Three ATVs are parked against the wall, and overhead, on a pegboard, keys dangle free.

In less than a minute, I’m on a black, mud-splattered ATV, racing out to the pastures, hoping that I’m not too late. There were dozens of employees last time I was here, but today the place is empty—did Emily give everyone the day off to go to the memorial service?

Out on the wide pastures, I spot the two flagpoles I had seen on my first visit here, but they’re no longer empty.

They now have bright-orange windsocks flapping from them, letting pilots see the wind direction.

The slight bumps and ruts spear pain into my chest, again and again.

I grit my teeth, and then scream in pain, over and over.

Up ahead, doors begin sliding open at the two low buildings.

Airplanes appear, engines roaring with devilish power, propellers spinning, and one, two, three, and then four emerge.

Two from each building.

Oh, God, I’m going to fail again.

CHAPTER 97

The four single-engine aircraft—Cessna 172s, it looks like—line up one behind another, like some horrible parade, ready to rain down death and destruction once they get airborne.

Each is carrying two metal cylinders—one under each wing—and I’m sure the cockpit and storage area in each plane is packed with explosives, shrapnel, and who knows what kind of chemical weaponry … God, almost everything and anything to tear through the crowds and kill and maim as many as possible.

Words from Cunningham come back to me:

“ … the thing is, terrorist bastards are always one step ahead, weaponizing stuff that’s usually innocuous.”

Like private aircraft.

Single-engine Cessnas or Piper Cubs.

Who would ever think?

Would ever consider?

Ever plan?

Billy Needham, that’s who.

I speed along, parallel to the four aircraft, and a hint of hope appears. They’re moving slowly, moving into position, and I’m managing to maintain pace near them.

Up ahead I see the grass is a different color, almost … rectangular in shape, and that’s where they’re headed. That’s the homemade airstrip. That’s what they’re going to use, and in my mind’s eye, it all comes together, one Cessna after another taking off, flying low to avoid detection, heading for the Fair Grounds, each aircraft coming in north, south, east, and west, and—

Dropping into the open, screaming, running crowds.

Sharp metal wings cutting in.

Spinning propellers turning the Fair Grounds into a charnel house.

Explosions ripping through the once-happy and joyous place.

Shrapnel scything through, cutting down the crowds, dismembering, slicing, disemboweling, and then, blasts of flame and smoke …

With the pain, I almost feel like vomiting with certainty of what’s going to happen next.

I feel a difference in the ground, and now I’m on the airfield, and I speed away, going away from the aircraft.

A gamble.