"I'll take this one down," Geronimo said. "But have them check everything else while I do."

"You make me so f.u.c.kin' nervous when I hear you talk like this," Dumane said. "Whatta ya tellin' me?"

"He laid in two, Commander," Geronimo said, looking at Dumane. "The other one's the blaster. This one's just here to keep us busy."

"You sure about this?"

"We could take a vote," Geronimo said. "If you think we got the time."

"Dummy this one," Dumane said, running from the altar. "I'll send for you if we find another."

"If I'm not here, I'll be up there," Geronimo said, pointing to the balcony. "Up by the organ."

"Why there?" Dumane shouted over his shoulder.

"I like organs," Geronimo said with a smile.

GERONIMO WOULD SPEND vacations losing himself in the hills of Arizona, hiking and horseback riding through the ragged terrain of the Sedona red rock region. He went for weeks at a time, alone, seeking to keep alive the ways of his Indian ancestors and to hold on to a promise made to his mother the year he first became a member of the Bomb Squad. vacations losing himself in the hills of Arizona, hiking and horseback riding through the ragged terrain of the Sedona red rock region. He went for weeks at a time, alone, seeking to keep alive the ways of his Indian ancestors and to hold on to a promise made to his mother the year he first became a member of the Bomb Squad.

"You now live among the violent," his mother told him on that day, her voice a lyrical mix of Ponce and prairie. "Your mind and body travel in their circle. Keep your spirit strong and alive. Put it in a place it cannot be touched by evil hands."

"I will, Mama," Geronimo said, gently stroking the thick skin of the old woman's face. He looked in her eyes, dancing to their own flame, and saw in them the beauty of her youth. He didn't need the strength of the spirit world to know how easy it must have been for his father to fall in love with her.

"You visit the lands where the spirit still roams," she said, holding his hand to her face. "Let them show you the way. It is what will keep you safe. And make me know that I will not lose a son as I have lost a husband."

"I miss him too," Geronimo said. His father had suffered a stroke and died halfway through what would have been his last voyage on a merchant ship. It took three weeks for the body to make its way back home. As he had requested, Carlos Lopez was cremated and his ashes scattered about the family farm in the tropical hills of Puerto Rico.

"You have your memories," his mother said. "And I have his heart."

"I should go," Geronimo said. "Won't look good to be late on my first day."

"Before you go, take this," Gloria Lopez said, opening the hand that rested on her knee. Curled up in her palm was a medallion in the shape of a horse hung from a thin gold chain.

"What is it?" Geronimo asked, holding it up to the dim light of the shuttered apartment.

"Put it on," his mother said. "And never take it off. Promise me."

Geronimo took the medallion from his mother and hung it around his neck, tucking it inside his sweater collar. He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and held her close. It was the body of an old woman, and he would not have her for much longer.

"Promise, Delgaldo," his mother said. "You will never take it off."

"I promise," Geronimo said. "Till the day I die."

THE SECOND BOMB was packed in solid, wedged between a foot pedal and the base of the organ. Thick strips of retainer tape were wrapped around its center, insulated rows of coiled wiring folded over the sides. At its base were thirty-six pieces of heavy dynamite, the flex timer at the center surrounded by a six-pack of nitro vials. Six different-colored wires were all meshed together, each inserted into the silver lid toppings of the nitro. was packed in solid, wedged between a foot pedal and the base of the organ. Thick strips of retainer tape were wrapped around its center, insulated rows of coiled wiring folded over the sides. At its base were thirty-six pieces of heavy dynamite, the flex timer at the center surrounded by a six-pack of nitro vials. Six different-colored wires were all meshed together, each inserted into the silver lid toppings of the nitro.

Geronimo was on his back, under the organ, staring at the device. He followed the paths of the wires, each embedded in a batch of dynamite sticks, each alone holding enough power to destroy several city blocks. He admired the sheer simplicity of its design and wondered about the caliber of man he was dealing with, someone whose only pleasure came from turning loose such a force on the innocent.

