“Uh, thanks,” he said, and glanced up at the Astrovision Screen. It showed a closeup of the mayor, who was giving his rap from that stand in the middle of the street, working up to his countdown, talking all kinds of shit about New York City being an example to the world, millions of people in Times Square, everybody having a good time, everybody getting along, peace, brotherhood, togetherness, and please don’t drink and drive. Not a word in his speech about donut guys that didn’t have any donuts, but what the hell, this was a party. Below his face, the time was being displayed in bright red numbers, 11:50 now, ten minutes and counting to the Big 21.

Des had to admit, he felt pumped.

“C’mon, let’s move back some. I wanna get a good look at the ball when it come down,” he said, turning to Jamal.

Jamal nodded. He looked at the vender, acknowledged the freebie he’d given them with a halfhearted little dip of his chin, then started walking off with his friend.

The vender watched them brush against a woman in a black leather coat and beret who was approaching the stand, pause to apologize while eyeing her up and down, then vanish into the crowd.

“Enjoy yourselves,” he muttered.

11:47 P.M.

Shouldering past the two black kids, Gilea moved up to the donut stand and looked across the counter at Akhad.

“Are you sold out?” she asked.

He nodded. “I was just closing.”

“Too bad,” she said.

“There should be other venders,” he said. “They also sell donuts.”

“I’ve seen them around.”

“Good,” he said. “Then you shouldn’t have any problems.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

She stuffed her hands into her coat. In her left pocket was a radio transmitter roughly the size and shape of a lipstick tube—and identical to one Akhad was carrying as a fail-safe. One clockwise twist would send a coded-frequency signal to a receiver/initiator inside the donut stand, detonating the sheets of C-4 explosive sandwiched between thin aluminum panels along its front, back, and sides. Separate blocks of plastique totaling over a hundred pounds in weight had been packed behind the doors of its storage compartments. In addition to the C-4, the compartments contained thousands of tiny nails and ball bearings. Dispersed in every direction by the blast, the shrapnel would buffet the area for hundreds of yards, exponentially compounding the destructive force of the explosion, chewing through human flesh like buckshot through tissue paper. While an independent electronic blasting cap had been wired to each compartment, all of the wires threaded into the same firing system, so that the ignition of the charges—and the release of their deadly projectiles—would be simultaneous.

And that would only be the beginning.

Gilea checked the watch on her right hand, her opposite hand still in her pocket, the transmitter still nestled within it.