Miller froze. Metal? Wood?
He tried again, six inches to the right. Clunk.
It wasn’t a bale of hay. It was a shell.
Miller grabbed the heavy-duty folding cutter from his tactical vest. He slashed at the net wrap. It parted with a zip.
He grabbed a handful of the hay and pulled. It came away in a sheet. It had been glued.
The hay was a façade, a thin layer of vegetation adhered to a surface beneath. Under the hay was plywood—rough, unfinished plywood painted a muddy yellow-brown to blend in if the hay thinned out.
Miller’s heart hammered against his ribs. He used the cutter to pry at the seam of the wood. He found a gap, likely a ventilation slit, and jammed the tip of the knife in, leveraging it back.
The wood groaned and splintered. He created a hole about the size of a grapefruit. He unclipped his flashlight, clicked it on, and shone the beam into the darkness of the box.
He expected to see stacks of illicit cargo. He expected to see weapons. He expected bags of cash.
What he saw stopped his breath in his throat. An eye. A wide, terrified human eye, glistening in the harsh LED beam.
It blinked. Miller recoiled, gasping, nearly dropping the light.
«Oh, my God.» He leaned back in. «Sheriff’s Department, can you hear me?»
A muffled sound came from within. A whimper.
«Help. Please.»
It was a woman’s voice, faint and dry as dust. Miller spun around, looking at the driver. Kovich was
watching him.
When their eyes locked, Kovich knew. The pretense was over. The driver didn’t surrender; he bolted.
He turned from the hood of the cruiser and sprinted back toward the cab of his truck.
«Hey!» Miller shouted, jumping from the trailer.
He hit the ground hard, his knees buckling slightly, but he scrambled up. Kovich reached the driver’s side door, ripping it open. He wasn’t reaching for the keys.
He was reaching behind the seat. Miller saw the glint of a barrel—a shotgun.
Miller didn’t have the angle for a clear shot without risking the traffic passing in the far lane. He had one option.
«Duke, Fass!»
The command was a trigger release. The dog, who had been holding his stay with vibrating intensity, exploded into motion. He covered the twenty feet in two bounds, a black and tan missile.
As Kovich pulled the shotgun free, Duke launched himself into the air. He hit Kovich in the chest, his jaws clamping onto the man’s right forearm, the trigger arm.
Kovich screamed, the shotgun clattering to the asphalt. The man went down hard, the dog driving him into the gravel. Duke shook his head, holding the arm and neutralizing the threat with primal efficiency.
Miller was there two seconds later. He kicked the shotgun away and drew his taser, but saw it wasn’t needed. Kovich was sobbing, pinned by the dog.
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