He closed his eyes, both hands feeling for the medallion hidden under his bomb-resistant vest. He heard Commander Dumane squeeze in alongside him, stripped down to a T-shirt and bomb gear.

"Whatta ya need, G?" Dumane said. "I'm here."

Geronimo opened his eyes and looked at the timer.

He had eleven minutes to defuse the bomb.

"I need a miracle," Geronimo said. "Got any handy?"

"What's the main contact-the nitro or the dynamite?" Dumane asked.

"Both," Geronimo said. "One feeds into the other."

"You could clip the wires at the center. Defuse both at once."

Geronimo shook his head. "Timer's connected only to one. And there's too many wires to tell which."

"s.h.i.t. I ain't seen a job like this in all the years I been snappin' bombs."

"It's a copycat," Geronimo said. "Been used before."

"Where?"

"German terrorist outfit, Baader-Meinhoff gang, used to plant them," Geronimo said. "Back in the early seventies."

"How'd they take them down?" Dumane asked.

"Best I know, no one ever capped their bombs," Geronimo said. "German police just killed all the gang members."

"Why don't we ever think of s.h.i.t like that?" Dumane said.

Geronimo looked at the timer, now down to six minutes, and pulled a small pair of pliers from his kit. He wiped thick beads of sweat from his upper lip and forehead and took in a long, deep breath.

"How much of the neighborhood is clear?" Geronimo wanted to know, holding the pliers in his right hand.

"Three blocks up and down, both sides," Dumane said. "Every building and store's emptied out."

"This'd be a good time for you to split too," Geronimo said, giving him a meaningful look. "In case I f.u.c.k up."

"You selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Dumane said, smiling. "All you care about is glory. Well, Chief, I got bad news. This bomb you're gonna have to share."

"I'm gonna click the blue wires first," Geronimo said.

"Why blue?"

"Just a hunch," Geronimo said. "After that, if you and me are still here, I'll move the nitro off the timer and hand them over."

"I need a place to put 'em," Dumane said, looking around. "Where they won't move."

"Up on the altar," Geronimo said. "Might be a chalice. Should be wide enough to hold the bottles."

"I ever tell you I hate bombs?" Commander Dumane said, crawling out from under the organ. "Only took the d.a.m.n job 'cause they told me it was a temporary transfer. Ten f.u.c.kin' years later, I'm still here, waitin' for some out-of-work psycho's erector set to blow me to pieces."

"I ever tell you I love bombs?" Geronimo said, more to himself than to Dumane. "Nothin' but me and the device. You can never beat a bomb. You just stop it. Till the next time."

Geronimo put the pliers on the first part of the blue wires, waited a second, and then clipped them apart. Dumane was next to him, hands wrapped around a chalice, eyes on the bomb.

"Two sets of reds, two blues, and two whites," Dumane said. "The guy's a regular George M. f.u.c.kin' Cohan."

"Blues are dead," Geronimo said. "Gonna clip the white next."

"Another hunch?"

"It's all I got to go on, Commander," Geronimo said. "Unless you got a thing for red."

"Your call, G," Dumane said.

Geronimo rested the pliers on a long strand of white wire. His hand was steady, eyes were calm. All the tension was internal, buried inside nerve endings, heart beating at such a furious pace, he could feel it pounding against his vest.

He snapped the white wire and held his breath.

"It's the red," Geronimo said. "That's the main hookup. Once I give you all the nitro, take it to the truck. I'll meet you outside."

"There you go, tryin' to get rid of me again."

Geronimo turned to look at his commander, less than three minutes left on the timer, and smiled. "I'm trusting you with the hard part," he said. "I don't like nitro. Makes me nervous."

"I'll try not to trip down the steps," Dumane said.

"Ready?" Geronimo asked, setting the pliers down on his chest and reaching for the first bottle of nitro.

"No." Dumane removed the lid from the chalice and gripped its base with his left hand. "But don't let that stop you."

