The old man walked out into the street without another word. The grenade that had suddenly appeared in his hand looked no more dangerous than an apple, and no one paid him any attention as he ambled into the middle of the road. He weaved through gaps in the traffic with casual affability and without pause.
A couple of cars threaded between him and the guards as he reached the central paint lines, and he popped the live bomb through the open driver’s window of the first vehicle. It was a casual motion, made as the sedan passed him, and he continued his path to pass behind the second car at the same unhurried pace.
To anyone who hadn’t been paying attention, it would have seemed a miracle of good luck that he was shielded from the resulting blast by that second car.
He stepped forward and plucked the rifle from the hands of one of the surprised guards, just as everyone began to react to the explosion. Three shots in quick succession saw the other guards fall before the first even realised what was happening. He was still reaching for his sidearm when the old man clubbed him down with the butt of his own weapon and dropped it beside him.
“Where did you dig him up from?” whispered Tom, “and how big were the Keep Out signs?”
“I thought he was with you.” Jen replied. “Do you think he’ll notice if we run away now?”