Danny took a deep breath and climbed, very carefully, into the back of the pickup and moved the tarp to one side.

On top of the tangle of wires was a cheap digital clock-radio. A Sharp Industries model, in fact. It was set on timer mode, and it was counting down, red neon numbers ticking away with each second.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t high-tech or complicated. It was simple. It was deadly.

And according to the clock, it was rigged to explode in ten minutes.

“Can you stop it?” Carrie asked.

Danny took a deep breath and looked at the wiring. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. Whoever had made this had done the sloppiest possible job. He should have known exactly how to defuse this bomb. If the wiring were as clean and elegant as a textbook diagram, he could have shut it down in a minute.

But this — this was garbage. He had no idea where to begin.

“Danny?”

Danny said the three words he hated most in the world: “I don’t know.”

Carrie lifted the communicator. “I’ll call my dad.”

“No!” Danny shouted. Carrie froze.

“The detonator might be rigged with a radio receiver,” Danny said. “Any radio signal — even from a cell phone — could set it off. We can’t use those.”

“I’ll go use the payphone,” Carrie said. “We’ll get a bomb technician out here.”

She took off running. Danny didn’t argue. He could have said there was no time. There was no way the Middleton PD would get a trained bomb disposal technician here in time. Danny calculated the closest qualified personnel were at the military base, and that was two hours away on the highway.

He didn’t say any of this because he wanted Carrie to get away, and she would never have left if he’d told her.

At least this way, she would be safe.

Danny took a multi-tool from his jacket. He leaned in close to the detonator and the fuses.

Then Danny heard two things.

Very close: gunfire. Shots, followed by screams, inside the school.

In the distance, above Snake Hill, thunder. He looked up, and saw lightning flash, and dark clouds rolling in, impossibly fast.

For a split-second, Danny wanted to go after Carrie, who’d run in the direction of the gunshots.

The clock ticked another minute off the countdown.

Nine minutes left.

He got to work.

Hope and Faith Latimer were twins, and they were perfect. Long blonde hair and cornflower-blue eyes, tall, willowy bodies, flawless skin. Ever since they’d been wheeled around by their mother in their tandem stroller, they’d almost never seen a face look at them without a smile. Middleton High was no exception. They were two-sevenths of the cheerleading squad, two-fifths of the student council (Hope was the senior class treasurer, Faith was the secretary), and a fifth of the Homecoming Court.