“Hey, Mr. Sellers, shouldn’t we be going in?”
“Okay, boys, light ’em up. Go take these motherfuckers down.”
Claude followed his men across the parking lot, taking a detour by the Suburban for a quick hello to his favorite asshole in charge.
* * *
Claude Sellers’s men, suited up in helmets, flak jackets, and carrying AR-15s, rushed into the back door of the control-room complex thirty seconds behind Leslie and Cameron. Sheffield strained at his cuffs, trying to rip them apart though he knew damn well it was impossible. Losing it for a minute.
Then Claude was at the window looking in. A big grin. He opened the door. Giant blue stone at his throat, that stupid string tie. Yellow shirt under his Kevlar.
“Agent Sheffield. How you doing this fine evening?”
“Cut me loose, you jackass.”
“As of now, I can’t provide that service, but I tell you what I will do.”
“This is coming back on you, Sellers, gonna take a big bite out of your ass.”
“Sure, sure, whatever you say. You just rest easy now, you hear, Special Agent. I got to get inside, lead my men into battle, take care of some badass terrorists. When I’m done, I’ll be right back to settle up with you, since it appears you’re a coconspirator, possibly even the gang leader. You sit tight, now, you hear.”
Claude took hold of Sheffield’s shoulder and yanked him forward, tugged on his plastic cuffs to see they were secure, then slammed the door and jogged away, ducking into the back door. A few seconds after he entered, the door blew open again, and half a dozen civilians poured out. Men and women in street clothes, a couple in white smocks, wild looks. Several with their hands clamped over their mouths.
Sheffield called out to them, but no one heard, or if they did, they didn’t glance his way and disappeared around the side of the adjacent complex.
He sat for a few seconds testing the tightness of the cuffs. Thorn could’ve left a little goddamn slack, but he hadn’t. Going along with these fuckers or seeming to. Frank’s guess, the terrorists were holding Thorn’s boy hostage, forcing Thorn to stay in line. But why Thorn? That, he didn’t know.
Sheffield hadn’t been keeping up with his yoga and he’d gained a few pounds around the middle, so doing the tuck-and-squeeze, slipping his bound wrists under his butt and down the back of his legs and past his feet, then bringing them to his front side, well, that wasn’t going to work. Two tries showed him that.
He sat for a minute thinking. From inside the control complex he heard gunfire, five shots, very deliberate, then a quick spray of automatic fire. Probably Leslie and Prince going down. Sheffield was usually a stickler for rules. The gang of elves were officially on the wrong side of this disaster, but the deeper he’d dug into it, the less true that seemed. Given the choice, his first shot would have been at Sellers before turning his firepower on the others.
Frank stopped. Firepower. Struck by the way words could pop up, carrying all their associations, like direct messages from the unconscious, solving shit.
Yeah, of course. Firepower.
Frank brought his bound wrists to his right pants pocket. Bent sideways, dropping his shoulder down, twisting his spine. Pushing a fingertip deep enough in the pocket to brush the silver lighter. His old man’s gift, a memento. The lighter that had ignited a thousand Lucky Strikes and charcoal barbecues and bottle rockets on the Fourth.
He emptied his lungs, compressed his right rib cage, and stretched harder toward the pocket, got a finger around the trigger of his vintage lighter. You saw them in fifties gangster movies, a femme fatale in an illegal casino lighting up. Press the tiny button, it snaps open, rolling the flint against the steel. On the sides there were inlaid green shamrocks. Frank’s lucky day. New flint, fresh lighter fluid. His goofy hobby. Keeping the Sheffield flame alive, by God.
It slipped out of his grasp twice before he hooked his fingertip around that trigger a third time and inched it out of the pocket.
More gunfire coming from inside the complex. One of Claude’s men stumbled out the back door, propped up by a buddy. Both of them looked to be wounded. One worse than the other. Staggering away into the darkness.
Frank clicked the trigger, got the flame. Working out the logistics behind his back where he couldn’t see a damn thing, having to do this by feel and guesswork. And right away the goddamn flame singed the inside of his wrist. He fumbled it, almost lost it in the crack between the seats. Cursing.
He clicked it again, got another flame, tried to peer over his shoulder, direct his right hand. But the tiny flame burned him again, a deep, scalding shot of hurt, Sheffield smelling his own goddamn flesh, but bearing it, because he could also smell the plastic. It was melting, giving way. If he didn’t set his fucking uniform on fire first.