The night shift was quiet. Only the hum of fluorescent lights and distant radio chatter broke the silence. His fingers trembled as he inserted the USB drive into his laptop. The backup server required his login credentials. Standard procedure that nobody ever bothered to check.
Within minutes, he had the footage from the rest stop incident copying over. Each second that ticked by felt like an eternity. Come on. Come on, he whispered, glancing nervously down the empty hallway. The progress bar crept forward with agonizing slowness.
Another cough from inside the room. Diaz grabbed the water bottle and first aid kit he'd hidden in his jacket. The lock clicked softly as he used his key, slipping inside before anyone could spot him. Trina sat exactly where Faulner had left her, still handcuffed to the chair. Her lip had swollen, dried blood caking her chin.
In the dim light, her eyes tracked his movement with sharp awareness that belied her battered appearance. "Here," Diaz whispered, unscrewing the water bottle. "Drink this, please," she studied him for a long moment before accepting, letting him hold the bottle to her lips. She drank deeply, some water spilling down her chin. I know you're not just some truck driver, Diaz said quietly, setting down the first aid kit.
The way Faulner's acting. Something's wrong here. Really wrong. Trina swallowed hard, her voice raspy. If you don't get help soon, people are going to die.
Her eyes bore into his. Children in that black transport truck that left the rest stop. You understand what I'm saying? Diaz's hands shook as he opened the first aid kit. "I copied the arrest footage before Rusk could get to all of it."
"But I don't know who to trust." "The whole department. Call this number," Trina whispered, reciting digits. "Ask for Monroe. Tell him exactly where I am and that Faulner's involved directly.
He'll understand." Outside in the parking lot, car doors slammed. Diaz peered through the window to see Faulner striding toward the tree line behind the station, his uniform replaced by dark civilian clothes. Three men waited in the shadows, their faces obscured by ski masks despite the summer heat. Jesus, Diaz breathed, ducking down.
He watched as Faulner pulled an envelope from his jacket, handing it to the tallest masked figure, their voices carried faintly through the night air. FBI agent needs to disappear. Faulner's words drifted in fragments. No traces. Cash changed hands.
The masked men nodded and melted back into the darkness. Faulner stood watching them go, then checked his phone and smiled. Miles away in an unmarked surveillance van, Agent Monroe stared at his monitor in growing horror. The tracking signal from Trina's backup phone had just flatlined. Not just blocked, but completely dead.
He tried triangulating her primary comm unit again. Nothing. Something's wrong, he muttered, grabbing his keys. Call the state police. I want backup at that station now.