CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
Before I even cleared the second intersection, the company telematic tablet mounted on my dashboard began flashing a bright, angry red. An automated voice filled the cab. Route deviation detected. Return to assigned routing.
I kept my boot on the throttle, shifting up through the lower gears. The speedometer needle climbed to thirty-five.
The tablet screen flickered, bypassing the automated warning, and Marcus's voice punched through the audio system. He didn't bother with a greeting.
"Walter, what the hell are you doing?" Marcus demanded. The artificial compression of the cabin speaker made his voice sound jagged. "I gave you a mandatory reroute. I-70 is a parking lot. Turn this rig around at the next light and get on 119."
"I just pulled up the state DOT traffic map on my phone, Marcus," I said, keeping my tone perfectly even. "I-70 is green all the way to the state line. No accidents. No lane closures. I’m taking the interstate."
"You do not make routing decisions!" Marcus shouted. I could hear the panicked edge beneath his corporate anger. I had driven for him for eight years and had never heard him raise his voice above a condescending drawl. "I am your logistics manager. You are violating a direct company order. Turn the truck around now, or I will terminate your contract the second you hit the yard."
He was desperate. If I stayed on the busy interstate, flanked by minivans, state troopers, and toll cameras, Ryder’s spotter couldn't execute a clean, isolated traffic stop. They couldn't pull me out of the cab on a desolate shoulder and miraculously discover a brick of narcotics magnetically clamped to my bumper.
"I'm prioritizing the safety of the equipment," I replied, hitting the physical button on the tablet to toggle the screen from the navigation map to the active dispatch log. I pulled my personal phone from my boot, opened the camera, and hit record. I held the lens steady, capturing the tablet’s glowing screen. "You sent me a route for a restricted-weight local road. That's a severe DOT violation."
"I authorized it!" Marcus yelled.
"I need that authorization on the official dispatch ledger," I said, making sure my phone recorded both the tablet screen and his voice. "Type it into the system, Marcus. Put it in writing that you are ordering me to bypass a clear interstate to take a restricted county road, and that you accept all liability for the routing. Do that, and I'll take 119."
Dead silence over the speaker. Only the hum of my tires on the pavement and the deep rumble of the diesel engine filled the cab.
Marcus couldn't do it. If he put the bizarre reroute into the permanent text ledger, there would be a digital paper trail proving he intentionally diverted a company truck into an off-grid trap. He needed the diversion to be oral, off the books, something he could deny later when I was sitting in a county jail cell facing twenty years for trafficking.
"You're making a massive mistake, Walter," Marcus finally said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the corporate anger and taking on a cold, threatening finality. "Last warning. Take the exit."
"I’m taking the interstate," I said.
I reached out and tapped the red disconnect icon on the screen. The cab went quiet.
I stopped recording on my phone, checked the video file to ensure the audio was clear, and immediately uploaded it to the same secure cloud folder holding Ryder’s voice memo. I had the cop setting the trap, and now I had my own company’s logistics manager desperately trying to force me into it. The conspiracy wasn't a loose theory anymore; it was actively hunting me.
I merged onto the eastbound ramp for I-70, pushing the heavy Eaton transmission into tenth gear. The morning traffic was heavy, a steady stream of commuters and long-haul freight moving at seventy miles per hour. I felt a momentary surge of relief as I blended into the anonymous flow of vehicles. There were too many eyes here. They couldn't touch me in this current.
Then I checked my driver’s side mirror.
Three cars back, hanging perfectly in my blind spot, was a dark gray Ford Explorer with heavily tinted windows and a heavy steel push bumper. It had no municipal markings, no roof lights, and standard civilian plates. But its stance was aggressive, and it was matching my speed perfectly. When I accelerated to pass a slower flatbed, the Explorer surged forward, maintaining the exact same distance.
Ryder hadn't just sent a spotter to wait at the county line. He had sent a shadow to follow me straight from the impound lot.
My chest tightened. The air in the cab suddenly felt thin again. I tapped my brakes, dropping my speed by ten miles per hour. The Explorer’s brake lights flared instantly, maintaining the gap. They were glued to my axles.
They were waiting for me to make a mistake. They were waiting for me to pull into an empty rest area, or take a quiet exit for coffee, or pull over to check my tires. The second I was isolated, the red and blue lights hidden behind that tinted glass would activate.