Dion's mind raced, processing the tactical variables at light speed. His cover as a civilian trucker was intact, but the integrity of the route was blown. If Mitchell didn't send a confirmation text, Jay would know something was wrong. The cartel would abort the receiving operation in Atlanta, the federal sting would collapse and millions of dollars of taxpayer money and months of undercover work would vanish into thin air.
He needed to contain this and he needed to do it right now. Dion pocketed the burner phone. He looked at the two officers. They were no longer a threat.
They were assets. Terrified, highly motivated assets. "Listen to me very carefully," Dion said, his voice projecting absolute authority. "You are going to do exactly what I tell you.
If you deviate from my instructions by a single syllable, I will have the hostage rescue tea.m. dismantle your entire sheriff's department by sunrise." Do we have an understanding? Yes, sir. Banks answered instantly, nodding so hard his neck cracked. Yes, Mitchell whispered, defeated.
Mitchell, you are going to get your department-issued radio, Dion ordered. You are going to call dispatch. You will tell them that you made a routine commercial vehicle stop. You checked my log books.
Everything was in order. And you issued a warning for a burntout tail light. You are clearing the scene and returning to patrol. Mitchell nodded, moving toward the cruiser window to grab the mic.
Wait, Dion commanded. Mitchell froze. After you clear the scene, you are going to take your cruiser and you are going to drive five milesles in the opposite direction. You will park behind the abandoned diner on Route 4.
You will turn off your lights, turn off your engine, and you will sit there until the sun comes up. You will not answer any calls. You will not text anyone. If I find out you warned Jay or anyone else, I will personally ruin your life," Mitchell swallowed hard.
"What about the burner phone?" "I'm keeping it," Dion replied. "I will handle the communication with your handler. I will tell him the seal on the trailer is intact. I will tell him the truck is moving.
He's going to know it's not me, Mitchell said, a hint of genuine worry breaking through his fear. He knows how I text. Let me worry about that, Dion said coldly. He looked at Banks.
Officer Griffin, you are going to ensure your partner follows these instructions to the letter. You are his babysitter tonight. If he picks up a phone, you arrest him. If he tries to run, you arrest him.
Consider yourselves deputized federal assets for the next 6 hours. Understood, Agent Henderson, Banks said, standing at attention despite the pouring rain. We won't breathe a word of this. See that you don't, Dion warned.
He turned away from the officers, walking back toward the massive Peterbilt. The rain was finally beginning to slow, the heavy downpour transitioning into a steady drizzle. He climbed the steps of the cab, pulling himself into the driver's seat. He didn't look back as Mitchell nervously picked up the radio microphone to call in the fake warning to dispatch.
Dion closed the heavy door, shutting out the sound of the storm and the sight of the terrified cops. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cheap burner phone. He had a massive problem. The cartel was watching Highway 9.
He had to figure out how to drive right through their surveillance net, deliver the cargo, and keep his cover intact, all while managing a compromised communication channel. Dion fired up the massive diesel engine, the roar of the cylinders shaking the cab. He pulled the air brake release, a loud hiss echoing across the empty lot. He put the rig into gear and slowly pulled out of Henderson's gas and grub, leaving the local cops behind in the dark.
The real danger wasn't behind him anymore. It was waiting somewhere up the road. Grasping the heavy steering wheel, Dion steered the massive Peterbilt back onto the rain-slicked asphalt of Highway 9, the wiper blades flapped rhythmically against the windshield, clearing away the heavy downpour that continued to wash over the Georgia landscape. He checked his mirrors.
The Oak Haven County cruiser was a fading speck of white in the distance, turning around to head toward its mandated hiding spot. Dion had effectively neutralized the immediate threat of local interference, but the larger, much more lethal problem was currently sitting in the cup holder to his right. The cheap prepaid burner phone mocked him with its glowing screen. Dion had to play this perfectly.
