No federal logo.
No case number.
No explanation of how he died.
Just the man.
They stood beside the highway while diesel engines moved in the distance.
A tractor-trailer passed and sounded its horn.
Elena smiled.
“Tomas did that every time he saw kids waving from cars.”
Marcus looked toward the road.
“I wish I’d met him.”
“You would’ve liked him.”
“Why?”
“He argued with everybody.”
Marcus laughed.
“That might’ve helped.”
They started toward their vehicles.
Then Elena stopped.
“You know what still bothers me?”
Marcus waited.
“People tell the story like Rourke’s big mistake was demanding money from an FBI agent.”
Marcus nodded.
“I hear that too.”
“They call it picking the wrong trucker.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the interstate.
“He wasn’t wrong because he picked you.”
Marcus understood.
“He was wrong with Tomas.”
“And every other driver.”
“Yes.”
Elena nodded.
“That’s the version worth telling.”
Marcus leaned against his SUV.
“I agree.”
Years later, young agents still asked him about Exit 117.
They wanted the exciting details.
The fake trucking company.
The surveillance trailer.
The hidden microphones.
The black SUVs arriving.
Rourke’s face when the federal badge appeared.
Marcus usually disappointed them.
“The badge wasn’t the evidence that mattered most.”
Trainees always looked confused.
“What was?”
“The demand.”