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Chapter Ten ▏The Leader
Panic washes over my body like a splash of cold water. The stick of dynamite in my hand is getting warmer and warmer, only being intensified under the glare of the sun. In a rush, I stand and close the door, trying to keep the explosive from falling off my shaking hand.
I put it back in its crate, my chest constricting with a mix of relief and increasing fear.
"Fuck," I mumble, a profanity that I heard by never said, perfectly fitting for the situation.
All of these crates around me are filled with dynamite. There has to be at least twenty crates in here, probably containing fifty sticks each.
My stomach turns as I sigh and accidentally get a lungful of the dynamite smell. I want to leave right now, from this carriage and from this circus, but I don't know how. My knees are shaking and I feel so sick that the room is spinning before my eyes.
What do these psychopaths want to do with this much explosives? What kind of circus—?
Okay, the
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