It had been planted in the back storage room of the net shop. Buried under old tools and netting material, it had been well disguised. He’d hoped the Pelligrews were closer to the amateur end of the bomb-making spectrum, but clearly, one of the boys had training. Rhys wondered if Nick or Doug had served in Iraq, or if they were Internet taught. From the construction, his guess was white supremacist survivalists. It had the signature of boys with time on their hands and a whole lot of hate in their hearts, not the spartan lethal efficiency of insurgents. “It’s not on a timer,” he said to the FBI investigators. “It’s a booby trap. You guys should leave. Join Sienna down the hill.” Sweat dotted his brow as he studied the lines trailing from the device. Goddamn net manufacturing… The wires disappeared into a jumbled gill net. It was a mess surrounding at least five pounds of C-4 with the detonator wires lost in the netting. “Can it be triggered with a cell phone?” Agent Upton asked.
