Mike Benson didn’t have much time left—forty seconds remained on the timer of the enormous truck bomb he was driving.
Initially, he’d thought he’d be okay, but as soon as he’d sent Lance and Special Agent Chaney after the second bomb, he started to experience the first real symptoms of shock—weakness, shallow breathing, and severe chills.
There just wasn’t enough time to treat the gunshot wound, which he was fairly certain was fatal. The entire inside of his bulletproof vest was soaked in blood, and his wet shirt stuck to his chest.
He’d made the best decision he could under the circumstances—he’d ordered Special Agent Marcus to tend to Special Agent Champion. He didn’t want any casualties other than his own on this operation. Champion was his responsibility, and he felt the weight of that burden on a scale that could only be counterbalanced with his own life.
Just because he was dying, he didn’t have to go out with a whimper. He might be removed from the field as was typical of a deputy director of the FBI, but he knew how to fight like the hardest of men. He just concealed it a little more concertedly, only letting the vengeance he felt toward those who would harm the innocent shine through when needed.
And now was one of those times, he thought as he drove the truck down the ramp and sped under the raised door into the midafternoon, high-desert sun. There was only one place that might contain the enormous explosion that was about to consume the facility—the quarry.
He pressed the accelerator to the floor, and his thoughts turned first to Corey, then to his Uncle Jake, and finally to Logan. It was Logan who concerned him most. His friend was fearless, but he struggled with his demons, ghosts from Fallujah and the burning anger that threatened to tear him apart if he allowed it.
He believed there might not be another person on the planet quite like Logan West. He was as loyal and righteous as any man could be in today’s world. Mike knew that the anger that Logan harbored wasn’t truly anger or mere frustration. It was blinding outrage at the wicked things perpetrated by evil men upon the innocent.
And my death is going to send him on a personal crusade. In spite of himself, Mike smiled. God help the bastards who’d orchestrated the events of the past few days because Logan’s going to find them and make them pay like the Grim Reaper himself. He just hoped Logan wasn’t consumed in the process. He had faith in his friend, though, and that was all he could hope for as he faced his own mortality, barreling purposefully toward his demise.
He focused as the edges of his vision dimmed and the huge vastness of the quarry expanded in his view. He was less than forty yards from the edge of the pit. Almost time, Mike.
The truck rumbled forward, devouring the dirt and gravel below it.
Mike cleared his thoughts, not wanting to leave the world with a cluttered mind. He felt the clarity he’d heard survivors of near-death experiences describe, and he watched breathlessly as the edge of the quarry came into view, revealing the vast hole in the earth below that seemed to drop endlessly.
And then it happened—a part of his mind rebelled, refusing to yield to the oncoming inevitability. It’s just like Thelma and Louise. No fucking way I’m doing that. Life was precious, and if he could buy himself some extra seconds of finite time, he would. In fact, he knew exactly what he would do with those seconds.
He grabbed the handle of the door and pushed it open as the speeding bomb closed in on its final destination. Here goes nothing. Logan would be proud. With a full heart and clarity of mind, Mike Benson leapt from the cab of the truck and wondered which would kill him first—the gunshot wound or the fall at fifty miles per hour.