He hangs around the truck stops on the interstate. He pays a few of us deputies to keep an eye out for specific rigs. Sometimes it's to look the other way. Sometimes it's to pull them over and check the locks to make sure the cargo hasn't been tampered with. He leaves cash in a drop box behind the old mill.”
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 Team 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 departmentisssued radio, Dion ordered. You are going to call dispatch. You will tell them that you made a routine commercial vehicle stop. You checked my logbooks.
Everything was in order. And you issued a warning for a burned-out taillight. 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 miles 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 six 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.