Shoving. Shouting. Crying. Mass hysteria begins to unfold as thousands of terrified spectators desperately try to flee. Many have their phones out, snapping pictures or recording videos as they go. But most don’t dare look back. Or slow down for one second.
As for myself, I get shoved left and right. Shouldered. Rammed into. Even as flat as I am against the warm brick wall.
I’m nearly trampled in the mad stampede—because I’m not going anywhere.
Instead of joining the flow of evacuees, I’m battling against the current, struggling with all my strength to hold my ground.
The reason is simple.
As awful as these three initial explosions seem to be, Billy’s plot was too elaborate, too expensive, too expansive, to be just three bombs.
I’m sure of it. I’d bet my life on it.
I have a terrible feeling that this is only the beginning.
Chapter 78
I GRIP the handle of my pistol, ready to shoot. Crouching low, I scan the chaotic scene.
Gotta stay cool, I tell myself. Eyes open. Stay alert. Trust your training.
If there’s another concealed explosive device somewhere in the vicinity, I know I won’t be able to spot it. Everywhere I look, there are hundreds of hiding places. Trash cans, discarded backpacks, overturned coolers. And there’s no time and no resources to search these hiding places.
But I might be able to pick out a human threat.
I take a deep breath, an attempt to stem the adrenaline rush that’s making my body tremble.
Then I start searching for anyone who looks out of place.
Anyone acting suspiciously calm.
Anyone not in uniform carrying a gun of his own.
And anyone I recognize. Like one of the monsters who terrorized Vanessa. Or anyone who showed up at that scrapyard meeting.
Or of course, Billy Needham himself.
Seconds tick by. Nothing.
The air begins to take on the bitter smell of a cocktail of gunpowder, smoke, and the stench of human fear. Sirens wail in the distance.
I can feel something coming, but there’s still no sign of what it might be.
Another bomb? A sniper? A chemical attack?
I stay low. Knees bent. Head on a swivel.
Scanning. Scanning.
Until…I hear it.
The revving of an engine. As loud as an Indy stock car.
What the hell?
My eyes focus on the source.
It’s not a race car at all.
It’s the big-wheeled tractor that was pulling the Roman Coliseum float.
It’s idling in the middle of the street, belching a plume of black exhaust.
The tractor has been modified. It has a bigger-than-normal vertical muffler. An additional fuel tank. And an expanded metal grille, lined with horizontal spikes jutting out like a torture device from the Middle Ages.
I take a few steps and realize the tractor is no longer hooked up to its float.
And its driver—a gladiator wearing a costume of body armor, a metal helmet, and a pair of sunglasses with one red lens and one green—is settling back into the driver’s seat.
And buckling his seat belt.
My mind races, piecing everything together. It all makes terrifying sense.
The tractors in the safe houses weren’t being packed with explosives.
They were being taken apart and put back together.
Customized with powerful after-market engines. Fitted with police-style tactical bumpers. Modified to carry out a European-style vehicle attack here in the US, to cause the maximum amount of damage to people in the shortest amount of time. London, Nice, Barcelona…and now, New Orleans.
Panic surges through my body as the driver engages the clutch and puts the tractor into Drive, and without the weight of the float behind it, it quickly roars ahead, chasing after the fleeing partygoers.
Chapter 79
I LIFT my pistol.
Aim.
Fire.
POP!
The driver flinches from my gunshot—damnit, I’m sure I hit the bastard!—but he keeps on driving, and the cursed thing roars by me, getting way too close to the throngs of fleeing people.
Lowering my pistol, I start running, desperate to line up a better shot, the tractor moving away from me.
But I can’t get there soon enough to stop the madness.
The helmeted driver cuts the wheel sharply and plows straight through the metal police barricades, as easily as if they were made of Styrofoam.
The tractor keeps going, barreling right into the crowd. Zigzagging wildly. Wounding people with its spiked grille. Tossing them aside from its massive wheels.
More screams pierce the air and there’s another roar, and I look behind, seeing another souped-up tractor emerge from the chaos, the one hauling the Superdome float, and never in my life have I felt so helpless, so alone, as this float roars up, like it’s providing backup to its blood-spilling partner.
I can get a better shot here, and I whirl and