The bus was past due now. The wet ground had saturated his clothes. He was cold and stiff. He felt a ’roid rage coming on, and there wasn’t a damn thing around that he could hit except for Elray, and he still needed Elray conscious.

Kickoff was in forty-three minutes. He was starting to believe that Manny had been mistaken. Perhaps because of the storm the bus had taken the long route to Highway 7 after all.

Then what?

Then all this would be for nothing.

Then he’d look like a dumb shit in front of the guys.

Then Cole Logan would get another chance to play football.

Fuck.

He seethed at the thought as another set of lights appeared up the road. The headlights were spread far apart and looked high off the ground.

This could be it. Had to be it.

The vehicle lumbered around the corner, giving Booker his first glimpse of bright yellow steel.

This was definitely it.

The bus accelerated out of the final turn leading up to the bridge. Good. The more speed, the better.

Booker figured Manny should have set the barricade behind the bus by now.

Across the road, Tommy Larkin revved the pickup’s engine—the signal that he saw the bus, too, and was ready. Everything was set. The bus was only an eighth of a mile up the road now.

Booker turned toward the embankment to give Elray the signal.

Elray was gnawing on a strip of Laffy Taffy and staring at the sky.

“Elray! Pssst! This is it!”

But Elray was lost in his own thoughts.

The bus was seventy-five yards from the bridge now.

“Elray!” Booker snapped his fingers.

Fifty yards.

“Elray! Snap out of it, you dumb fuck!”

Elray did. He turned to Booker, gave a thumbs-up, and set the shotgun at his shoulder.

Twenty-five yards.

The bus was still accelerating.

Fifteen.

Booker raised a hand out of the weeds.

Ten yards.

Five.

Booker slammed his palm to the ground. “Now!”

Elray fired the shotgun.

Tommy Larkin hit the gas. The pickup wailed. Its tires spun to find purchase in the mud. The truck finally shot forward, lifting the chain off the pavement and out of the concealing sand. Pulled taut between the pickup and the truss, the chain rose straight across the bus’s path.

The bus driver slammed the brakes. The wheels locked and the vehicle went into a skid. It was still moving at full speed when the chain slashed its grille. The chain kept cutting, like a fillet knife slicing down the length of a trout.

Frightened screams rang out of the truck bed as the bus dragged Tommy’s pickup toward the cliff. They were less than two feet from the edge when the chain snapped in an explosion of flying steel.