free – the ones you keep strapped to your legs.’ He chuckled. ‘They’re not there any more.’
With that, Deacon slipped his own knife into one of his pockets, and headed for the door.
12
As soon as Mitch heard the door shut behind Deacon, he began rocking the chair backwards and forwards, working it one leg at a time towards the table and the bomb. He could see the digital display on the timer as it counted down: 11.48; 11.47; 11.46 . . .
He made it to the table. There was an empty glass near the edge. Careful not to nudge the table too hard and trigger the detonator, Mitch managed to lower his head enough so that his forehead touched the glass. He jerked his head to one side and the glass wobbled, then fell. It rolled along the table top, then dropped off the edge and landed on the carpet.
He looked at the timer. 10.57; 10.56 . . .
Mitch moved the chair so that the fallen glasswas by his feet. He rocked back, then forward, and pounded his boots on the glass, smashing it. He tipped the chair sideways, wincing from the impact as his body hit the floor.
He wriggled his way along the carpet until he was beside the broken glass. Unable to turn his head, he felt with his fingers and found the biggest chunk of glass. Pointing the glass upwards he began to saw at the plastic tie that bound his wrists together. The glass slipped and sliced into his skin, re-opening the wounds on his palms. The blood made the glass slippery and difficult to hold, but Mitch gritted his teeth and continued sawing, flexing his wrists to put pressure on the plastic. The glass sliced his wrists again and again. More blood. Mitch bit his lip against the pain and kept going, aware of the minutes and seconds counting down.
Finally the plastic popped and Mitch could pull his hands apart. He hauled himself up and looked at the timer. 7.35. 7.34.
Mitch tore the tape from his mouth, pulled outhis mobile phone and hit Gaz’s number.
‘Hi, Mitch,’ said Gaz cheerfully. ‘What’s up?’
‘There’s a bomb in my flat,’ said Mitch. ‘Deacon put it here. It goes off in seven minutes.’
‘Then get the hell out of there!’ snapped Gaz.
‘I can’t,’ said Mitch. ‘It’s a big one. It’ll blow up all the flats around me, so I’m going to try and defuse it. Get on to the emergency services and get the area around my flat cleared. Everyone out to safety.’
‘Mitch . . .’ began Gaz.
‘I ain’t got time, Gaz,’ said Mitch. ‘I’ve got a bomb to disarm.’
Mitch hung up and turned his attention to the bomb. The timer showed 6.43; 6.42. Just over six minutes to work out how the bomb was rigged, and shut it off.
He looked at the cuts in his wrists, still pumping blood.
I need to strap up the wounds, he thought, staunch the flow of blood. But there’s no time. Right now, the main thing is to disarm the bomb.
It looked a simple rig: plastic explosives wrapped round a detonator, and wires attached to the detonator from the timing mechanism. It should be easy. Cut the wires and the bomb stops. But Deacon wasn’t a fool – he’d shown how tricky he could be. It was quite possible he’d booby-trapped the bomb. He could have set the timer so that if the wires were cut, it automatically defaulted to zero and triggered the explosion.
Mitch examined the wires. There were four going from the timer to the detonator: blue, brown, yellow, green. Why four? It only took two to make a connection. The other two could be a trick. Maybe one was a dummy lead.
Mitch threw another glance at the count-down display:
5.01; 5.00; 4.59 . . .
He forced himself to think logically: two of the wires are real. The other two are fake. But which is which?
4.41; 4.40; 4.39 . . .
Mitch searched the timer for screw heads. There were none. OK, so it was a clip-together job. That was good; if he’d needed a screwdriver he’d have had problems. He grabbed a shard of broken glass. Blood spurted out from his wrists with the movement. He pushed the tip of
With that, Deacon slipped his own knife into one of his pockets, and headed for the door.
12
As soon as Mitch heard the door shut behind Deacon, he began rocking the chair backwards and forwards, working it one leg at a time towards the table and the bomb. He could see the digital display on the timer as it counted down: 11.48; 11.47; 11.46 . . .
He made it to the table. There was an empty glass near the edge. Careful not to nudge the table too hard and trigger the detonator, Mitch managed to lower his head enough so that his forehead touched the glass. He jerked his head to one side and the glass wobbled, then fell. It rolled along the table top, then dropped off the edge and landed on the carpet.
He looked at the timer. 10.57; 10.56 . . .
Mitch moved the chair so that the fallen glasswas by his feet. He rocked back, then forward, and pounded his boots on the glass, smashing it. He tipped the chair sideways, wincing from the impact as his body hit the floor.
He wriggled his way along the carpet until he was beside the broken glass. Unable to turn his head, he felt with his fingers and found the biggest chunk of glass. Pointing the glass upwards he began to saw at the plastic tie that bound his wrists together. The glass slipped and sliced into his skin, re-opening the wounds on his palms. The blood made the glass slippery and difficult to hold, but Mitch gritted his teeth and continued sawing, flexing his wrists to put pressure on the plastic. The glass sliced his wrists again and again. More blood. Mitch bit his lip against the pain and kept going, aware of the minutes and seconds counting down.
Finally the plastic popped and Mitch could pull his hands apart. He hauled himself up and looked at the timer. 7.35. 7.34.
Mitch tore the tape from his mouth, pulled outhis mobile phone and hit Gaz’s number.
‘Hi, Mitch,’ said Gaz cheerfully. ‘What’s up?’
‘There’s a bomb in my flat,’ said Mitch. ‘Deacon put it here. It goes off in seven minutes.’
‘Then get the hell out of there!’ snapped Gaz.
‘I can’t,’ said Mitch. ‘It’s a big one. It’ll blow up all the flats around me, so I’m going to try and defuse it. Get on to the emergency services and get the area around my flat cleared. Everyone out to safety.’
‘Mitch . . .’ began Gaz.
‘I ain’t got time, Gaz,’ said Mitch. ‘I’ve got a bomb to disarm.’
Mitch hung up and turned his attention to the bomb. The timer showed 6.43; 6.42. Just over six minutes to work out how the bomb was rigged, and shut it off.
He looked at the cuts in his wrists, still pumping blood.
I need to strap up the wounds, he thought, staunch the flow of blood. But there’s no time. Right now, the main thing is to disarm the bomb.
It looked a simple rig: plastic explosives wrapped round a detonator, and wires attached to the detonator from the timing mechanism. It should be easy. Cut the wires and the bomb stops. But Deacon wasn’t a fool – he’d shown how tricky he could be. It was quite possible he’d booby-trapped the bomb. He could have set the timer so that if the wires were cut, it automatically defaulted to zero and triggered the explosion.
Mitch examined the wires. There were four going from the timer to the detonator: blue, brown, yellow, green. Why four? It only took two to make a connection. The other two could be a trick. Maybe one was a dummy lead.
Mitch threw another glance at the count-down display:
5.01; 5.00; 4.59 . . .
He forced himself to think logically: two of the wires are real. The other two are fake. But which is which?
4.41; 4.40; 4.39 . . .
Mitch searched the timer for screw heads. There were none. OK, so it was a clip-together job. That was good; if he’d needed a screwdriver he’d have had problems. He grabbed a shard of broken glass. Blood spurted out from his wrists with the movement. He pushed the tip of
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