The iron was pitted with rust, cold to the touch, and heavy enough to still hold a live internal charge if the base plug was intact.

At nine fifteen exactly, my cell phone chimed in my windbreaker pocket.

I took the phone out with my bare hand and looked at the screen.

It was a text from Harlan Vance.

“Make that bomb safe, Master Chief.

I’ll hold the line at the middle school gym.”

He’d attached a photo of the printed speaker schedule taped to the gym’s glass double doors.

My name was right there in the 11:30 a.m. slot, just below the Coast Guard team.