Thorn made his move. A clumsy weave through a set of orange highway cones that were marking some recent construction, then across a stretch of concrete floor, along the lip of the ghostly blue pool, moving as quickly and lightly as his damaged leg allowed.
“Hey, Thorn. Up here. You seen Pauly? Hey, Thorn.” Flynn was waving an arm.
The young man had come ashore, violated the plan. An artist, a creative person, a gift for improvisation. His talent a perfect fit for this moment.
Pauly was halfway out of his bunker, gripping the orange ladder mounted to the cement wall of the cubicle. Head and shoulders emerging. Head craning slowly to track Flynn’s gaze.
Thorn leapt the final two yards, going airborne, arm raised with the heavy flashlight. Pauly seemed torn. Moving up a step, down a step as Thorn came at him, slashing the heavy club at his head. Missing. Then tumbling down into the cubicle with Pauly. Ladders on both sides. Pauly holding to one, Thorn snagging the other, scrambling to get his balance. An arm’s length between them.
“Timer’s set for five minutes,” Pauly said, a calm smile in his eyes. “Might want to go find yourself a foxhole.” He looked down at the floor of the cubicle where the aluminum case was open, the device cradled in gray foam.
“Disable it,” Thorn said.
“Can’t be done. Fuse is set.”
Prince and Flynn stood above them on the cement floor.
“Five minutes?” Prince said. “Then we need to get out of here.”
Prince’s uniform was shredded in half a dozen spots, his chest, arms. Blood seeping from each perforation.
“No,” said Thorn. “We can’t let this happen.”
“Pauly,” Flynn said. “You have to shut it down. You can’t do this.”
“Decision’s made. Decision stands.”
Thorn chose his spot; coming from below, he backhanded the flashlight, cracking it hard against Pauly’s chin, snapping his head back against the wall. Pauly somehow managed to keep his grip on the ladder.
Thorn swung again and Pauly was too slow or too indifferent to block the blow. The heavy end of the flashlight cracked against his temple, and Pauly dropped his hold on the ladder and fell to the bottom of the pit.
“We’ve got to get this thing out of here.”
“Where to?”
“Anywhere but here.”
Thorn climbed down the ladder. Pauly was crumpled atop the suitcase. No room to maneuver. Thorn gripped him by the armpits and hauled him upright, leaned him against the cement wall.
Thorn shut the suitcase, gripped the handle.
As he reached for the ladder, Pauly latched his forearm across Thorn’s throat, an angled lock with his left arm levering hard against the back of Thorn’s head, mashing his head forward, crushing his windpipe.
“Leave us,” Pauly said. “Thorn and me, we’re going to stand guard over this gadget. Make sure it goes off without a hitch.”
Thorn thrust backward, slamming Pauly into the metal ladder, but it didn’t break the hold, didn’t weaken it. He tried a spin, then a counterspin, tried pulling at Pauly’s arm with both hands, tried whipping his elbow back at Pauly’s face. Nothing.
“All right,” Flynn said. “Let go, Pauly. Don’t make me hurt you.”
Pauly chuckled. “The man-child speaks.”
“There’s no time for this. It’s your last chance, Pauly.”
“I never thought it was anything else.”
From the edge of his vision, Thorn saw Flynn extend his arm, holding Sugar’s pistol, the nine-millimeter he kept in his glove box. Sugarman’s gun pressed against the side of Pauly’s head.
“Don’t make me,” Flynn said.
“Go on, kid, you can do it,” said Pauly. “Your old man would.”
Thorn rattled against the choke hold one more time. Shot a hand out, grabbed the pistol, twisted it from Flynn’s grasp, and aimed it past his own left ear and fired into Pauly’s face.
The blast, so close and inside the manhole, dazed and deafened Thorn.
Pauly’s grip fell away. Beside Thorn’s face a lock of Pauly’s ponytail was plastered to the wall. Pauly’s body lay twisted at Thorn’s feet. He rocked back against the wall. The iridescent blue light was spinning around him.
“Three or four minutes,” Prince said. “Hand it up.”
Thorn rubbed his eyes clear, then crouched down and pushed Pauly’s body away and took hold of the case and climbed the ladder.
“I’ll meet you two back at the skiff. Now go, run.”
“You’re lame,” Prince said. “I’m the fastest. I’m dead anyway.” He washed his hand over the bullet holes in his uniform. “My body just hasn’t accepted the fact yet.”