This was Locatelli’s workshop all over again. Except this time, it wouldn’t be a controlled explosion.
‘Anyone know how to defuse a bomb?’ Driver asked, watching the neon-blue timer tick down.
‘How long?’ Gilmore replied.
‘Nine minutes fifty.’
‘Christ, he’s gonna blow the place from underneath,’ Gilmore said. ‘Have the whole area cave in.’
‘And it looks as if Chiang is here,’ Wells added. ‘Three cars pulling up in the square. You want me to intercept?’
‘You’ll be taken out before you get the chance,’ Gilmore said.
‘What about the crowds in the square?’ Rios asked.
‘I can put a call in,’ Anna replied. ‘The local bomb squad.’
‘They’ll never make it in time,’ Driver said.
‘Then at least let me clear the piazza,’ Anna said. ‘Call in a bomb threat.’
‘I worked in MI5. It doesn’t happen that fast,’ countered Wells.
‘And the crowd isn’t the priority,’ Gilmore insisted.
‘Innocent lives aren’t a priority?’ Anna asked.
‘Billions, yes,’ Gilmore said. ‘Hundreds, no.’
With the clock ticking down, Driver tried to block out the argument breaking out over the comms. She ran a tentative hand over the panel of the device and found a small gap on the right-hand side, enough to get a fingernail in. ‘This is Pilgrim. I’m going to see if I can remove the front panel.’
‘Negative, Pilgrim,’ Wells replied. ‘It could have a pressure trigger.’
‘I can’t stand here and do nothing.’
‘Anyone know what explosives he’s using?’ Rios asked.
‘No, why?’ Driver asked.
‘’Cause if it’s C4, you can blow the panel and deactivate the trigger.’
‘Jackdaw’s right,’ Wells interjected, ‘but—’
‘How do we know he’s using C4?’ Gilmore asked.
‘We don’t,’ Wells said. ‘But Locatelli’s apartment was rigged with the stuff. It’s durable, practical, compact—’
‘Tell me how,’ Driver said.
‘With a gunshot,’ Rios replied.
Did Driver hear her right? ‘Say again, Jackdaw. I thought you said a—’
‘Usually with a shotgun or a paperweight round,’ Rios continued, ‘but what the hell, right? Beggars and choosers.’
‘Forget about the pressure trigger,’ Gilmore said, ‘what if the damn thing detonates?’
‘Detonators are sensitive, but small,’ Wells replied. ‘There’s a good chance she won’t hit it.’
Driver looked down at her Glock. ‘Good?’
‘Reasonable,’ Wells said.
‘Just do your best,’ added Rios.
Driver took a breath. ‘All right.’
‘Negative, Pilgrim,’ Gilmore ordered. ‘Get the hell out of there.’
Driver ignored the command and hurried to her right along the tunnel. She took cover where the tunnel branched left and stood flat against the wall. Driver reached around the wall and took aim at the thin edge of the panel on the device. It was either very smart or very stupid. With her heart in her mouth, she squeezed an eye shut. ‘Taking the shot.’
Driver squeezed the trigger and fired once. Her body tensed, waiting for an explosion. But the shot was good. The panel sprung open and hung halfway off. She let out a shaky breath. ‘The panel’s off. I’m inspecting the device.’
Driver came out of hiding and approached the bomb. The countdown timer was still ticking. She faced a rainbow of interconnected wires and circuit boards. Her fingers hovered over the wires. ‘All right, it’s complex. We’ve got a whole bunch of wires, and what looks like a detonator. Maybe I can do something here—’
‘Yes, you can get your ass out of there,’ Gilmore barked.
‘It’s gotta be one of these wires,’ Driver whispered to herself.
‘This isn’t the movies,’ Rios said. ‘Besides, you haven’t got the tools.’
‘I’ve gotta do something,’ Driver said, staring at the bomb, almost in a trance. Did part of her want it to take it with her?
‘Let me think a minute,’ Rios murmured. ‘You said there was a detonator, right?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Then there could be a way to override the countdown, but not at source,’ Rios continued. ‘McNeil must have a remote for the device. If it can trigger the bomb, it can stop it, too.’
‘The remote, right,’ Driver said, refocusing. ‘I’m on it.’
She set her stopwatch in sync with the timer on the bomb and bolted from the device. Turning down the tunnel where she last saw Tom, Driver sprinted towards a rusty iron ladder. Her gut told her to climb. She scrambled up the rusty rungs, bolts coming loose and the ladder threatening to collapse. Driver kept climbing as far as a manhole cover. She hooked a leg around the ladder for stability and pushed with both hands. The manhole cover was heavy, but she inched it to one side, the metal cover scraping over the road.
Daylight poured in. Driver squeezed through the gap and hauled herself out of the hole, onto a road at the rear of the Trinità dei Monti. As she got to her feet, Tom appeared out of a service entrance to the church. Driver noticed a black remote hanging from his belt. That was it – the detonator.
