Chapter 8 - The Countdown
The air in the warehouse suddenly felt incredibly heavy and completely suffocating.
I twisted my neck to look at James, searching his pale face for any sign that he was joking.
He gave me a grim, apologetic smile and confirmed that he had rigged this property weeks ago.
He knew Sarah was using this abandoned industrial park as her central command hub.
The vault access code he gave to Officer Boyd was actually the digital trigger for a massive thermite charge.
James explained that the blast would vaporize the server room, destroying all of Sarah's stolen data.
I panicked and reminded him that we were currently tied up directly next to the server room.
He assured me the explosive was localized and shaped to blow the ceiling outward, but we had to take cover immediately.
We had exactly four minutes before the countdown hit zero and incinerated half the building.
James shifted his bloody shoulder against the steel beam, groaning in pure agony as he reached into his boot.
He pulled out a hidden ceramic razor blade and began sawing frantically at the thick zip ties binding his wrists.
The heavy plastic snapped with a sharp crack, freeing his hands after ninety seconds of desperate cutting.
He immediately leaned over and sliced through the restraints digging into my own raw wrists.
I pulled the duct tape off my mouth, gasping for air as we both scrambled to our feet.
James grabbed his discarded shotgun with his good arm and gestured toward a thick concrete drainage pipe against the wall.
He told me it was an old storm drain that led directly to the alley behind the property.
We sprinted across the warehouse floor as a high-pitched electronic whine began echoing from beneath the server racks.
The countdown was in its final thirty seconds, and the floorboards were literally vibrating beneath our feet.
We dove headfirst into the rusted iron grate of the storm drain, crawling desperately through the muck and absolute darkness.
I could hear the shrill warning alarm of the explosives reaching a fever pitch right behind us.
James pushed me forward, shouting at me to keep my head down and cover my ears.
A blinding flash of white light erupted behind us, instantly followed by a deafening, catastrophic roar.
The shockwave slammed into us, throwing us further down the pipe as a tidal wave of intense heat washed over our bodies.
Concrete shattered and steel beams twisted like tin foil above our heads.
We lay completely still in the filthy water for several minutes as the dust and debris rained down.
I coughed violently, tasting ash and copper in the back of my throat.
James grabbed my hand in the darkness and squeezed it tightly, letting me know we had survived the blast.
We dragged ourselves to the end of the pipe and pushed out into the cool night air of the alleyway.
I fell onto the damp asphalt in total exhaustion, believing we were finally free.
Then the heavy beam of a police helicopter spotlight pinned us violently against the brick wall.
A dozen real police cruisers swarmed the alley, their sirens blaring and weapons drawn.
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An officer over a megaphone ordered us to put our hands in the air immediately.
They announced we were under arrest for domestic terrorism and the premeditated murder of James's mother, Linda.
