Free Heaven's Fire by Sandra Balzo

behind the barn and Martha retreated to her car. A s the animals circled the Miata, A amot opened the door and whistled for the dogs.
    Big of him.
    Leaving Dave to stash the equipment in this van, Martha started the Miata, slammed it into reverse and stepped on the gas . She'd intended to make a big exit, but the parking brake foiled her . Having learned to drive on the hilly streets of San Francisco, she still set the hand brake out of habit when she parked. Even if it was in a fucking farmer's field.
    As Martha reached down to release the brake, she caught sight of her new red Sergio Rossi pumps covered with fine gray dust from the driveway. Which, come to think of it, meant they went perfectly with her formerly red car.
    Damn dusty gravel. Damn smug ATF agent. Damn rutted road.
    And did one of those dogs have just two legs?

Chapter Five
     
    It was nearly noon when Simon arrived at Lake Days. The festival grounds proper were just north of the area where the fireworks crowd sat the night before . Now empty of the quarter of a million spectators, that part of Shore Park was being used for parking at ten bucks a pop.
    The TV8 truck was still where it had been last night--on the bluff to the south, overlooking the grounds. The barges were gone, though, towed back to the commercial docks for inspection.
    In their place, sailboats dotted the lake. In fact, if it weren't for the Coast Guard boats still searching inside the breakwater, it would be easy to pretend that nothing unusual had happened yesterday. That Pasquale and Ray were back at the Firenze factory, happily concocting more missiles.
    Simon pulled down the street past a giant inflatable beaver billowing in the wind, and parked next to the TV8 truck. As he got out of the car, he could hear music from the main stage and could smell the mingled salty/sweet scent of corn dogs and cotton candy. It reminded him of church festivals when he was a kid, and summer weekend s spent hanging around the carnie games, eating trash and trying to win giant teddy bears to impress the girls.
    Also reminded him he was hungry.
    *****
    Jake had a videotape on the screen when Simon Aamot tapped on the door of the production truck. It was one she’d seen before. In fact, she’d produced it. Watching it this time, though, she had a whole lot more respect for , if not understanding of, the content .
    Pasquale Firenze was talking. " We roll the dough in the black powder, so it don’t stick, just like you use flour when you bake. Then you cut ‘em. " As he spoke he sliced through the black dough like he was making slice & bake cookies.
    Aamot stuck his head in the door. " That the tape from the factory? "
    Jake nodded, pausing it. " It’s amazing how they handle this stuff. I mean, how can they just cut explosives? "
    Aamot folded himself into the tech director’s chair next to her. " Special non-sparking knives--and they’re not considered explosives until they’re dry. At this point, " he pointed at the screen, " the stars are ‘in process.’ "
    " Yeah, " Jake muttered, pushing stop and then rewind, " in the process of killing you. " She realized what she had said, and how it must have sounded. " I’m sorry, that was a lousy way to put it. "
    Aamot shrugged. " It’s a dangerous business. No one expects to get hurt, but all the same, they know it can happen. You have to respect the powder, Pasquale used to say. "
    " So you knew him." Jake turned awkwardly to stack the tapes she’d copied earlier in a box.
    She was hitting a wall, fatigue-wise, probably because after the late night, early swim, and tense morning at the station, she finally had time for a let-down. Or maybe a breakdown. " We’d have these meetings, production meetings, you know? And everyone would be arguing--Bryan Williams, the mayor, Martha, Pasquale--and I’d just sit there, waiting for them to make up their minds so I could do my job. "
    She swiveled back to Aamot with the box of tapes. " And after every