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The white van idled as Shakey checked his watch. Right on time, he thought. There were at least twenty cars and pickups in line waiting to enter a parking area where they would catch a bus and go up the hill to the bluegrass festival.
Eighteen cars to go.
Shakey’s nerves were starting to fray. The deputy at the top of the hill seemed to be checking cars before they were allowed to proceed, and it scared him.
Thirteen cars to go.
The bomb sat ten feet behind and mocked him through the rearview mirror. If the deputy became suspicious, Shakey wouldn’t have enough time to arm and detonate it. As he edged farther up the hill, he closed the distance to the deputy, and his heart raced.
Seven cars to go.
Up ahead, another deputy inspected the undersides of vehicles with a mirror on a lon
