Thirty twenty-nine twenty-eight twenty-seven...
She prayed--to a God she hoped was a lot different from the one the Sword of Jesus claimed as theirs.
Fourteen thirteen twelve eleven...
Rune tucked her head against her chest.
Warren Hathaway was proud of his precision. When not building bombs he was in fact a bookkeeper--though not a CPA--and he enjoyed the sensuality of the act of filling in the numbers on the pale green paper with a fountain pen or a fine-tipped marker--one that did not leave indentations on the sheet. He enjoyed the exactness and detail.
He also enjoyed watching big explosions.
So when the windows of the beach house did not disintegrate in a volley of shards and the sandy earth did not jerk beneath him from the huge jolt of the bomb he felt his stomach twist in horror. He didn't swear--the thought never would have entered his mind. What he did was pick up the hammer and walk the hundred yards back into the house.
The trials of Job ...
He knew he'd set the system properly. There was no doubt that he knew his equipment. The cap was buried in just the right thickness of plastic. The C-3 was in good condition. The battery was charged.
The little whore had ruined his handiwork.
He walked inside and then slammed the hammer down on the wooden boards barring the door. He struck them near the nails to lift their heads and then caught them in the claw. With a loud, haunted-house creak the nails began coming out.
With the first nail: He heard the girl's voice in a panic, asking who was there.
The second nail: She was screaming for help. How silly and desperate they were sometimes. Women. Whoring women.
The third nail: Silence.
He paused. Listening. He heard nothing.
Hathaway pulled the rest out. The door opened.
Rune stood inside the room, in front of the table, looking at him defiantly. Her hair was stuck to her face with sweat, her eyes were squinting. She drew the back of her hand across her mouth and swallowed. In her other hand was a leg wrenched from a table or chair.
He laughed at it, then frowned, looking past her at the bomb. He studied it with professional curiosity. She'd bypassed the shunt.
He was frowning. "You did that? How did you know--?"
She held up the club.
Hathaway said, "You whore. You think that's going to stop me?"
He stepped forward toward her. He got only six inches before he tripped over the taut strands of telephone wire Rune had strung across the bottom of the doorway.
Hathaway fell heavily. He caught himself but his wrist bone snapped with a loud crack as it struck the floor. He shouted in pain and struggled to his feet. As he did Rune brought the club down on his shoulders as she ran past him through the doorway. It hit hard and he fell forward on his bad hand with a cry.
Hathaway was trying again to stand, supported by one knee and one foot planted on the floor, reaching into his pocket with his good hand for the box cutter. Staring at her as if she were the Devil come to earth. He started to his feet.
Rune waited for just a moment, then flung the leg of the table past Hathaway.
After that, the images were just a blur:
Rune's diving fall as she threw herself to the floor against the baseboard in the living room.
Hathaway's awkward, panicked attempt to grab the leg before it hit its intended target.
Then--when he failed to stop it--the cascading flash and ball of flame as the leg struck the bomb and the rocker switch set off the C-3.
Then the whole earth joined in the blur. Sand, splinters, chunks of Sheetrock, smoke, metal--all tossed in a cyclone of motion.