Patriot by M.A. Rothman (summer reading list TXT) 📗

“That’s okay. I’m fairly certain even prying it out that much will disrupt it enough that it won’t go nuclear,” Brice said. “But leave your knife in there just to be sure.”

“What the hell is my knife going to do?”

“Keeps the separation between the charges. Provides a weak point during the explosion. Think of it like squeezing hard on a tube of toothpaste with the cap loose. Instead of a nuclear boom, you’ll just get a boom.”

“So I’m done? That’s it?” Annie stepped back from the container, relieved.

“Well, you’ve still got to stop the truck. It may not be a full-on nuke, but it’s still a dirty bomb. The farther you can keep it from downtown DC, the better. And if the driver has the detonator, and you can stop it from going off at all… well, needless to say, that would be nice.”

Annie’s fingers closed around the pistol holstered under her arm. “I’m on it.”

She returned to the hole she’d cut in the roof, jumped up, and pulled herself onto the top of the trailer, crouching down against the onslaught of wind.

“Annie, look out!” Brice shouted.

Annie turned. “Shit!” She dropped to her chest seconds before the semi drove under the Stafford Street Bridge. The traffic noise intensified around her, echoing from all directions.

“You okay?”

“Son of a bitch.” Annie spun on her stomach to face the front of the trailer. “I’m fine.”

She pulled herself along the top of the trailer, reaching the front just as they came out from under the overpass. Then she eased herself over the edge, into the small space between the trailer and the cab. Her legs brushed against the coiled cables connecting the two, and her feet touched down on the frame.

“We’re running out of road,” Brice said.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Annie said through gritted teeth.

She moved to the passenger side, putting a foot on the end of the cylindrical gas tank, fingers clenched on the side of the cab. She tried not to focus on the road rushing past beneath her, or the sure knowledge that if she lost her footing, or her grip, she’d end up as roadkill, crushed by the trailer’s massive tires.

I think I’d rather get blown up.

She peered around the side of the truck. In the side-view mirror, she saw Mohammad Hakimi sitting behind the wheel, focused intently on the road ahead. He had both hands on the wheel, which meant at the very least he didn’t have the dead man’s switch in his hand. But that didn’t rule out the possibility of him having a remote detonator.

She would need to move quickly. As soon as she moved around the edge of the cab, he’d spot her movement in the side-view. She couldn’t give him time to react.

She looked ahead and saw they were approaching a tunnel. If she could get the truck stopped in there, she might be able to somewhat contain the blast.

She reached around the edge of the cab, grabbed the vertical assist bar, and stepped onto the side steps on the gas tank. As she shuffled forward, she switched hands, grabbing the bar with her left and reaching for the door handle with her right.

Mohammad Hakimi turned, making eye contact with Annie a fraction of a second before she pulled the door open. His eyes widened, he shouted something Annie didn’t understand, and he slammed his foot on the brake.

She lurched forward, grunting as her upper body slammed into the open door. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, and she just barely hung on.

Hakimi then jerked the wheel to the left and then right. Tires squealed as the truck veered across two lanes, rumbling over the warning strips cut into the shoulder.

Annie kicked off the side step, launched herself into the cab, and lashed out with a right jab. Hakimi shouted, taking his hand off the wheel to block the punch. The truck swerved to the left, rocking Annie back, off-balance.

“You will die!” Hakimi yelled, reaching for something in his waistband.

Annie drove her shoulder into Hakimi’s throat and chin, knocking him into his door. He twisted, slamming his elbow into the side of her head. Pain erupted through her skull as he hit her again and again. She ignored the pain, centering all her attention on getting the weapon—or detonator—he’d been reaching for.

It was a pistol. Her fingers closed around it, but instead of pulling it away, she pushed, driving it into his groin. Hakimi screamed in pain and redoubled his attack, slamming his elbow violently into her ear and temple. Stars danced in her vision as her fingers worked their way onto the pistol’s grip.

“Bitch!” he shouted, clamping down on her with his free hand, pinning the pistol in place.

Annie’s finger found the trigger and squeezed. The pistol barked and Hakimi screamed, his entire body spasming in pain. She pushed off of him and tried to pull the pistol free, but it caught on his waistband.

He slammed on the brakes again, throwing Annie into the dash and making her lose her grip on the pistol. Grimacing in pain, Hakimi then pulled the pistol from his waistband while stomping on the gas again. The engine roared.

Annie rolled back into the seat and grabbed Hakimi’s wrist, pushing the barrel of the pistol away. He fired again and again, but only succeeded in blasting jagged holes in the windshield—and leaving Annie with a painful ringing in her ears.

“Annie!” Brice shouted in her ear. “Are you okay?”

With her free hand Annie grabbed Hakimi’s face and pressed his head into the door. She wedged her thumb into his eye socket, gritted her teeth, and pushed.

Hakimi screamed, slapped at her hand, tried to pry it away.

She let up slightly, only to immediately slam his head hard against the door’s window.

Hakimi fired off three more rounds. Annie felt the warmth and blast pressure from each shot. He punched her arm, and she lost her grip on his face. But