Page 8 of Sully

So I couldn’t try to rush him, attack him, run away. All he would need to do was lift his thumb, and the bomb would go off.

I would… blow up.

I hated the whimper that escaped me, but there was no stopping it.

How was this real life?

Who got a bomb strapped to their chest? Outside of war zones or spy movies?

“Who do I need to send a message to?” I asked, my voice a little squeak.

“Sully.”

CHAPTER THREE

Sully

“Get out,” Fallon snapped, pushing Nave through the door when he hesitated. “We’ll call the bomb squad,” he said, turning back to me, Callow, and the girl who looked like she was about to pass out.

She was a fucking pretty little thing. Small and slight with white-blonde hair, gray eyes, delicate features, and plump lips.

Not that this was the time to focus on that kind of thing.

“There’s no time,” I said, my gaze landing on the red numbers counting down at the center of the woman’s chest.

It was a cheap timer, something a step up from using a watch.

Three minutes.

It would take NBPD at least half an hour to get a bomb squad all the way out here.

“Can you get it off of her?” Fallon asked.

“Heya, honey, just try to take a couple of deep breaths for me, okay?” I asked, hands moving to the sides of the vest. “No,” I told Fallon.

The bastard had not only sewn her into the vest but had wound the wires through the stitching. If I cut the vest, I’d cut the wires.

“Can you… diffuse it?” Fallon asked, a hint of panic in his voice.

“Yep. Yeah. Absolutely,” I added, trying to keep my own voice calm for the sake of the woman who seemed like she was seconds away from passing out from hyperventilating.

“Sull,” Callow said, voice tight.

“Nothing we haven’t seen before, right, man?” I shot back, my gaze trying to follow the seemingly endless twisted wires.

Yellow.

All of them were yellow.

That shit you saw in movies or TV shows where there were different colored wires to indicate warm or cold ones? Yeah, that was pure bullshit. No bomb maker worth his salt would make it that easy to figure out which wires to cut to diffuse it.

“Gonna need some wire snippers,” I said to Callow, who was quick to turn and run toward the garage. “You’re gonna be just fine, honey,” I told her, inspecting the battery box. “I don’t plan on getting blown up today, okay?”

To that, she sniffled but nodded her head.

“What’s your name?” I asked, trying to keep her focused. Because the last thing I needed was for her to pass out when I was trying to snip a wire.

“B… Bonnie.”

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