Tom unlocked a parked maintenance van with a key fob. Seeing her draw her weapon, he turned and sprinted back inside the church. Driver gave chase, along grand marble corridors, under frescoed ceilings, to a stone staircase spiralling upwards. She bounded up the stairs, Tom ahead, always a fraction out of sight. Driver couldn’t get a shot.
Gilmore wanted an update. No time to talk, no time to think. She started to gain on him, catching sight of a foot, a shoulder blade. She fired and missed. And still they ran, past windows looking out over the rooftops of the ancient city.
Then Tom appeared from nowhere, his weapon in hand. He took a shot, a bullet skimming Driver’s arm. It only tore the sleeve of her jacket. Yet it slowed her down, giving Tom the jump. Driver sprinted towards the top, her thighs on fire and calves made of lead. She reached the roof and found two towers, each housing a giant brass bell.
Driver scanned the area ahead – no sign of Tom. She checked her stopwatch. Five minutes left. If all had gone to plan, Tom would have been halfway across the city by now. But he was here. Somewhere.
A deep, deafening ring made Driver jump. She turned in shock, spun three-sixty as the bells marked the coming of noon.
And there he was on the other side of the tower as the bells swung back and forth. Driver fired. So did Tom. Neither landed a shot on target, but she saw a flash of movement as he ran onto the next tower.
Driver played catch-up. The bells stopped ringing, her ears ringing instead. She sidestepped to the left of the second bell, darted out in the open. Tom was there, pistol raised. She pushed his hand away, the bullet ricocheting off the church bell. Driver fired back, but Tom knocked her gun from her hand. As they wrestled for the remaining pistol, Tom punched her in the gut. She dropped to a knee. He raised his weapon.
Driver pushed off her feet and tackled him over a low wall. She tumbled with him to the flat roof of the church. It was a hard fall of several feet. Driver rolled as she hit the rooftop. Tom lost control of his weapon as he landed on a shoulder. Both were hurt and slow to their feet. Driver felt a jarring pain in her hip. She shook it off, adrenalin doing most of the work.
Spying Tom’s pistol on the floor, she raced him for it. He tackled her with the weight of a linebacker and reached for the gun. Driver got there first. Tom grabbed the butt of the pistol and ejected the clip as she squeezed the trigger. He swiped the clip away. Driver cracked him on the forehead with the empty pistol. Tom rolled clear and got to his feet. She jumped up and ditched the empty pistol as they squared up to each other. Driver checked the count on her watch. She zoned in on the remote, hanging from Tom’s tool belt. They circled each other, Driver half listening to a conversation in her ear.
‘Chiang’s skipping the church visit,’ Anna said. ‘Going straight into his speech.’
Driver looked down and saw the minister in position a short way up the steps on a terraced area. He stood behind a microphone and waved to the crowd below, surrounded by a dark-suited security team.
‘You any closer to getting that remote?’ Gilmore asked.
‘I’m working on it,’ Driver said, her eyes on the prize.
Tom smiled and tapped the remote. ‘You want this? Come get it.’
Of course it was a ploy. To suck her in, counter her attack and take her down. But Driver had no choice, and no time. She broke into a sprint. Tom was as sharp as ever. He sidestepped and judo-threw her over a shoulder. Yet Driver hung on, reversing the throw with her own momentum. She flung Tom to the rooftop, rolling out of the move and onto her feet. Driver met him on the rise, a roundhouse kick to the jaw, flooring all six foot two of him. She’d always been handy on the dojo mats, but all those blood and thunder fights in the Boneyard had sharpened her skills and hardened her body.
As Tom dropped limp, Driver went for the remote on his hip. She snatched it from his belt and found the off switch. Yet Tom was alert and slapped it from her grip. Driver caught it with the other hand, but he grabbed her wrist before she had chance to cancel the timer. He tore the remote from her and caught her with a stinging right to the cheek. Driver staggered backwards, the remote in Tom’s possession. He turned and hurled it across the rooftop.
Driver glanced at her watch and launched into a sprint. With a minute to go, she had to get to that remote. As Tom moved to block her, Driver feinted left and went right. She spun around Tom and ran. It was a thirty-yard dash to the remote with Tom on her tail. He jumped on her back. She hit the roof on her front, flattened by his 200-pound frame. Yet Driver had a hand on the remote, and his hand on hers. He squeezed it tight, digging his thumbs into her pressure points. The pain was incredible. She reached with the other hand. He grabbed it and twisted it behind her back.
Driver fought through the pain. But Tom was stronger. ‘There’s nothing you can do now,’ he said in her ear.
She watched the time count down in sync with the bomb. There were fifteen seconds left.
Ten seconds. Five, four, three, two…
‘I’m sorry,’ Driver said over the comms.