Friday, March 17, 4:12 p.m.
Her hood pulled over her head, she carried her purse out of the bar, where she’d spent less than five minutes. She gulped down the remainder of her beer, then crushed the empty can she’d requested. Rather than tossing it into the trash, she leaned over, dropped both her purse and the empty can inside, muttering a curse under her breath as if the purse had fallen by accident. With utter distaste, she bent over, and groped inside the trash, shuddering with revulsion as she did.
A moment later, she straightened with a relieved smile, having retrieved both her purse and the bubble-wrapped envelope that had been waiting for her.
No one had so much as looked her way.
Satisfied, she walked off.
19
The McKay Residence
East 236th Street
Woodlawn, Bronx, New York
Friday, March 17, 5:24 p.m.
Inside the house, a rousing game of charades was taking place.
Kennedy was winning the Irish performers segment of the game, while Colin had cleaned up on the Irish history part, and the rest of the family—other than Maureen, who was busily cooking—was clamoring for a change in topic.
“How about Celtic jewelry?” Fiona suggested.
Her brothers rolled their eyes.
“Yeah, right,” Nolan said. “I wonder who that topic would give the edge to. I vote for Irish laws enacted in the current century.”
“Great idea,” Garret concurred.
“No it’s not,” Maureen called out from the kitchen. “Let Kennedy choose. At least she’ll play fair. Something that puts you all on even footing. Like Irish cooking through the ages.”
The whole family threw back their heads and howled with laughter.
Friday, March 17, 5:35 p.m.
Six blocks away from the McKay residence, the stolen Con Edison truck drove down the street and parked alongside a utility pole. A black sedan with two passengers passed by. The driver of the sedan stuck his hand out the window and gave a mock salute to the two guys in the truck. After that, he made a turn, and he and his partner continued on their way toward the McKay house—passing it and going on to park on a back street behind their house, so as not to be spotted. Although they’d checked beforehand, as had their counterparts. There were no security cameras in the vicinity. And the clusters of trees hid them from view.
The guy in the passenger seat pulled out his walkie-talkie, pressed the button, and said: “We’re in position.”
The guys in the utility truck acted on cue. While one of them stayed put as a lookout, the driver got out, opened the back of the truck, and removed the requisite traffic cones, placing them in front and back of the vehicle. It looked like a normal utility emergency.
Except it wasn’t.
He climbed up on top of the truck, got into the bucket, and manipulated the hydraulics to raise himself up to the transformer. That done, he placed the small explosive device with a remote detonator next to the transformer and took some black electrical tape, strapping it into place.
Job completed, he lowered the bucket and locked the mechanism into place. He climbed down to the pavement, and while his associate collected the traffic cones, he examined the transmitter to make sure communication was properly established with the explosive device.
Success.
He turned and called out to his colleague, “We’re finished here.” Both men jumped into the car. The driver maneuvered the truck slowly down the street away from the booby-trapped transformer—and in the opposite direction of the McKay house.
When he was a far enough distance away, he pressed the triggering button.
The transformer exploded, plunging the neighborhood into an eerie darkness.
Inside the McKay house, everyone reacted at once.
