often do bombs actually
tick
anymore? In this age of C-4 plastique explosives, bombs didn’t still
tick,
right? How convenient that it ticked long enough for her to get safely out. She thought about the first abductors and their warning to stop trying to find the diamonds and realized: it was a con. They were trying to scare her off. And she
fell
for it. Geez, she felt like she should give back some of her IQ points.
She spun and headed for her car. Maybe she could coax it a little farther, at least to a gas station.
“Bobbie Faye! You’re crazier’n your mamma, and that’s a bunch of crazy!”
At which point, the car, apparently eager to help punctuate the point . . . detonated.
Seven
The concussion slammed Bobbie Faye against Francesca and they crashed to the road. Car parts and shrapnel flew in every direction as a fireball rolled out and upward. After what might have been an eternity, but was maybe only a half a second, the car debris rained down as the side of the bridge near her car started caving toward the water.
Huh. Bombs can still tick. Valuable little piece of information there
.
“Ooooooooh,” Francesca singsang, sounding like she did back in fifth grade when she ratted Bobbie Faye out for selling those Popsicles made of holy water. “The mayor’s gonna have a heart attack.”
“Again,” Bobbie Faye agreed.
“Maybe you can send him an apology?”
“Yeah, because I’m sure there’s a Hallmark card for that somewhere: sorry about the bridge, please don’t die.” A piece of the bridge fell into the bayou below. “I wonder if they sell postage stamps in prison?”
Bobbie Faye’s ears rang, and the arched structure shook as she and Francesca got unsteadily to their feet. The hole near her burning car prevented the Hummer from moving forward. Her phone chirped as she tried to decide which direction to go: back across the unsteady bridge toward her cousins, or onward to the opposite bank. Caller ID: Nina. Her best friend was in Italy doing a fashion spread for hernew magazine (having branched off from her quasi-S&M modeling agency to a quasi-S&M magazine).
“Hey,” Nina said by way of hello, “you’re not going to believe where I am.”
“I betcha I got ya beat.”
“I’m a guest in an Italian villa, where they’re serving me tagliolini with crab meat and aubergine sauce.”
“I’m standing on a bridge where my car just exploded and part of the bridge is falling into the water. But hey! The good news is, I think we’ve avoided the sniper!”
“Okay, I’m not playing this game with you anymore. You always win.”
Nina leaned forward on the silk divan in the gorgeous sixteenth-century salon while the photographer’s assistant adjusted the lighting. “Are you okay?” She waved off the waiters who were hovering with trays of food, eyeing the models; they’d gotten amazingly good service at the villa.
“Oh yeah. Cuts, bruises, bad hair, people trying to kill me. Normal day.”
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Nina said, popping open her laptop. “I can catch a corporate flight out tomorrow.”
“No, you stay. This is going to be fine. I just have to find some stuff. It’ll all be over before you could get home anyway.”
“I want to help. What can I do?”
“Pray. A lot.”
“Do you remember the time you put a voice-activated tape recorder in Father Patrick’s confessional and ended up breaking up at least eleven marriages that we know about?”
“Can I help it if Father Patrick was a lot busier than we thought?”
“Well, I think God’s still mad at you for that one. You might need more than prayer.”
Trevor saw a bullet whiz past Bobbie Faye. The
hell?
It had been close enough to slice the top of her shirt at the shoulder,and she hit the deck of the bridge, lying on her stomach, palms down, ready to crawl whichever direction she could determine was safe. As he scanned the banks of the bayou down and to his left, he radioed his men to get the fucking
tick
anymore? In this age of C-4 plastique explosives, bombs didn’t still
tick,
right? How convenient that it ticked long enough for her to get safely out. She thought about the first abductors and their warning to stop trying to find the diamonds and realized: it was a con. They were trying to scare her off. And she
fell
for it. Geez, she felt like she should give back some of her IQ points.
She spun and headed for her car. Maybe she could coax it a little farther, at least to a gas station.
“Bobbie Faye! You’re crazier’n your mamma, and that’s a bunch of crazy!”
At which point, the car, apparently eager to help punctuate the point . . . detonated.
Seven
The concussion slammed Bobbie Faye against Francesca and they crashed to the road. Car parts and shrapnel flew in every direction as a fireball rolled out and upward. After what might have been an eternity, but was maybe only a half a second, the car debris rained down as the side of the bridge near her car started caving toward the water.
Huh. Bombs can still tick. Valuable little piece of information there
.
“Ooooooooh,” Francesca singsang, sounding like she did back in fifth grade when she ratted Bobbie Faye out for selling those Popsicles made of holy water. “The mayor’s gonna have a heart attack.”
“Again,” Bobbie Faye agreed.
“Maybe you can send him an apology?”
“Yeah, because I’m sure there’s a Hallmark card for that somewhere: sorry about the bridge, please don’t die.” A piece of the bridge fell into the bayou below. “I wonder if they sell postage stamps in prison?”
Bobbie Faye’s ears rang, and the arched structure shook as she and Francesca got unsteadily to their feet. The hole near her burning car prevented the Hummer from moving forward. Her phone chirped as she tried to decide which direction to go: back across the unsteady bridge toward her cousins, or onward to the opposite bank. Caller ID: Nina. Her best friend was in Italy doing a fashion spread for hernew magazine (having branched off from her quasi-S&M modeling agency to a quasi-S&M magazine).
“Hey,” Nina said by way of hello, “you’re not going to believe where I am.”
“I betcha I got ya beat.”
“I’m a guest in an Italian villa, where they’re serving me tagliolini with crab meat and aubergine sauce.”
“I’m standing on a bridge where my car just exploded and part of the bridge is falling into the water. But hey! The good news is, I think we’ve avoided the sniper!”
“Okay, I’m not playing this game with you anymore. You always win.”
Nina leaned forward on the silk divan in the gorgeous sixteenth-century salon while the photographer’s assistant adjusted the lighting. “Are you okay?” She waved off the waiters who were hovering with trays of food, eyeing the models; they’d gotten amazingly good service at the villa.
“Oh yeah. Cuts, bruises, bad hair, people trying to kill me. Normal day.”
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Nina said, popping open her laptop. “I can catch a corporate flight out tomorrow.”
“No, you stay. This is going to be fine. I just have to find some stuff. It’ll all be over before you could get home anyway.”
“I want to help. What can I do?”
“Pray. A lot.”
“Do you remember the time you put a voice-activated tape recorder in Father Patrick’s confessional and ended up breaking up at least eleven marriages that we know about?”
“Can I help it if Father Patrick was a lot busier than we thought?”
“Well, I think God’s still mad at you for that one. You might need more than prayer.”
Trevor saw a bullet whiz past Bobbie Faye. The
hell?
It had been close enough to slice the top of her shirt at the shoulder,and she hit the deck of the bridge, lying on her stomach, palms down, ready to crawl whichever direction she could determine was safe. As he scanned the banks of the bayou down and to his left, he radioed his men to get the fucking
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