Dion had to play this perfectly. He was an expert at deep-cover operations, but mimicking the texting style of a corrupt, arrogant 28-year-old local cop was a unique challenge. If he sounded too professional, the cartel handler, Jay, would instantly know something was wrong. If he didn't respond fast enough, they might assume the truck had been seized and abort the receiving operation in Atlanta. Dion kept one hand steady on the wheel, navigating the winding, unlit highway while he picked up the phone.
He scrolled through the few saved messages in the outbox to get a read on Mitchell's syntax. The cop used shorthand, rarely capitalized letters, and had a habit of being brief and transactional. Dion typed out a response, his thumb moving deliberately over the small digital keyboard. Seal is red. Driver is an idiot.
Didn't suspect a thing. Truck is moving your way. You owe me. He hit send. The digital swoosh sound filled the quiet cab.
Now the waiting game began to bridge the gap and prepare his team. Dion reached beneath the dashboard. He bypassed the standard CB radio setup and pressed a sequence of buttons on a disguised built-in GPS interface. The screen flickered, shifting from a standard civilian map to a military-grade encrypted communication frequency. He keyed the microphone integrated into his seat belt strap.
Odin base, this is Courier. Do you copy? Dion said, his voice crisp and authoritative. Static hissed for a fraction of a second before a clear, deep voice replied. It was special agent Richard Lawson, the logistics coordinator overseeing the sting from the FBI's secure command center in downtown Atlanta.
Courier, this is Odin. We read you loud and clear. Your transponder showed a 22-minute delay at a rural gas station. We were about to send a drone to your coordinates. What's your status?
Status is compromised but contained. Dion reported calmly. I was intercepted by local law enforcement. Two Oak Haven County deputies. They were conducting an illegal pretextual stop specifically targeting this rig.
They had intelligence on the truck's make, model, and the color of the tamper-evident seal on the trailer. There was a heavy pause on the other end of the line. Lawson was a seasoned veteran, and he understood the implications immediately. The cartel has eyes on the route. They bought local badges to act as an early warning system.
Affirmative, Dion said. I broke cover and identified myself to the deputies. I have seized their burner phone. I just sent a confirmation text to the cartel handler masquerading as the corrupt deputy confirming the seal is intact. We are still green.
Negative, Courier, Lawson countered sharply. If the route is burned, the drop is burned. We don't know how many other spotters they have on Highway 9. I am scrubbing the operation. I want you to reroute to the federal weigh station on Interstate 75.
We have troopers ready to escort you in. Richard, listen to me, Dion said, his tone shifting from formal to urgent. If we abort now, we lose the shipment. We lose the receiving crew and we lose months of undercover work. The cartel thinks their early warning system worked.
They think I'm just a dumb, exhausted driver hauling fertilizer. They are going to be completely relaxed at the receiving bay. We can walk right into their front door and drop the hammer. It's too risky, Dion. If your text didn't convince this handler, you're driving a multi-ton coffin into an ambush.
I can handle it, Dion insisted. Reposition the Hostage Rescue Team. Have Commander Thomas Granger stage his element two blocks from the drop zone in Atlanta. Give me a 5-minute window once I park the rig. If things go south, I'll give the breach word over the open mic.
Another agonizing pause stretched over the radio. Dion watched the dark pines roll past, his foot maintaining a steady 65 mph. Finally, the burner phone in the cup holder buzzed. Dion snatched it up. Good.
Keep your eyes open. 5K is in the box behind the mill. See you next week. Dion exhaled a sharp breath. Odin base, the handler bought it. The trap is still set.