He was an expert at deep cover operations, but mimicking the texting style of a corrupt, arrogant 28-year-old local cop was a unique challenge. If he sounded too professional, the cartel handler, Jay, would instantly know something was wrong. If he didn't respond fast enough, they might assume the truck had been seized and abort the receiving operation in Atlanta. Dion kept one hand steady on the wheel, navigating the winding, unlit highway while he picked up the phone.
He scrolled through the few saved messages in the outbox to get a read on Mitchell's syntax. The cop used shorthand, rarely capitalized letters, and had a habit of being brief and transactional. Dion typed out a response, his thumb moving deliberately over the small digital keyboard. Seal is red.
Dr.iver is an idiot. Didn't suspect a thing. Truck is moving your way. You owe me.
He hit send. The digital swoosh sound filled the quiet cab. Now the waiting gaame began to bridge the gap and prepare his tea.m.. Dion reached beneath the dashboard.
He bypassed the standard CB radio setup and pressed a sequence of buttons on a disguised built-in GPS interface. The screen flickered, shifting from a standard civilian map to a military-grade encrypted communication frequency. He keyed the microphone integrated into his seat belt strap. Odin base, this is Courier.
Do you copy? Dion said, his voice crisp and authoritative. St.atic hissed for a fraction of a second before a clear, deep voice replied. It was special agent Richard Lawson, the logistics coordinator overseeing the sting from the F.B.I.'s secure command center in downtown Atlanta.
Courier, this is Odin. We read you loud and clear. Your transponder showed a 22-minute delay at a rural gas station. We were about to send a drone to your coordinates.
What's your status? St.atus is compromised but contained. Dion reported calmly. I was intercepted by local law enforcement.
Two Oak Haven County deputies. They were conducting an illegal pretextual stop specifically targeting this rig. They had intelligence on the truck's make, model, and the color of the taamper evident seal on the trailer. There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line.
Lawson was a seasoned veteran, and he understood the implications immediately. The cartel has eyes on the route. They bought local badges to act as an early warning system. Affirmative, Dion said.
I broke cover and identified myself to the deputies. I have seized their burner phone. I just sent a confirmation text to the cartel handler masquerading as the corrupt deputy confirming the seal is intact. We are still green.
Negative, Courier, Lawson countered sharply. If the route is burned, the drop is burned. We don't know how many other spotters they have on Highway 9. I am scrubbing the operation.
I want you to reroute to the Federal weigh station on Interstate 75. We have troopers ready to escort you in. Richard, listen to me, Dion said, his tone shifting from formal to urgent. If we abort now, we lose the shipament.
We lose the receiving crew, and we lose months of undercover work. The cartel thinks their early warning system worked. They think I'm just a dumb, exhausted driver hauling fertilizer. They are going to be completely relaxed at the receiving bay.
We can walk right into their front door and drop the haammer. It's too risky, Dion. If your text didn't convince this handler, you're driving a multi-ton coffin into an aambush. I can handle it, Dion insisted.
Reposition the hostage rescue tea.m.. Have Commander Thomas Granger stage his element two blocks from the drop zone in Atlanta. Give me a five-minute window once I park the rig. If things go south, I'll give the breach word over the open mic.
Another agonizing pause stretched over the radio. Dion watched the dark pines roll past, his foot maintaining a steady 65 mph. Finally, the burner phone in the cup holder buzzed. Dion snatched it up.
Good. Keep your eyes open. $5,000 is in the box behind the mill. See you next week. Dion exhaled a sharp breath.
Odin base. The handler bought it. The trap is still set. We are a go for the Atlanta drop.
Lawson side over the comms. All right, Courier. It's your play. HRT is moving to the staging area now.
Do not play the hero, Dion. You deliver the truck, you hand over the keys, and you let Granger's tea.m. do the heavy lifting. Understood, Dion replied, shutting down the encrypted channel. The rain finally began to ease as Dion crossed the county line, the heavy drops tapering off into a fine, misty drizzle.