The Concert
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Many thanks to everyone who read and reviewd. Your reviews mean so much! Thank you! sunny
Hal's lines at the end are from Sixteen. Standard fanfic disclaimers apply.
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Previously on The Concert:
My cell rings and simultaneously our comm units buzz. My eyes meet Tank's and we both click on the devices and listen.
Tank and I take off running.
Meanwhile, back at the elevators... The Bud guy reached out and pressed the stop button and his hand jabbed something hard into Junior's side. He felt the jolt of a Taser and as he went down, he heard Steph yelling his name. But he was thinking Helloooo, Somalia.
The man pushed back his Bud cap and glared at Stephanie. "The kegs are filled with plastique-plastic explosives-and dynamite. You will do exactly as I tell you."
... ... ... ... ... ...
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Chapter Eleven
Stephanie
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What? This cretin is gonna make me miss the second half of Springsteen's set? I don't think so.
I watched poor Junior slide to the floor and I lost it. Whack! "I am not missing the Boss!" I smacked the Budweiser man with my twenty pound Jersey girl handbag.
He looked dazed but he turned to me and I saw the Taser. "Oh no, no fricken way! Are you not listening? This is the new Stephanie Plum here!" Whack! again with the pocket book. "NO stun guns. And NO bombs! What the hell is wrong with you anyway?"
Little did I know a few years from now another jerk called Scrog would prove me wrong about the bombs and stun guns. But not tonight! I hit the button to reactivate the elevator, the doors opened on the main arena floor. I pushed the hand truck aside and sent a well-aimed kick into Budweiser-Man's family jewels. The man howled and inadvertently shoved the hand truck through the opening door, where it caught the doorjamb and stalled, throwing the kegs into the lobby.
They didn't explode. Thank god.
But they still could.
The Bud guy cursed me in some foreign language, prompting a woozy Hey from Junior. The man aimed an awkward kick at Junior, caught him in the chin. Junior's eyes rolled up in his head and he went down again. "Hey!" I echoed and was sent spinning by the chubby guy's arm. I landed next to Junior, sat there dazed for a moment, then I grabbed his comm unit and called Ranger, while simultaneously pressing 1 on my speed dial, also for Ranger.
"Junior?" I fumbled for his pulse. "Officer down," I yelled to the growing crowd, "Call 911."
"We're here, Cupcake, " said Morelli over my head. His pasty white boy feds and some uniflroms stared down at me.
I jumped to my feet, "Take care of him, he's Ranger's man." And I ran after the Budweiser man, seeing his bulky blue and no doubt bomb-laden jumpsuit fade into the mass of gawkers. In one ear I could hear Ranger yelling, "Babe?" And in my other ear I could hear both him and Tank yelling, "Stephanie? Babe?"
"The bomber! You know, your top-secret threat, crazed bomber?"
"Babe?" Ranger, taking the time to do a who-me?
"He's dressed like a beer deliveryman. He's short, fat, sweaty...um, maybe he's not fat, that's more explosives, probably, right? ("Babe...") Looks Middle Eastern... Ranger? Is that rude? You know, racial profiling? Well, anyway," I continued over his next exasperated Babe, "the beer kegs may be BOMBS!" I yelled to both Tank and Ranger on the phones and also to Morelli and Ranger's weirdo men-in-black fed guys, who had all taken up the chase alongside me.
Ooops. Bomb is so a four letter word.
Stampede for the door. I strong-armed everyone aside and followed the beer man. As I fought through the panicking crowd I could hear Bruce yelling, "...c'mon, Wendy, tramps like us, baby, we were booooorn to run! Yeah baby tramps like us...!" and I didn't pause but I took a brief instant to think that obviously The Boss and Ranger didn't inhabit my New Jersey, because everyone knows Jersey girls do not run. A warm hand grabbed my arm above my elbow and urged me on; Ranger's amused voice said, "It's a metaphor, babe."
Metaphor this! I ESPed and he grinned. I figure there is nothing in this world that Ranger loves as much as he loves the chase. Even if we're chasing a mad bomber.
When we ran down the arena steps, we could see the presidential cavalcade parked around the side near the back entrance. And at the curb straight ahead was the new Rangeman SUV-tank thing, flanked by two traditional Rangeman black Ford Expeditions. The Conquest Knight XV was huge and black and manly-looking. Probably the President took one look at it and succumbed to, uh, SUV envy. The Merry Man who was behind the wheel saw the ruckus and opened the door, got out drawing his weapon. He stepped forward a few yards to get a better look and the Budweiser guy, aka bin Hasheed, barreled into him, sending the Merry Man spinning away and rolling to the concrete ground. The Rangeman guy looked stunned but got to his hands and knees, yelled Hey! as the terrorist dove into the mammoth SUV. And slammed and locked the doors. The Rangeman driver stood and pointed his gun at the windshield but didn't shoot, maybe because he remembered it was bulletproof or probably because he knew the giant vehicle cost almost a million US dollars.
