The moonshiners were parked about fifty yards down the trail, below the first turn. From the compound’s gate, it was a straight shot to the first switchback, and Ben figured the paracord would keep the wheel straight enough to make sure the truck reached that point. The stick he planned on using to wedge the gas pedal to the floor would ensure it arrived with speed.
He left the cord loose enough to steer for now. When the time came, he’d tighten everything up with a quick pull on the tail end of his unfinished knot. There was only one thing left to do now.
“Joel, it’s time. Open the gate. Over.” Ben didn’t wait for a response and secured the radio to his belt again. He sized up the stick and broke it off where he needed it to be before putting the truck in gear. Pulling the cigar from his mouth, he took one final breath of smoke-free air.
“All right, let’s do this.” Ben shoved the cigar back into his mouth and put both hands on the wheel as he pushed the pedal to the floor. The trail inside the camp was smoothed over with years of leaf and pine needle litter, and with a half box of dynamite riding passenger, he was grateful for that. And other than the back tires spinning out occasionally, he had no problem maintaining speed on his way to the gate.
He was relieved to hear Joel’s voice on the radio and even more so when he reported back that the gate was open. It was a good thing, too, because Ben was now rounding the last row of container homes and lining up on the last stretch of road before the gate. If he hadn’t heard back from Joel, he fully intended on ramming his way through, but that was plan B.
Ben spotted Martin first. He was right by the pallets where he’d left him and looked on with wide-eyed disbelief as Ben went sailing by. Next, he passed Sandy and Allie hiding behind the makeshift guard shack, and finally, there was Joel. He was crouched down alongside one edge of the open gate. Ben blew past them all in a cloud of dust and the truck began to shake over the rougher section of trail outside the fence line.
This was it! Ben puffed hard on the cigar until he saw the end glow bright red. It only took a second for the fuse to catch and reach the point of no turning back. He tossed the lit stick of dynamite next to the crate and jammed the stick between the gas pedal and the seat. He was already working on opening the door with his left hand while using his other to line up the wheel.
As best as he could, he aimed the truck for the switchback section of the trail and the moonshiners’ vehicles below it, then pulled the paracord tight. One last check to make sure there weren’t any upcoming trees and he jumped as far as he could from the truck. He hit the ground hard and tried his best to roll with the momentum.
He was hurt—he could feel it in his back and the right side of his ribs—but he needed to make sure the truck found its target, or this was all for nothing. He winced as he clutched his side and tried to sit up.
Watching the old Ford bounce violently down the crater-strewn trail gave Ben concern that the dynamite might go off early. If that happened, he’d have to hightail it back to the camp so they could close the gate and prepare for an all-out gunfight. But he didn’t want to think about that right now; he wanted to catch his breath and watch the moonshiners get blown back to the Stone Age.
The truck was still going strong, although it was now leaving a trail of black smoke as it careened down the mountain.
“Come on, hold together.”
It took the truck longer than Ben thought possible to cover the little bit of distance left to the switchback, but when it finally did reach the ledge, it didn’t disappoint. The old Ford hit the switchback with enough speed to launch off the edge and propel itself some thirty feet through the air and come crashing down onto the Suburban below. It landed on the roof like it had been dropped out the back of a C-130, crushing the entire upper half of the SUV down to the doorframes and blowing out all four tires simultaneously.
The whole thing was a spectacular display of destruction, but there was no explosion. Ben watched as some of the moonshiners started to come out of their hiding spots in the nearby brush to take in the chaos and damage the truck had caused. Ben felt for his Desert Eagle and prepared to fight his way back to the gate. He couldn’t believe there was no explosion. What happened? He was halfway to his feet when the dynamite blew.
The force of the explosion and the resulting shock wave knocked him face-first to the ground, where he stayed for a few seconds as debris rained down around him. He thought about the Bronco he’d blown to pieces in Missouri and how some of those pieces weren’t that small. He rolled over and looked skyward to make sure he wasn’t about to be hit by any large fragments.
The sound of the explosion still echoed off the adjacent mountains as it made its way down the valley. When the dust and smoke cleared, Ben scanned the trail below the switchback for vehicles and bodies but only found a lone burning tire in the bottom of a three-foot-deep crater.
The Suburban and the pickup loaded with the dynamite were nowhere to be seen. One of the other trucks
