Crescent City Connection

of commission.
    The bomb squad was ready to dismantle the bomb if Skip couldn’t.
    An ambulance was parked a block away, ready to make a show of arriving for Daniel. More emergency vehicles were seconds away.
    Ferguson held up a finger; Jacomine had answered.
    “Hey, Reverend, how you doing?”
    “All our people are at peace with God. We are ready to die in twelve minutes.” He sounded ominously calm.
    “The paramedics are here, Reverend.” A siren could just now be heard. “I’m bringing them both over now—Lovelace and Langdon. After we have Daniel safe, an unarmed member of the bomb squad will bring Langdon up the steps. You will send one person out with Shavonne.”
    “Send Langdon up alone.”
    “Reverend, there won’t be time—”
    “Whose fucking fault is that?” He hung up.
    The first part of the operation went exactly as both parties had agreed. As soon as Daniel lay on the porch, and Jacomine’s two goons stood beside him, hands in the air, Skip—in her Lovelace role—walked onto the porch with the paramedics.
    The first thing she noticed was that they hadn’t lied about Daniel. His eyes were closed and he was moaning, apparently unconscious.
    One of the goons was black, one white. The black one was a large, handsome man, who nicely matched Dorise’s description of Dashan.
I hope
, she thought,
I don’t have to tangle with that one.
    The white one was older and smaller, but he had a spare, mean look that Skip didn’t like, and thick ropy wrists. A fight with him wouldn’t be a picnic either.
    She didn’t smile at either one of them, tried instead to look small and scared. On one account, at any rate, she wasn’t acting.
    They made a sandwich of her, Dashan first entering the house, then Skip, then the white man.
    She cased the place quickly. The front room of the house was meant to be lived in sideways—that is, the fireplace, instead of being dead ahead, was on the right wall.
    This room opened into another, with pocket doors that were wide open, so that the two were really one. It was full of furniture, and there was practically none in the front room, the one in which Skip stood. It had probably been emptied into the second, except for one chair, which was full, and a heavy table that was apparently used as a desk. The one window was also to the right of the door. A man holding an assault weapon stood looking out, but probably couldn’t see much.
    All that was expected.
    What was not were two smiling women, waiting for Skip with arms outstretched. She heard the words, “Welcome, sister,” though from which one she didn’t know, and felt soft arms enfold her. Her face snuggled into someone’s shoulder. Somewhere in the distance she was aware of Dashan and the other man clumping up the stairs.
    Upstairs,
she thought.
Jacomine’s running this from the second floor.
    In the room’s one chair sat another woman, holding Shavonne, bomb in place.
    Skip had half expected the faithful to be gathered round the girl, praying and kissing their asses good-bye. The fact that they weren’t was a good sign, she thought, a sign undermining Jacomine’s statement that they were all ready to die. He evidently expected to be obeyed by the forces of the law.
    That could work in her favor.
    The second the hugging woman let her go, Skip’s hand went to her waist, drew her gun, and jammed it into the hugger’s abdomen. “Now
I’ve
got a hostage.”
    The man with the gun whirled, but remained in place.
    Feet sounded on the stairs, men coming down, probably Dashan and his buddy.
    The second woman started for the stairs.
    The woman holding Shavonne started praying, tears running down her face, terror in her eyes. “Merciful God, deliver us … help us, oh God of Israel.”
    She wasn’t going to be a problem, but Shavonne clung to her. Skip pushed her hostage, hard, toward the man with the gun, and while they were both still unbalanced, she jerked at the girl. When Shavonne turned toward Skip, the face of the clock loomed as large as Big Ben. It said three o’clock, straight up.
    But the second hand was still sweeping. It was four seconds from the screw.
    Skip felt sweat pop out on her face, her hands, all over her body. Jesus Christ. They were dead. It could take that long just to get the wire cutters out of her bra.
    She thought
I should pray, too
. She was aware of noise in the room, the other two coming toward her.
    She couldn’t pray, she couldn’t pretend she was a warrior woman, she