Clean.
The third car—the McLaren—sat slightly angled, its rear door cracked open just enough to notice something off.
My instincts tightened.
I stepped closer. Opened the door fully.
And there—on the backseat—my entire world narrowed.
A compact black cylinder sat nestled against the Alcantara upholstery like it belonged there.
Matte finish.
No seams. No markings.
Just a single red LED blinking once every second.
And beneath it—a thin wire connected to a small detonator cap taped to the side.
My pulse spiked.
Recognition hit instantly.
This wasn’t just a bomb—it was a military-grade shaped charge.
Designed to direct the blast outward—Precise destruction rather than chaotic dispersion.
C4 or Semtex.
Enough to shred the interior. Enough to turn the car into a fireball.
Enough to kill everyone within a twenty-foot radius.
My eyes locked onto the LED.
00:05.
My blood turned to ice.
“It’s a bomb!” The words tore out of me.
I didn’t hesitate.
I grabbed it—lighter than expected—and spun on my heel, breaking into a run.
Without slowing, I threw it.
The cylinder flew from my hand, arcing across the asphalt, skidding hard before rolling to a stop fifteen meters away.
“Three seconds!” I shouted.
The lot erupted in movement.
But there was no time to react.
The device red LED blinked—
00:01.
