooney leaned out the window and punched the password into the keypad. The arm rose, and she drove under it, following the driveway. I took a chance and lifted my head just high enough to see over the dashboard. The armored truck was nowhere in sight, and I presumed it had driven inside the vault.