My Son Bought Me a $1,200 Used Camry That Tunes to 00.0 MHz and Enters an Invisible Street of Clapping Ghosts
Richard Hollister’s house of cards was poised to fall. All it needed was a push. The insolvency clause was the lever; the Buick was the hammer. I just needed the right moment, the right place.
The Fayetteville Commercial Club was hosting its annual Veterans Charity Luncheon on a humid Thursday afternoon. The event was Richard’s crowning glory, where he would receive a civic honor and finalize his new $12 million defense contract extension. It would be packed with defense executives, politicians, and media. The perfect target.
I drove the rusted 1995 Buick Regal into the convention center’s VIP parking lot. It looked ridiculously out of place among the polished black sedans and luxury SUVs. Heads turned as I slowly maneuvered the car.
I ignored the glares. I had one goal: position the Buick.
I found the spot. Directly beneath the primary cellular relay tower that served the entire convention center. Its metal lattice rose high above, a silent conduit for all communications. This was the nexus.
I parked the Buick, its engine still rumbling faintly. I looked up at the tower, then back at the dashboard. My hand found the radio knob.
With a deep breath, I turned it. The digital display flickered, then settled on 00.0 MHz. A low hum filled the car, followed by the familiar, subtle crackle of static discharge. The car was now an active broadcast hub.
Inside the ballroom, Richard Hollister would be smiling, shaking hands, confident in his untouchable position. He had built his empire on secrets and lies, and he believed I was a broken, dangerous veteran. He had no idea I was parked just yards away, an uninvited guest, holding the detonator.
The amplified signal pulsed from the Buick, flowing up through the ground loop, bouncing off the buried ordnance, and now, overwhelming the cellular tower above. The trap was sprung. All that was left was the wait.
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