He wasn't letting me go. He was sending me into a felony stop. If I drove through that gate, my career wasn't the only thing they were going to bury. I gripped the steering wheel, trapped between the concrete walls of the municipal lot and the open road that was rigged to destroy me.
CHAPTER 2: Ryder Approached The Cab As I Killed The Diesel Engine
My thumb hovered over the screen, shaking slightly. I needed to secure that audio file before they found a reason to pull me from the cab and seize my phone. I opened my email, attached the voice memo, and addressed it to an old backup account I hadn’t logged into since my divorce. I hit send. I stared at the progress bar as it struggled against the impound lot’s miserable cell reception. Thirty yards ahead of me, Ryder stood perfectly still by the open chain-link gate. His arms were crossed over his heavy tactical vest, his mirrored sunglasses fixed firmly on my windshield. He was waiting for the prey to run.
The progress bar inched forward. Fifty percent. Seventy-five. Done.
I immediately moved the original file into a hidden, password-protected folder buried deep in my phone’s system settings, then cleared my recent activity screen. I slipped the phone deep into my left boot, pressing the cold metal against my ankle.
If I rolled through that gate, the spotter would pick me up. They would shadow me to the county line where the jurisdiction got muddy, hit the lights, tear the cab apart, and "find" the package. A commercial driver with a felony trafficking charge didn't get the benefit of the doubt. My Commercial Driver's License would be revoked pending trial. My mortgage would default. I’d be buried before I ever saw a courtroom.
I had to break their timeline.
I reached for the dash and pulled the yellow and red hexagonal valves. The air brakes engaged with a violent, hissing pshhhh, locking the wheels of both the tractor and the empty trailer. I grabbed the ignition key and twisted it backward. The massive, vibrating hum of the diesel engine choked and died. A heavy, suffocating silence filled the cab.
Through the windshield, Ryder’s posture shifted instantly. He dropped his arms. His shoulders squared. He tapped his radio mic once, spoke briefly into his collar, and began marching directly toward the front of my truck. His right hand rested casually, deliberately, over the retention holster on his duty belt.
I rolled down the driver’s side window just as he reached the steer tire. The cold morning air rushed in, carrying the smell of diesel exhaust and damp concrete.
"Having a problem, Walter?" Ryder asked. His voice was flat, devoid of the smug satisfaction he’d had five minutes ago when he was picking my pocket. He didn’t like this deviation.
"Air pressure dropped," I lied, keeping my hands clearly visible on the bottom of the steering wheel. "Primary gauge is showing a leak. I can't take it out on the public road until I find the bleed. DOT regulations."
Ryder stepped up onto the driver’s side step, invading my space, his face inches from the open window. I could see the faint stubble on his jaw and smell the stale coffee on his breath.
"You just paid a five-hundred-dollar release fee to get this rig out of my lot," he said softly. "The gate is open. Turn the key, build your pressure, and drive it out. Now."
"I lose my brakes on the interstate, I kill a minivan full of kids," I said, holding his mirrored gaze. "I'm not moving it until I run the lines. It'll take five minutes. You want me to call a mobile mechanic and block your exit for the next three hours?"
His jaw muscles flexed. He knew he couldn't force a commercial vehicle onto the highway with a stated safety defect, not in front of the municipal lot’s security cameras. He glanced up at the dome camera mounted on the brick office building, then back at me.
"You have three minutes," Ryder said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "You find your leak, and you get this piece of trash out of my sight. Or I’ll cite you for obstructing a city facility and impound it all over again."
He stepped down from the cab and took three steps back, planting his boots on the concrete. He wasn't leaving. He was going to watch my every move.
I grabbed my heavy leather work gloves and my aluminum flashlight from the passenger seat. I climbed down from the cab, my boots hitting the pavement with a heavy thud. I walked past Ryder without looking at him, heading toward the gap between the tractor and the trailer.
I knelt on the wet concrete and slid underneath the chassis. The underside of the rig was a labyrinth of steel crossmembers, grease-coated axles, and thick rubber air hoses. It smelled of road salt and hot rubber. I clicked on the flashlight and began a methodical sweep, pretending to inspect the blue and red gladhand connections, checking for leaks I knew didn't exist.
But my eyes were scanning for something else. If they were dispatching a spotter and planning to plant a package at the county line, they needed to know exactly where I was.
I shined the beam along the inside of the frame rails. Nothing. I checked the suspension brackets. Nothing. I crawled further back, toward the tandem axles of the trailer. I swept the light over the heavy steel underride guard.
There.