“Get out!” He rocketed to his feet, pulling Martha up with him and giving her the same push she’d only moments ago nudged Harriet with. “Get the children out immediately and hie yourself to safety. Now. Go!”
She whirled, fists on her hips. “Mr. Baggett! What is it? What is wrong?”
“There is a bomb under your sofa, Mrs. Jones.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Charles’ hands shook as he dropped to the floor and peered under the sofa at the bomb. This was it. The stuff of legends. The inspector who saved the day by rescuing the fair damsel and the children.
Unless they all went up in flames.
Shoving the mad thoughts aside, he forced a steadiness to his hands that he most certainly didn’t feel and reached for the shoebox-sized container sitting in the shadows.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Sweat trickled down his temples as his fingers met metal.
Behind him all sorts of mayhem broke out. Shrieks. Cries. Frankie shouting for a look at the thing. Above it all Martha’s steady voice shooing them out the door. Oh God, they had to get out that door!
Please, Lord, speed them on their way. Protect Martha and the children, and give me wisdom to disarm this explosive.
Once the metal box cleared the sofa, he carefully lifted the lid with one finger.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Inside was a bundle of dynamite, some wires, the detonator, and a clock mechanism—its long hand clicking ever onward to meet with the shorter. Two minutes remained. A mere 120 seconds separated them all from eternity.
He clenched his jaw. Which wire to clip first? It was a one in three shot. Think.Think!He’d been trained for this, but years ago, and he’d never actually had to put that knowledge to use.
Until now.
He edged over to the sewing basket and pulled out a pair of shears, then crawled back to the weapon. Sweat stung his eyes.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound was louder now than the last of the feet racing down the stairs.
Filling his lungs until his ribs ached, Charles leaned over the bomb and traced the wires with his eyes. The first one appeared to be attached to the timing mechanism. Hopefully. Ever so gently, he eased the blades of the shears to catch the wire. Too fast and he could cause a spark, then all would be over. Slight pressure. More.
Clip.
Nothing.
He whooshed out a breath. Seventy-five seconds to go.
Next the blasting cap. A small metal cylinder, hardly larger than a pea. God only knew what Carky—for surely she was the evil brain behind this job—had used for material inside, but most likely gunpowder. Two wires ran from it. Fifty-fifty odds. Fair enough when gambling, but now? His shirt stuck to his sweaty back like a second skin.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The shears shook violently. Slow as a rheumy old man, he eased the blades to the wire on the left. If he triggered the charge, the game would end.
He hesitated a moment more.
Steeled himself to meet his Maker.
Then at the last minute switched the blades to the other wire and gripped the handles tight.
Nip.
