"Morning, officer. Mind telling me why I'm stopped?"
"Going to need to search that trailer."
"I apologize, but I can't consent to that. What's inside that trailer is highly classified."
Sergeant Bruce was visibly annoyed. Nathan wasn't giving him the reaction he wanted.
"Tell you what: you want to skip the search? 500 cash. Consider it $500 to use my highway. Then you can be on your way."
"That's extortion. You're asking me for money to use a public highway."
"Then we'll do this the hard way. We'll search that trailer, and I guarantee something in there will give us a reason to hold you."
"I am not consenting to this search, officer. This trailer is under federal seal. Breaking it without cause is a violation of the law."
"Federal seal? I'm supposed to take your word for it?"
Sergeant Bruce ignored the warning and reached for the trailer, completely unaware that its contents were Pentagon classified.
The sun sat high over the interstate when the lights flashed red and blue in Nathan Galvin's mirror. He checked his speed: 62, right on the limit. He checked his lane: clean. He looked at his logbook sitting open on the seat beside him: every hour accounted for. Nothing wrong, nothing to find. That didn't matter; he'd learned that a long time ago.
Nathan eased his rig onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under eighteen wheels, and rolled to a stop. Behind him, two cruisers pulled in: one parked close; the other hung back like it wasn't sure it wanted to be there.
He reached up and tapped the small camera clipped near his mirror, the one that fed straight to dispatch. A red light blinked on. Yolanda would see everything now, live on her screen two hundred miles away. He didn't touch his phone. He didn't reach for anything. He just set both hands on the wheel in plain sight and waited.
A man walked up to his window: big, bald, badge that read Bruce.
"License and registration," Bruce said, already bored with the question before he finished asking it.
Nathan handed them over slow. No sudden moves. "Morning, officer. Mind telling me why I'm stopped?"
Bruce didn't answer right away. He looked the papers over like they'd done something to insult him. Then he looked at Nathan—really looked—and something in his face changed: a small, ugly smile.
"Your taillight's out."
"No, sir, it's not."
"I said it's out."
Nathan didn't argue the point. He'd argued points before with men like this, and it never once made a difference. Behind Bruce, the younger officer—Langston, his tag said—stood near his own cruiser: arms crossed, eyes somewhere else. Not helping, not stopping it either.
"Going to need to search that trailer," Bruce said.
"Can I ask what for?"
"You can ask." Bruce tucked the license into his shirt pocket like he planned on keeping it. "Doesn't mean I got to answer." He leaned in close, one arm braced on the door, and dropped his voice like they were sharing a secret. "Tell you what: save us both the trouble. $500 cash right now, and you and your truck go on your merry way. No search, no paperwork, nothing."
Nathan felt his jaw tighten. He kept his voice level anyway. "You're asking me for money to use a public highway."
"I'm asking you for a toll." Bruce grinned wider. "Consider it a fee for my trouble."
"That's not a toll. That's extortion."
The word landed hard. Bruce's grin dropped like a curtain.