Page 31 of Ghost
The guy keeps his head down, drifting toward the arcade. He doesn’t touch a thing. No quarters in the skeeball, no interest in the pinball machines. He’s just watching. Waiting.
The minutes drag. He moves again after an hour or so, this time toward the front counter. My jaw tightens as I track him, every muscle in my body ready to spring. He lingers there, glancing back at the crowd, and then he does it—sets the black nylon backpack down on the bar.
My stomach drops.
“Omen,” I say, low and sharp.
“I see it.”
The guy slips away from the bar, heading for the door. His movements are quicker now, more deliberate. He’s trying to leave.
Omen doesn’t hesitate. “Taz, Mania. Shadow him. Parking lot.”
They move like clockwork, slipping out the side door without drawing any attention. The rest of us stay put. The backpack sits there, looking as innocent as it is deadly. And the watch on top? It’s ticking.
“Shit,” I mutter, my voice barely audible over the noise of the party.
Omen nods toward the bag. “Caesar, with me and Ghost. Crypt and Rasp, clear the bar. Quietly. Get Hag and Fossil to help if you need it.”
“Tiz will be a handful, but tell her I asked her to call Lyra and give the ROMC a rundown. Have her use Hag or Fossil’s phone… and do it far the fuck away from here,” I instruct, my hard gaze letting him know her life is in his hands, and his will be forfeit if a single hair on that firecracker’s head gets singed.
Crypt nods, already moving. He and Rasputin steer people away, using their size and Rasp’s easy charm to make it look casual. A laugh here, a hand on someone’s shoulder there, like nothing’s wrong.
Omen and I step up to the bar. I don’t need to open the bag to know what’s inside. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.
“We got time?” I ask, my voice tight.
“Not much,” Omen answers, his eyes on the watch.
“Caesar, what do you need?” I ask, as I see him reaching for the backpack.
“I need everyone out of the building. That includes you and the brothers, Prez.”
“Nope, no way. I ain't leaving you alone in the building with that thing,” I tell him.
“I can't do my job if I'm worried about…”
“I don't give a flying fuck. I will not leave one of my men alone in this building with an explosive. Everyone else can leave. I’m staying. Stop arguing, that's an order,” I say.
“Stubborn bastard,” I hear him mutter softly under his breath, making me snort. One of Caesar’s past jobs was EOD. He’s profoundly proficient in every type of explosive device you can think of. The absolute best, and I trust him with my life.
“Everyone out. Now. Omen, help Crypt and Rasp get everyone out, then lock down the property.” I can see that he wants to argue the minute I stop talking. “NOW!” I bark, and he knows what's fucking good for he because he darts off to do as I said.
Once we're alone, I turn back to Caesar, his fingers moving with practiced precision as he checks the straps.
“Think you can disarm it?” I ask, pulling up to the counter across from him.
“I’m about to find out,” he mutters, pulling out a knife and slicing through the first strap.
The clock is still ticking, every second feeling like a hammer in my chest.
Caesar peels back the flap of the bag with careful precision, exposing the contents. My stomach clenches at the sight: a mess of wires, a small circuit board, and a chunk of something wrapped in black tape that I don’t need to be an expert to know is explosive. The digital watch is rigged to the mess, counting down steadily.
3:26.
3:25.
“Shit,” Caesar breathes, his voice razor-sharp with focus.