“You’ve got a problem.”
The technician’s words hung in the air.
Rain dripped from the brim of his helmet as he slowly backed away from the wooden box without taking his eyes off it.
Reaper stepped onto the porch.
“What kind of problem?”
The technician motioned for everyone to stay back.
“I need a little more room.”
Without argument, Reaper retreated a few steps.
Sheriff Collins ushered the deputies farther from the entrance while the second bomb technician unpacked another case from the truck.
Inside the bar, every conversation died.
I found myself holding my breath.
The technician knelt again.
This time he carefully ran a fiber-optic camera beneath the lid through the narrow gap beside the latch.
Several agonizing seconds passed.
Then he exhaled.
“It’s not an explosive.”
T
