Tracking Shot, Colin Campbell [moboreader TXT] 📗

he was paid to do, protect the money. He slammed the door shut and dropped to the ground, rolling under the truck. The driver hit the central locking and sealed himself inside.

McNulty crabbed through the parking lot and pulled the gun he’d drawn from the props department. He concentrated on the guard under the truck while keeping the men in black in his peripheral vision. They seemed to be frozen to the spot by the sudden outburst of gunfire. This was their robbery. Who were all these other guys shooting at the truck they wanted to rob? Neither of them reached for a remote control. Neither of them took out a phone to call the bomb across town.

A ricochet chipped stone at McNulty’s feet. Two shots pinged off the windshield and whirred off into the distance without making an impression. McNulty glanced at the men on the embankment and hoped they could keep their heads for a few minutes longer. More shots sounded from the corner of the park; different shots, not from his guys. From the men in black combat fatigues. He stood up and stepped to one side and fired at the men in black. He’d promised to keep the gunmen occupied so they didn’t push the button. This was his idea of keeping them occupied but it wasn’t going to be enough.

Solomon took the corner through the school gates so fast he almost pulled his favorite stunt, the two-wheel sideways turn they’d used on that Bond movie with the oil tankers. He leaned to his right but the carnival float stayed on all four wheels. It mounted the curb and scarred the grass border, then straightened onto the entrance drive. The engine roared. All the band music was left behind. The gunfire was simply distant popping that he couldn’t even hear over the noise of the engine.

There were signs and banners everywhere.

July 4th Fireworks

and Evening Show

7 p.m. Waltham High School

Some had arrows directing the public to the showground and sports field. Smaller signs pointed to the backstage area with, NO ENTRY and STAFF ONLY warnings in big red letters. Solomon kept Mickey on the straight and narrow until he saw the, DANGER—NO ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT sign, then he veered left and slammed through the chain link fence into the designated safety zone. No public access. No danger of accidental explosion. Unless somebody pushed the button.

McNulty crabbed his way sideways, keeping the armored truck between him and the men in black fatigues. The security guard was still under the truck. The doors were still locked. Bullet hits and ricochets proved how solid the armor was. He wasn’t sure if it was frustration or rustiness that caused the change in tactics, but the VFW began to alter their positions. The first squad entered the parking lot from the embankment and moved counterclockwise until they had an angle on the front of the truck. The second squad moved clockwise from the park benches to the edge of Waltham Common, giving them a view of the back doors, the two squads on opposite sides. Not the best fire pattern for a deadly crossfire.

The M1 carbines peppered the truck. The Thompsons fired short bursts that seemed to be hitting anything but the truck. An old guy who might have been Willie or Joe took a hit in the chest. Blood spurted from his battledress jacket. Two men in the park went down. The gunfire slowed but didn’t stop. Voices were raised. Somebody shouted for a medic as if they were storming the beaches at Normandy. The gunfire would soon be attracting the few cops who were on duty covering the parade. Time was running out.

McNulty approached the truck and dropped to his knees. He nodded at the security guard under the truck and waved for him to come out. The two men in black dashed around the front and stood over him.

Solomon stopped the carnival float behind the fireworks display. In the narrow passage between the firing tubes and the boundary fence. There was nowhere else to go. He was as far from the madding crowd as he could get. He turned the engine off and tossed the keys out the window. He didn’t want anybody trying to move the truck to clear the display. Hot metal ticked as it cooled, sounding like a clock counting down. Solomon didn’t need any encouragement. He opened the door and dived across the grass. He was on his feet and running before the bombers could change their minds.

The two stuntmen dressed in black stood over their technical adviser, prop guns held loosely at their sides. McNulty waved for the security guard to come out again and this time discretion was the better part of valor. The guard looked sheepish as he slid out on his back with his hands up. He got slowly to his feet. McNulty got to his feet, too. The gunfire stopped. Sirens sounded in the distance. McNulty indicated the stuntmen’s guns. “Keep ’em up.”

They raised the guns, looking mean and threatening. McNulty listened to the sirens then turned to the security guard. “Now would be a good time to open the doors.”

The guard looked confused. He’d never been robbed before. “Is that my cue?”

McNulty thought of Alfonse Bayard on his first day. “This isn’t the movies. This is real. And we need to get the money somewhere safe before the shit really hits the fan.”

The guard glanced at the fallen men around him, fake blood and bullet squibs still smoking. He wondered how much worse than this the shit really hitting the fan could be. McNulty raised his gun and fired a blank into the side of the truck. “Open the door.”

From the rooftop of Elm Street Dental overlooking the armored truck, two pairs of eyes couldn’t believe what they were seeing. The movie guy and a bunch of extras acting like Robert De Niro in Heat. The security guard opened the back