I’m heavily outgunned, overwhelmed by the force that’s spilling out from the disassembled float, and I can just imagine the carnage that’s about to erupt, all of these men in black battle rattle, holding automatic rifles in hand, lowering them, and I know in seconds I’m going to witness a bloody massacre.

And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

But I can at least make them pay a price.

I take aim and—

“Rooney!” comes a shout. “Don’t shoot, you moron!”

Then I look closer at the armed men jumping off the float.

Bright-yellow NOPD letters are on their backs.

And a near figure comes to me, stripping away a black balaclava from his sweaty face.

It’s Cunningham.

“What a goddamn shit-show, right?” he yells.

CHAPTER 80

Before I can reply, two other members of the police department’s tactical force run by him, and start shooting with their M4 automatic rifles at the driver on the first float. The driver arches his back and then collapses, and the tractor roars backward, until it hits a hydrant, letting loose a geyser of water.

I join the other two cops as we run to the tractor, and damnit to hell, the driver swivels in his seat, draws out a pistol and—

I fire once, twice, and catch him in the head.

This time he slumps down for good.

Body armor. If there are others out there like him, it’s going to be a long, bloody mess to take them down.

I turn. Cunningham is urgently talking into a radio. I say, “How many dead from the bombs?”

“What bombs?” he asks.

“Jesus, Chief, I heard the goddamn things!”

He shakes his head. “They weren’t bombs. They were concussion grenades! Meant to scare the crowds and move them into a kill zone … which is probably down the block.”

I see more of the tactical cops racing along the sidewalks, and two of them are also providing first aid to the revelers caught by the heavily armored and spiked tractor. Water continues to spout and flow from the shattered hydrant.

“Does Morgan know you’re here?”

Despite the chaos, the shouts, the sound of sirens, and the exhaustion on Cunningham’s face, he grins. “Not yet, but I sent the son of a bitch a memo. Via snail mail. He’ll probably get it next week. Hey, Rooney, love to chat and catch up, but we got work to do.”

Then he trots off, speaking again into the radio microphone.

Even with the injured and the possible dead around me, I feel better than I have in a long while: at least my folks in the NOPD weren’t going to stand by, weren’t going to ignore the threats.

I only pray they’re not too late.

Then I hear more gunfire, and race to the sound.

CHAPTER 81