More and more trucks. This time, Ferguson counted over fifty before he lost track. They were speeding south, hurrying in the direction of the capital . . . or maybe South Korea.
Ferguson dutifully reported what he saw when he called in but didn’t bother asking Corrigan what was going on. He figured there wasn’t anything Corrigan could tell him that would help him much.
If something truly bad happened—if the North went ahead and attacked—then they’d come. Then it’d be cool. Or if everybody stepped back, relaxed, then they’d come ahead.
But like this, with everybody moving around, rushing, on high alert but not actually shooting, Slott would hold back. He wouldn’t want to be the match that set the shed on fire.
Ferguson knew that. He’d known it when they all talked to him. Now, with all the trucks passing, it was even more obvious.
What he didn’t know was what he was going to do next.
He sat down in the bushes as twilight came on, trying to remember how Chaucer had begun the “Pardoneres Tale.”