Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle Pauline Jones (the red fox clan txt) 📖

could see the slow sweep of the second hand tracking around the circle of numbers, moving closer, and closer to ground zero. One thousand…two thousand…I didn’t want to count, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

“Isabel, if you’re playing possum down there, you might want to cover your ears. I’m told the blast will be rather loud.”

I didn’t dignify that with an answer. Against the dark sky and earth, I thought I saw a darker figure rise, move toward us, and then sink into shadow again. Of course, my suits-out-of-suits were out there somewhere. Kel might be out there, too.

“I know you’re awake, Isabel. I can feel you shooting daggers at me,” Dag sounded amused. He said something softly, and hands grabbed me, dragged me roughly out from under the pig.

I didn’t mind this, because I figured being in the recoil zone of the pig might not be good for my health. I did mind being thrust close to Dag. He patted my cheek. I jerked my head away, though my captor wouldn’t let me jerk my body away.

“It won’t work. I’ve watched the war. Artillery isn’t that accurate.”

Dag’s teeth gleamed white in the dark as he smiled. “Then you’ll also know the significance of laser guided shells, kissing cousins to the smart bombs they’re using. We even have men in position at the targets to guide them in with hand-held targeting lasers. It’s quite simple, brilliant, really. Let me give the credit where it’s due.”

He made a mocking half bow towards Flynn.

It wasn’t smart, but I still had to say it. “Smart shells to blow up Congress. Isn’t that, like, overkill?”

Dag gave a surprised laugh. “Down, but not quite out. I’ll have to see what I can do about that when the President’s been blown sky high.”

“One minute,” the time keeper intoned.

Dag turned away from me. All eyes were on the barrel of the pig. In my mind I could see the second hand sweeping toward ground zero. Where was the CIA? Surely they weren’t going to choose this moment to screw up?

Behind us Lee Greenwood’s voice rose triumphant. Disheartening to know I wasn’t missed or needed. Hamid paced towards the pig, his hand reaching eagerly for the mechanism that was to bring the imperialist Americans to their knees—

Suddenly some of the lights shifted blindingly on our little group around the pig. A voice boomed out of the dark, “Don’t anyone move! Do not move—”

I didn’t move. The terrorist holding me did. The sound of the shot had barely sounded when he dropped like a rock.

A low swell from the people in the bleachers rose against the finale. The music faltered, the big finish losing its momentum in the face of this unplanned for federal distraction.

“Lay down your weapons and move away from the howitzer or we will open fire!” The voice was disembodied, metallic, emotionless, but chillingly emphatic. I couldn’t tell if it was Kel. It didn’t sound like him, but I’d never heard him through a loud speaker.

Hamid moved. Another shot rang out. He slumped into the dark, dead grass. Now there were a few screams from the stands, a sense of stirring, panic waiting to be ignited.

“Anyone who approaches the howitzer will be shot. Lay down your arms and put your hands on top of your heads!”

“It’s over.” Flynn, slumped against the ground with a bruise swelling on his right temple, looked accusingly at his son. “You screwed up again.”

Dag looked like a man who’d just lost twenty million dollars. And been disowned. I had no inclination to feel sorry for him.

The terrorists bent to comply.

At that moment the lights went out.

Not just the rally lights. Everything for several blocks. Houses. Street lights. Utter blackness.

I heard a half scream of fright. A yell of, “Fire!”

Then inhaled the acrid smell of smoke.

Panic moved faster than patriotism through the crowd. I heard some shouted pleas for calm, but the sound system had gone down with the lights.

This seemed like a good time for me to become an ex-hostage of terrorists, but before I could make my move, someone grabbed me again. Hope came first. Kel had grabbed me quite a lot this week. Now would be a good time to reprise the grabbing.

Hope got dashed when Dag said in my ear, “You’re going to help me get out of here, love. Or die with me.”

I didn’t like door number one or door number two.

“You’re going to kill me anyway,” I reminded him. Not because I wanted to, you understand. It was a Ploy. I was stalling.

“There’s a lot of ways to die.”

“So I’ve been told.” I wasn’t surprised he was plagiarizing, just that he was doing it with bad dialogue. “Several times just this week.”

He gripped my sore arm and jerked. It hurt so bad, I couldn’t cry out. I hated the whimper that made it past my lips. Hated him for forcing it out of me.

An official voice gave commands over a bull horn, getting more emphatic, as the crowd became more panicked. In the dark I could hear the sounds of hundreds of feet against the wooden seat of the bleachers, cries for help, and shouts as officials tried to restore calm, the rising swell of a crowd out of control.

Dag used the confusion to drag me towards the bandstand. I didn’t resist. Pain was still sending barbed wire tracks back to my brain. And there’s something very persuasive about an Uzi in your kidneys.

The cries got louder. There were shots. He pushed me against the bandstand, adding stars to wheel above the barbed wire.

I could feel his cornered-rat panic as he looked for an out while using a woman for a shield. No surprise he was a coward.

Then, when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any weirder, they did.

Lights came back on. Not normal lights. Strobe lights.

Instead of providing illumination, they added to the confusion, turning the manic multitude—lightly interspersed with terrorists—into a jerky, slow motion frenzy. As a final touch, the fireworks started to