Next to me Ranger froze for one brief instant, then shoved me down behind a brick and concrete planter thing full of ugly red, white and purple petunias. The New Jersey state flower, ha-ha.
"Stay there," he yelled and then he ran towards his man who still seemed stunned. I jumped up and followed, watched in disbelief as Ranger executed a crisp shoulder-block tackle and forced his man into action. They rolled away from the huge SUV, behind the first black Expedition then they ran back towards me. This time Ranger didn't bother to issue orders, he just scooped me over his shoulder and ran with me and his guy, back behind the wall, yelling non-stop, "Get down, get down, bomb." The crowd gasped and fled. Total chaos.
The three of us landed in a messy heap, the Rangeman agent looking mortified behind his blank face.
"Sir!"
Ranger held up a hand and the man went silent.
The world went silent.
We peeked over the petunias at the tank-car. We could see the pale circle of bin Hasheed's face, his eyes wide and crazed, and we could hear muffled music from the concert and then his screamed words about Allah.
Whomp.
The vehicle imploded in a gust of flames and explosives. The outside was pristine, the inside an inferno of death and delusion. We stood and watched, and even I could not immediately find words.
"Geez," I whispered.
"Babe."
"It wasn't my fault!"
"Babe."
"It. Was. Not. My fault."
Tank stood over us, looking at smoking vehicle. "Damn."
"Babe, that car had 100% bullet-proof bodywork, a 6.8-litre V10 engine with 400 horsepower, and it weighed five tons."
Tank went on, "Armor plating, bulletproof glass, run-flat tires, anti-bomb reinforced chassis..."
Ranger continued, "An oxygen breathing system, internal fire extinguishers, night vision cameras..."
"TV camera and screens. DVD player. Leather seats. Custom carpets. Laptops built in-with Wi-Fi..."
"It took six months to build," sighed Ranger.
Tank whispered, "950 K. Gone like the wind."
Ranger and I both said, "What?"
The President walked up, looked at the smoking rubble and said, "Damn!"
I opened my mouth to tell the president that it wasn't my fault, but discordant rock chords drowned me out. Mic feedback, then Sally Sweet yelled, "Sorry for the fucking delay, folks! How is everyone tonight?"
The crowd still in the stadium yelled.
"Are you guys all from fuckin' Jersey?"
Howls and cheers. Yeah, they're from Jersey all right.
"Well, people, we blew us up a freakin' terrorist tonight so I say, Fuck that! Boogie on, dudes," yelled Sally. The President and maybe Ranger winced a little.
We could hear raucous screams and cheers.
"Please again welcome The Boss!"
The Rangeman guys all looked at Ranger who was still standing silently by the president, encircled now by secret service agents and Trenton cops.
Instead of an unprecedented public appearance by Ranger, Bruce Springsteen screamed out intro to Born to Run. Again. Guess the song got interrupted before. The Merry Men looked perplexed in a blank-faced kind of way.
Ranger clearly still had his mind focused on the Knight XV. He told the President, "It's bomb-proof."
"I see."
"So it contained the explosion." said the Merry Man who Ranger called Mick, the guy who had been driving the mammoth car.
"Yes. Good job, man," said Ranger and clapped him on the shoulder. Mick winced, but looked proud despite his bruised shoulder from the various tackles he'd sustained.
"Good tackle, sir."
"Ranger."
"Ranger. Did you play football, sir?"
"Football? No, golf."
The President and Mick and I said, "Golf?"
"And baseball. I wanted to be a major league pitcher, babe."
"And instead they made you Batman?" I said.
"What?"
I said, "Nevermind," and realized my face was covered with tears. He wrapped me in his big warm arms and hugged me to his chest while I sobbed.
With my face buried in Ranger's leather jacket, his gun in its shoulder holster digging into my cheekbone, I heard Hal's muffled voice tell Ranger ,"The kegs were just beer, Ranger. Bomb squad is coming anyway."
"Too late for that," said Ranger calmly.
Hal said, "How bad is it? Do you want me to, you know, get rid of anything?'
I raised my head and stared at Hal. "Like a body?" I asked, hating that my voice quavered and broke on a new sob.
"Yeah, " said Hal.
Ranger kept an arm around my shoulders and turned to contemplate the black vehicle, its interior still a ball of flames.
He said, "Maybe a flatbed. I think the XV is a goner."
"Yessir, Ranger. I'll call Al for a tow."
"Babe. You up to tagging Sally Sweet?"
I shook my head. "I'll pick him up tomorrow. Can we just go home?"
"You'll miss The Boss's encore, babe."
Over the sirens of the approaching East Rutherford volunteer fire department's trucks, I could hear Sally Sweet still on stage, the familiar music began, 'We are the world..."
I said, "Not an issue."
THE END