The driver seemed nervous.

Chase glanced over his shoulder toward the roadside. Why was this roly-poly so agitated? The highway was quiet, desolate in the evening hours, especially this close to the Illinois State Line. An occasional car racing passed was the typical extent of traffic. So what was Roly-Polys problem?

Stiffly, Chase turned back to the driver. Originally the driver appeared to be black, but a second examination hinted at Arabic features; the flying carpet painted on the trailer led credence to this assumption. It made perfect sense that a company like Iliad would employ Arabs.

Chase smiled with a twitch to his upper lip. Okay. Name, rank and serial number.

Roly-Poly shrugged, pellets of sweat waltzing down his brow with drizzle. What? Definitely a Middle-Eastern accent.

Sighing, bored, Chase rolled his eyes. Very few people appreciated his humor. Most of the truck drivers were boorish, unimaginative; this bozo was no different. This routine was only entertaining to a short degree, antagonizing slow-witted idiots, taunting low-key sensibilities was rather fun, but it grew old swiftly. One could only jest happily when the other party was cognizant of the humor. Without mutual understanding, one may as well be talking to the bricks lining the gatehouse, same density. No challenge. And insouciance would soon become palpable to Roly-Poly if this tiring repartee continued.

Okay, bright boy. Lets take it from the top, growled Chase, tone designed to be insulting to hard-hearing simpletons. Are you delivering, picking-up, servicing, or just visiting because you have nothing else better to do? Robert was laughing inside the gatehouse, audience participation required. This was the initial song and dance performed on all first-time drivers for the last five years, and Chase wasnt about to alter the rhythm now.

Roly-Poly winced with confusion, probably thinking something prosaic like: Has the guard lost his mind? Arent guards supposed to be stupid and lazy?

Chase chuffed, breathed deep. Well?

Roly-Poly grinned, sending off all sorts of troublesome red flags. It be delivery. Arabic dialect was strong, almost inaudible.
Chase chuckled as he recorded the semis tractor number, company name and DOT registration number onto the truck log, noted details from the Bill of Lading. He ambled north along the length of the trailer, adding. His Night Glo watch read 1822 hrs.

Youre all checked in. Try not to steal the bathroom towels on your way out. Chase waved for Robert to open the truck gate.

The obsidian gate trundled open with a jolting quiver as Chase wiped dollops of rain off of the truck log, careful not to smudge his writing. His leather boots splashed water as he gazed down at the tailgate; his throat tightened. Five runnels of dark red liquid were dripping from below the corrugated rear door of the trailer, glistening on the chrome tailgate.

Dark red liquid? Lucas Fab makes jet engines, not fruit juice.

The tip of his purple ink pen slithered through thick pools and there was a tinge of copper in the air, stinging Chases nostrils.

Blood!

The trailer lumbered away, rolling toward the open gate, and Chase scampered back around, tapping his repeater.

Stop the truck! Stop it! Ive got blood!

Bobby was jumping out of his seat, pushing at the gate controls.

The semi screeched to a shuddering halt, metal grinding, air brakes hissing; and something bumped around inside the trailer. And someone was cussing up a storm.

Bobbys crackling voice commanded hoarsely over the two-way traffic.
All officers! Security breach! Gatehouse!

Miguel Juarez, new, inexperienced and nervous, chirped back, announcing that he was en route.

Sarah McCough answered raptly, echoing Miguel.

Out of the truck! barked Robert.

Chase froze as the corrugated trailer door rumbled upward, revealing black-clad men with assault rifles, shuffling from the darkness. There was an inert shape reposed on the trailers wooden, interior floor, in a pool of blood, the real driver, no doubt. Then the impossible happened. The blood on the tailgate and the corpse disappeared. The men with the rifles were still there, though.

Not now! Why now?

Chase swallowed hard and dove into the bush standing in front of the gatehouse; he hit the turf like a sack of potatoes, screaming over the two-way. Theyre armed! Theyre armed!

Arabic accents shouted aloud as gunmen climbed out of the hollow trailer aiming their AK-47s. The light rain was becoming heavier as two assailants crouched on either side of the trailer.

*

Spinning to meet the armed goon approaching from his right, Robert prayed for a weapon. Visions of the Gulf War flashed briefly through his mind and then he saw the loving smiles of Carla and Mandy. And then the driver was pointing a 9mm from the opened door. Time was running out.

Damn!

Robert fell against the dark figure on his right and felt a burning wave of heat rip through his back and chest; a loud crack reported from the Nine as the AK-47 burped. A flood of fluid was spreading from his mouth; he dropped atop the gunman.

*

Chase watched as the drivers head exploded into meaty chunks of carmine painting the interior windshield; the body went limp and fell back into the cab. The 9mm clapped to the wet concrete sidewalk next to the gatehouse; skidded off of the lower bricks of the building and slurped through rain-moist grass inches from Chases nose.

He let reality sink in, self-preservation demanding that this was real.

Crime in America always happens this fast, Chaser, especially now that the United States was finally cracking down on terrorism. It was only a matter of time before the Syrians or Iranians or whoever came storming the Heartland. The World Trade Center comes to mind.

Accept it and move on, Chaser. Survive!

Chase saw Miguel stumble into view and gasp at the bodies. And the legs of gunman number two were rounding the far side of the trailer.

No, Miguel! Theres another one!

It was too late. An AK-47 burped through the rainy night and Miguels chest split wide with crimson gore, intestines unspooling, blood splattering the grill of the semi and Miguel folded into a heap on the drive.