Miller grabbed his medical kit from the trunk and began checking vitals. That was when he saw the SUV.
It was a black Chevrolet Tahoe approaching from the north, the opposite direction Kovich had been heading. It wasn’t speeding; it was slowing down. It had tinted windows, dark as oil.
Miller knew how these operations worked. There was the load vehicle, and there was the trail vehicle. Sometimes there was a scout ahead.
This was the reception committee, or the cleaner. The Tahoe pulled onto the shoulder across the divided highway about a hundred yards up. It idled there.
The window rolled down a few inches. Miller couldn’t see a face, just the darkness of the interior. Miller was exposed.
He had eight helpless victims scattered on the ground. He had a suspect in the car, he had a dog, and he had one service weapon. He drew his pistol and moved to the cover of the blue truck’s engine block.
He keyed his radio microphone clipped to his shoulder.
«Dispatch, I have a suspicious vehicle. Black Tahoe, no plates visible. Stopped on the northbound shoulder. Possible hostiles.»
«Units are ten minutes out, Miller.»
Ten minutes was an eternity. Two men stepped out of the Tahoe. They wore tactical vests and carried rifles.
They didn’t raise them yet. They were assessing. They were looking at Miller, looking at the victims. They were doing the math.
Can we salvage the load? Can we silence the witness?
Miller didn’t wait for them to decide. He grabbed the PA microphone from his cruiser, keeping his eyes and his gun trained on the men across the median.
«State Police air support is overhead!» Miller’s voice boomed across the highway, magnified and distorted by the speaker. «Drop your weapons or you will be engaged! Backup is on scene in thirty seconds!»
It was a lie. A desperate, calculated bluff. There was no helicopter. The backup was miles away.
The men paused. They looked up at the gray sky. They looked down to the long, empty ribbon of highway.
Miller signaled Duke. «Duke! Watch!»
The dog began to bark ferociously, a rhythmic, terrifying sound that carried across the wind. The combination of the booming PA announcement, the aggressive dog, and Miller’s confident tactical posture created doubt.
Criminals are predators, but they are also opportunists. They don’t like fair fights, and they certainly don’t like helicopters.
The driver of the Tahoe said something to his partner. They lowered their rifles. Slowly, they backed into the vehicle.
Miller held his breath, his finger taking up the slack on the trigger. The Tahoe spun its tires, kicking up gravel, and roared away, making a U-turn across the median grass and speeding back north.
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