She grabbed both deputies' radios, switching them to transmit mode and wedging them carefully under her trailer. Open mics, catching everything said in the next few minutes. Static crackled, then voices cut through. "Got eyes on the truck. Seal intact."
"Clean this up fast. Sheriff Van wants no traces." Sheriff Hollis Van. The name clicked into place like a round being chambered.
She had maybe two minutes before they reached her position. "You're dead," Ror spat. "You hear me? Dead and buried where nobody asks questions."
"Like the other drivers?" Immani asked softly, watching understanding flash across his face. She'd hit something there. Other victims. Other stops.
Other cover-ups. The vehicles were close enough now that she could count them. Four SUVs running dark, spreading out to box in her position. Standard tactical containment.
They'd done this before. She had two choices. Stay and try to fight a rigged system, or make a tactical withdrawal and choose better ground. The decision took less than a second.
Immani slipped into her cab, engine already running. The deputies were still secure but alive. She wasn't giving them a martyr story. The open mics would catch whatever happened next.
She'd marked the GPS coordinates in three different devices. Her rig rolled forward, gathering speed. In her mirrors, she watched the SUVs suddenly accelerate, trying to cut her off, but she had momentum and 18 wheels to their four. They couldn't risk ramming her without exposing themselves.
She drove steadily, not too fast, not too slow, just another truck on a dark road. The SUVs fell back, keeping their distance but maintaining visual contact, looking for her next stop. Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the Pilot Travel Center, its floodlights creating a pool of harsh fluorescence. Other trucks lined the lot.
Witnesses. Cameras. Safety in numbers. She backed into a spot with practiced ease, just another driver ending her day.
But first, she needed to check her rig. That photo from the weigh station meant they'd had time to prep. Sure enough, when she examined her cab in detail, she found scratch marks around the latch. Someone had tried to plant something while she'd been inside paying for fuel earlier.
Sloppy work, rushed by her earlier departure. Immani pulled out a burner phone, one of three she kept for emergencies. She dialed a number from memory, one given to her by another veteran who'd sworn by its reliability. "Preach's Auto," a deep voice answered.
"We're closed." "I'm calling about the veterans' discount," Immani said quietly, using the code phrase from her network. A pause. "Who vouched?"
"Marcus Turner, Third Group." Another pause. "Hold on." Muffled movement followed.
A door closing. When the voice returned, it was lower, more cautious. "I'm Preach. What's your situation?"