"Passing through," Boyd repeated, dragging the words out as he inspected their table, his eyes lingering on Jackson's thick, scarred knuckles. "Where you headed?" "West," Jackson replied. It was a single syllable, delivered with a flatness that gave absolutely nothing away. Boyd's jaw tightened.
He was used to civilians stammering, looking down, showing fear. These two men were looking at him with the calm, detached curiosity of someone watching a mildly interesting insect. It infuriated him. "West is a big place," Boyd pressed, leaning in closer, trying to invade their personal space. "You got a more specific destination, or are you just wandering?
Because we don't take kindly to vagrants in this county." Jackson slowly wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. He looked Boyd dead in the eye. "We aren't vagrants, Deputy. We're just eating our lunch.
Is it a crime to eat a burger in Oak Creek?" The diner went dead silent. The few patrons at the counter stopped chewing. The waitress, an older woman named Brenda, froze with a coffee pot in her hand. Boyd's face flushed a deep, ugly red.
He leaned in closer, his breath smelling of stale tobacco and cheap diner coffee. "I decide what's a crime in this town, boy," Boyd whispered, the racial slur hanging heavily in the air. "You finish your food, then you get the hell out of my county. If I see that truck on my roads in 20 minutes, we're going to have a very different conversation." Boyd turned on his heel and marched out of the diner, the bell on the door aggressively clattering behind him.
Ty watched him leave through the window, then picked up a french fry. "Well," Ty murmured, "he seems nice. Think we should tell him we work for the federal government?" Jackson took a slow sip of his water. No. We don't flash the trident for local bullies.
We eat, we pay, we leave. We stay off the radar. But as they finished their meal, Jackson knew with absolute certainty that the radar was already locked onto them. 15 minutes later, Jackson and Ty walked out into the blistering heat of the parking lot. The matte black Ford F-150 sat baking in the sun.
As they approached the vehicle, Jackson's trained eyes caught a subtle glimmer of light from down the street. It was the reflection of the sun off a police cruiser's windshield tucked neatly behind an abandoned gas station a quarter mile down the road. He's waiting for us. Ty said quietly, tossing his duffel bag into the backseat. I see him, Jackson replied, sliding into the driver's seat.
Dash cam is on. Stick to the speed limit. Complete stops. Do not give him a reason. Jackson pulled the truck out onto the main highway, keeping the speedometer exactly at the posted 45 miles per hour limit.
In the rearview mirror, the police cruiser pulled out from its hiding spot and began trailing them, maintaining a distance of about three car lengths. For 2 miles, the procession continued. Jackson's driving was flawless, mechanically precise. But Boyd didn't need a real reason. He just needed a pretext.