- Shopping Bag ( 0 items )
"Trip wire," I blurted out.
Paul followed the wire with his eyes. He bent over, following the wire under the car. We found ourselves on our knees, peering under the car.
There it was, a small assortment of electronics and three sticks of dynamite, "I think it's safe to say someone doesn't want you around," Paul said.
"Us," I corrected.
We heard the resonant squeal of tires nearby. A car slid around the end of a row of parked cars and came charging down the lane in our direction. Something was pointed out the passenger side window. It didn't take long to realize it was a gun barrel.
We dove for cover, leaping over a concrete knee-wall, which separated the parking rows. I landed on the hood of a Lincoln, my eyes meeting those of a startled woman behind the steering wheel of the car.
Bursts of gunfire.
The sounds of bullets ricocheting off concrete and steel, zinging past us.
Suddenly, a bullet must have struck the dynamite. A thundering explosion roared through the parking ramp as the police sedan disintegrated, showering the area with metal shrapnel and flame. A fireball mushroomed against the ceiling above us. Alarm bells sounded and the sprinkler system burst to life.