Geronimo's hands were steady as he lifted the first thimble-size bottle of nitro from its sleeve with two index fingers. He handed the bottle to Dumane without looking at him, his eyes never veering from the device, afraid to turn away. Dumane took the bottle with one hand, slowly rested it inside the chalice, and readied for the next.

Geronimo lifted the second nitro bottle, had it halfway removed, and then stopped. There was a thin copper wire attached to the base of the bottle, the other end connected to a sixty-second timer that started ticking down as soon as he touched the bottle.

"s.h.i.t!" Geronimo said, nearly dropping the bottle in his anger. "Smarta.s.s little f.u.c.k!"

"Please G.o.d tell me I'm the one did something wrong," Dumane breathed.

"The whole bomb's a setup. Everything's here, on this nitro bottle. The rest is all bulls.h.i.t. Only one fuse, one bottle, and all the dynamite."

"How much time?"

"Just enough to get lucky." Geronimo held the bottle between his two index fingers, watching the clock tick down to forty-five seconds.

"Cut the wire," Dumane said. "It's your only move."

"It's the move I'm supposed supposed to make," Geronimo said. "Every move's been the one I'm to make," Geronimo said. "Every move's been the one I'm supposed supposed to make." to make."

"What ain't you supposed to do?" Dumane asked. "Or maybe I don't wanna know this part."

The clock was down to thirty seconds.

Geronimo could feel his pulse pounding against the sides of his wrists, sweat running down his forehead, into his eyes, stinging his vision. He took a slow breath and swallowed hard, throat dry as stone. He eased two more fingers around the center of the nitro bottle, tightened his grip, and then waited for the timer to tick down to ten seconds.

"You sure about this, G?" Dumane asked, gritting his teeth as he held the chalice tight and steady.

Geronimo pulled the nitro bottle from its slot. The short tug snapped both the nitro and the sticks of dynamite linked to it from the cord.

No sound came out of the dark and empty church.

The timer stopped at six seconds.

"Call in the cavalry, Commander," Geronimo said, resting the back of his wet head against cold marble. "We're done here."

"Now, that's a funny request," Dumane said, inching his way slowly from under the organ. "You being an Indian and all."

"Redskin humor," Geronimo said. "Works all the time." He placed the nitro bottle back in its slot, unsnapped his vest, and folded his hands across his chest. His fingers felt for the medallion and squeezed it through the cold wetness of his shirt. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks to his G.o.d for helping him save the house of another.

GERONIMO SAT WITH legs crossed inside the large tent, facing the old man in the buckskin jacket. There was a full fire flaring between them, heat casting both faces in its auburn glow. The old man smoked tobacco from a thin wooden pipe and drank coffee out of a cracked black cup. Outside, heavy flakes of snow fell to the hard ground. legs crossed inside the large tent, facing the old man in the buckskin jacket. There was a full fire flaring between them, heat casting both faces in its auburn glow. The old man smoked tobacco from a thin wooden pipe and drank coffee out of a cracked black cup. Outside, heavy flakes of snow fell to the hard ground.

"Do you wish to smoke?" the man asked in a voice as lived-in as an old sweater.

"I'm okay with just the coffee," Geronimo said, the flames dancing like lit matches in his eyes.

"Your face is a tired one," the old man observed, the base of the pipe wedged in between his gums, eyes staring at some unknown distant point. "You are much too young a man to feel as old as me."

"My mother thinks it's the work," Geronimo told him. "Each day can be my last."

"That is true of all men," the old man said. "No matter the job. Only with yours, the fear cannot be hidden."

Geronimo sipped from a cup of coffee and nodded. "That's what I like about it," he said. "I like knowing that any day could be my last. I like like facing the fear." facing the fear."

"Have you ever surrendered to it?" the old man asked as he tossed the remains of his coffee into the fire, causing flames to spit higher. "Allowed the fear to win?"

"No," Geronimo said.

"Fear waits for us all," the old man said. "And when your day comes, you will know the heart of your strength."

"I'm not afraid of a bomb killing me," Geronimo said.

"What then?" the old man asked.