“I told you, you stupid bastard,” Mr. Beckett said from the window, where he looked at the building through binoculars. “They’re coming out now! They’re evacuating! Blow it now!”
“One more minute,” said Mr. Joyce.
“No! Now!” Mr. Beckett cried. He watched as a truck pulled up in front of the building and a guy leaped out with a black Lab in tow.
“It’s the bomb squad! Do it now!”
“One second,” said Mr. Joyce, clicking away at the keyboard like a jazz piano soloist. “Just a couple more adjustments.”
Mr. Beckett tore a schematic in half and kicked the cooler.
“You’ve adjusted it enough! It’s now or never!”
Mr. Joyce ignored him, eyes on the screen, clicking buttons like mad.
Mr. Beckett looked through the binocs again, then started banging his head against the ambulance’s metal wall.
“Blow it,” he whimpered. “Blow it.”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” Mr. Joyce said. “It’s all about the placement, otherwise it’ll do cosmetic damage at best.”
“I don’t give a shit! Blow the damn thing now!”
“Fine,” said Mr. Joyce. “You win. Just so you know, it’s not ready.”
“Blow it!”
“First say that it’s your call,” said Mr. Joyce. “I don’t want you blaming this on me later.”
“It’s my call! It’s my call!” Mr. Beckett cried.
Mr. Joyce set off the detonators on the eighty pounds of plastic explosives with a soft press of his thumb.