"The key to the getaway plan is having something sturdy between me and the blast," your partner observes. "And the YMCA Building near the entrance to the alley looks like just the cushion I'll need. Of course, Santa Claus won't be much help," he continues. "He'll be long gone by then."
The blast? you ask Timothy McVeigh. What blast?
"It won't be a hindrance," your partner responds. "I'll be wearing earplugs to block out the sound of the blast — the roar of the explosion. I've got to keep my wits about me every step of the way."
Mike has started banging his forehead in obvious frustration against the back of the passenger's seat headrest. If he doesn't stop doing that, you think to yourself, he's going to develop a brain cloud.
"You have got to be kidding me!" says Mike, before continuing to pummel his brow on the back of your headrest.
With his forehead aflame from his bout of self-flagellation, the Third Wheel begins glaring at Timothy McVeigh from the backseat. "Jesus Fucking Christ, Sarge, when were you gonna tell him?"
They must be talking about the wakeup call, you think. For the masses.
Mike is absolutely beside himself with anger. Overwhelmed by his irritation with your partner, he stares at him with a look of all-consuming disgust.
"You can shut the fuck up, Mike," says Timothy McVeigh. "JD here comes and goes as he pleases. He's a free agent, dude."
That's right, dude, you think to yourself.
"Have you bothered to tell Terry what you have in mind?" the Third Wheel asks, incredulously.
"You're starting to get on my nerves," your partner answers. "Terry's been privy to every detail. He was there for the racing fuel, for the ammonium nitrate. Shit, he was there when we busted into the rock quarry and heisted the blasting caps."
The rock quarry? The blasting caps? What gives?
"You need to step back and give me a fucking break, Mike. I'm running this operation by the seat of my pants," says Timothy McVeigh. "You've been off getting married. Getting laid. Getting stoned. You name it."
Your partner and the Third Wheel lapse into an awkward silence. Shifting uncomfortably in the passenger's seat, you wish that you were still lingering somewhere on the outskirts of Waco, trading sad stories beneath the stars, camping under the veil of a moonlit night.
As
Timothy McVeigh steers the Road Warrior back towards the Centennial
Expressway, something suddenly catches his attention.
"That's it!" he cries out. "That's the truck I wanna use!"
The truck? What truck?
Timothy McVeigh is staring, his mouth agape, at a yellow Ryder rental truck in the oncoming lane.
"That looks like a 16-footer," the Third Wheel announces, adopting a deferential tone. As if he were estimating the length of the bass you just reeled in on your line. As if he were impressed by the size of your catch.
"Only one-size bigger," says Timothy McVeigh. "I wanna get the 20-footer — the one where the back portion of the truck sits directly on top of the wheel well. The one where the cab and the cargo bay are welded into a single unit. It's stronger that way, more durable. It can manage a heavier load."
You observe the Ryder truck as it quietly motors beyond your field of vision. As it lumbers its way into the city.
Meanwhile, Timothy McVeigh wheels the Road Warrior towards the interstate. Away from downtown. Away from the Murrah Federal Building.
All told, you have been in Oklahoma City fewer than 20 minutes.