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Zip Cord
“Okay, what have we got?” Philippe asked, kneeling down casually in front of the bomb like he’d been called out to fix a washing machine.
“A f*****g bomb, that’s what we’ve got!”
His cucumber-cool only made me antsier. He pressed the DISARM button.
“I tried that already. Don’t you think I tried that?”
1:30 …
Philippe fiddled with the wires, separating them out. He pulled a phone from his pocket and lined up a photo of the bomb.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
“Quiet, I’m on the phone,” he said, dialling a number and holding it to his ear. He unzipped a pocket on the small black rucksack hugging his back and brought out a pair of steel wire cutters with orange rubber handles.
“Can you disarm it?” I asked, actively trying not to cack myself.
He ignored me and t
