Page 70 of No Stone Unturned

“Good, but thirsty.” I spotted a food stand with a line of people in front of it. “I’ll get us a couple of waters and wait here for you. Sound good?”

“Perfect. Just stay out of trouble.” He reached into his wallet and handed me some euros. “Since you gave all your money away.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.” I tucked the money into my front jeans pocket.

I got in line and did some people watching. Women dancers in colorful skirts and blouses were twirling around in one part of the courtyard with a large crowd gathered to watch them. Musicians were playing, and I found myself enjoying the moment, relaxing and watching the spectacle instead of being a part of it.

As I shuffled forward in line, I saw a group of children forming under the direction of a nun. It looked like I was going to have a front row seat to a performance by a children’s choir. For a moment I could feel my little black cloud part with the sunshine of the courtyard.

When there were only two people in front of me, and just as the children’s choir began to sing, I pulled the euros out of my pocket. One of the bills fluttered to the ground. I bent down to retrieve it and saw flames licking beneath the food stand. A pool of grease or some other flammable liquid had dripped and caught fire...right next to a propane tank. Grease ran down the side of the tank, and flames were already licking at the bottom of it.

Holy explosion!

I immediately pushed forward through the line, trying to get the attention of the vendor. Unfortunately, the folks in front of me thought I was trying to cut in line, so one guy grabbed me by the arm.

“Fire!” I yelled and pointed under the cart. Either no one understood my English or the noise of the choir was making everything hard to hear. I briefly thought about whipping out my phone to translate, but there was no time.

Another hasty glance beneath the cart confirmed my estimate that we had a few minutes at most before that tank blew sky-high. The explosion would be significant in this tightly packed crowd, even if I couldn’t calculate exactly how significant, since I didn’t know the ratio of expansion during the ignition of propane gas. But if I used a factor of 10 to 1, hundreds of people—including the entire children’s choir—would be within the blast radius. Worse, the metal shards from the tank would act as projectiles, wounding or killing many more.

Time to do something.

Pulling free of the guy’s hold on my arm, I ran around the side of the food stand and got down on my knees to get a closer look at the tank. Bits of fat and grease were already burning on the side of the tank, as well as beneath the gas line leading out of it. If that burned through, it could be moments, not minutes, before the tank exploded. Time was shorter than I thought.

People were yelling at me. I ignored them. Instead, I ripped off my T-shirt and used it to protect my hands from the flames as I pulled on the strap holding the tank to the stand. The strap released, but the tank was jammed, and the gas line connecting it to the cart was still connected. Flames were now cresting the top of the tank. I tried to twist the shutoff valve close, but the flame was too intense.

Finally the owner noticed the fire and started running. People panicked and started screaming and shouting.

“Crap!” I wiped the sweat from my eyes, then planted my feet and pulled with all my strength again, but the tank still wouldn’t budge.

“Come on,” I shouted in frustration.

That’s when I felt a cool hand on my back. “Cara, move out of the way.”

Slash.

Thank God.

He must have spotted me and known immediately what was going on. As Slash reached for the tank, I knew we had to free the tank from the gas line that connected it to the grill in the cart. I spotted a large meat cleaver and grabbed it. Slash’s eyes met mine, and our plan was coordinated wordlessly. We both knew I wouldn’t have much time once I cut the line. He’d taken off his T-shirt, too, and ripped it in half, planning to hold the handle of the tank with both hands wrapped in the cloth. From firsthand experience, I knew that was almost like having no protection. Slash thrust his hands into the flames, grabbed the handles and heaved as I chopped down. The tank came free, but a blue flame was now coming from the severed line.

Most of the grease fire had gone out after it had been removed from the source of combustion, but the tank was still red-hot and had a jet of flame from the gas line whipping around. Slash’s hands had to hurt like crazy, but he stood looking calmly around.

I knew what he was searching for.Where the heck do we put a bomb in the middle of a street packed with people?

The crowd around the cart had thinned significantly, but the children’s choir was still going full blast, either oblivious to the danger or too afraid of the nun to stop. I abdicated my position next to Slash and ran toward the choir, waving my hands and screaming like a maniac. Fortunately, that caused the children and spectators to finally pay attention. I’m not sure if the crazed look on my face, the smoldering T-shirt in my hands, or Slash, bare-chested and holding a flaming tank, did the job, but they screamed and scattered.

People were panicking in earnest now, running in every direction. Whistles were screeching and I could hear sirens heading our way. They would be too late. I was surprised that the fire hadn’t crawled up the gas line to the tank yet, but it had to be close. Slash put the tank down and tried again to twist the shutoff valve closed, but it had expanded from the heat and wasn’t budging.

Running toward Slash, I spotted a manhole cover in the street between us, so I raced toward it and tried to pry it up. A lone policeman who had arrived and sized-up the situation quickly ran to help me. He used a clip from his belt to get a grip on the cover and lever it up slightly out of the hole. Together we wrestled the lid sideways, just enough for Slash to toss the tank inside. The three of us managed to get the manhole cover back on and take two steps away before it blew.

A bright flash enveloped us as the ground heaved. Amid the light overwhelming my eyes, I had a momentary image of the manhole cover rocketing straight up, and I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t be around when it came back down. But before I could move, the force of the blast tossed me backward onto the asphalt. I heard the crack of my head as it hit the street and had time for one last thought before the world went black.

Was Slash okay?

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Father Julian Koenhein

This was becoming a nightmare.

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