Midnight Hero - By Diana Duncan Page 0,57
heart connection Con and his brothers shared never failed to awe her. “Why did you say you were the Nutcracker?”
“Never use names over the airwaves. You don’t know who might be listening in.” He studied her. “Think you can handle tossing a Molotov cocktail or three?”
“If I have to.” Queasiness roiled her insides. “Do you want me to throw them at someone?” She wasn’t sure she could force herself to do that.
“No, just create a diversion while I plant the walkie-talkie.”
“I can manage a diversion.”
“We’ve got to move. I’ll fill you in on the details as we head downstairs.”
One more quick trip to the camping store to fill emptied water bottles with kerosene. Torn strips of cammo pants twisted into fuses. A waterproof lighter completed the deadly kit.
They scuttled to the escalators, her rapid breaths loud in her ears.
Con rolled his wrist and checked the time. “Ten minutes. Ready?”
She nodded.
He kissed her, hard and fast. “Let’s rock.”
Chapter 10
9:00 p.m.
Molotov cocktails at the ready, Bailey kept a nerve-racked vigil in front of Footloose Footwear. Her shaking hands were cold and clammy. Her blood beat fast and thick in her veins. She, who had never broken the law—heck, she hadn’t received even a parking ticket—was about to bomb the shoe store.
Well, the six-foot tall 3-D advertising kiosk next to it, anyway. The acrylic triangle sat in the middle of murky no-man’s-land between the bank and the shoe store, touting the multiplex’s latest action flick. She muffled a nervous snort. When it came to action, Vin Diesel had nothing on Officer Sexy.
Who was, at this moment, a silent shadow, slipping up the corridor toward Santa’s downed sleigh across from the bank.
He’d said the robbers would watch for their approach after issuing the ultimatum. His objective was to plant a walkie-talkie near the bank, without being caught. At least that was the plan.
They had eight minutes before Con had to contact the team and abort the dynamic entry. He’d explained on the jog down the escalator that an aggressive assault was the last thing they wanted. SWAT storming in, guns blazing, was a worst-case scenario, used only when hostages were in imminent danger. No matter how careful the team, no matter how fast they hit, loss of hostage lives was a huge risk. Con thought they could still bargain.
If they could establish contact in time.
She clutched the slippery bottles of kerosene and slick lighter, and tried to slow her ragged breaths. She couldn’t afford to panic and miss Con’s signal over the headset plugged into her left ear. His life and the lives of her friends depended on her.
Con had pinpointed the advertising triangle as a soft target. Isolated in the middle of acres of faux marble, the fire wouldn’t spread. The kiosk wasn’t tall enough for flames to reach the upper floors. Everything was still waterlogged, and the fire would probably die of its own accord. He didn’t figure the crooks would stop to analyze that. They’d instinctively react to the threat, giving him enough time to plant the radio and hightail it out.
She watched the dim, backlit windows of the bank, thirty feet across no-man’s-land. The robbers had pulled the shades. Bulky silhouettes moved back and forth, loading what she assumed were bundles of money into what looked like a cart. They’d picked a great time for a robbery—surely not by accident. On paydays, the bank carried plenty of extra dough. Since mall employees had been unable to cash their paychecks due to the electrical malfunction that she now knew the robbers had caused, all that money was sitting in the vault. Not to mention every store had deposited their tills for safekeeping, per emergency procedure. The crooks had done their homework, crippled the system and would net a small fortune.
Bailey’s nervous glance roamed the desolate mall. If the robbers were busy loading money and—thanks to SWAT—revising their getaway, would they still be on the hunt? She hoped not.
“Sugarplum Fairy, this is the Nutcracker,” Con’s voice murmured in her earpiece. “In position?”
In spite of her anxiety, she grinned. Leave it to him to diffuse a terrifying situation. “Yes. I mean ten-four.”
“About to deliver Santa’s package. On three, light ’em up.”
“Okay,” she whispered back, mentally counting. One. Bailey shifted the lighter from left hand to right. Two. She thumbed the lighter and a tiny spark sprang to life. Three. She touched flame to wicks and fire flared along the kerosene-soaked rags. Holding her breath, she hurled the bottles at the base of the