Victoria Holden drove down the dark highway with one thought in mind: get home, collapse on the couch, and not move for twelve hours. The last operation had wrung her dry.
At thirty-two, the major in an elite tactical unit felt like she’d been squeezed dry. Outside the windshield, truck stops, gas stations, and the occasional streetlight slid by. Up ahead was a small town.
Nothing special. Just another place you pass through and forget. Victoria shifted gears and glanced at the clock on the dash.
Ten-thirty at night. One more hour and she’d be home. Hot shower, strong tea, warm bed.
Lord, she was tired. Then blue lights flashed ahead. A patrol wand signaled her to pull over.
Victoria slowed smoothly. Two highway patrol officers stood on the shoulder. One waved her down.
Probably a routine stop. She rolled to a halt and lowered her window. An officer in his mid-thirties walked up, broad-shouldered, with the smug look of a man used to getting his way.
His name tag read: “Sergeant Dennis Greer.” — You failed to signal when changing lanes, he said without so much as a hello. Victoria frowned.
— What lane change? I’ve been in the same lane for the last twenty miles. — Don’t argue. I saw it, the trooper snapped.
— License and registration. She handed over her license through the open window. Greer took it but barely glanced at it.
The officer nodded to his partner. The younger man came around to the other side of the car. Mid-twenties, maybe.
His badge said “Igor,” though around here he’d probably gone by “Eddie” if anyone had bothered to Americanize it. — Open the trunk, the younger officer said. — Why?
— Routine check. Unless there’s some reason you don’t want to. Victoria tightened her grip on the wheel.
Something about it felt off. She knew that tone. In her line of work, she’d seen that kind of arrogance plenty of times.
You see enough on the job, you learn to trust your instincts. And right now, every one of hers said something was wrong. — Fine, she said evenly.
Victoria hit the release button. The trunk popped open. The younger officer headed to the back of the car.
She watched him carefully in the rearview mirror. He rummaged around for maybe thirty seconds. Then he came back holding a small plastic-wrapped bundle.
— Well now, what do we have here? he said, showing it off to Greer with a little too much satisfaction. A cold wave ran through Victoria.
She had never touched drugs in her life. Never. In that trunk she had a spare tire, a fire extinguisher, and an old gym bag.
— That’s not mine, she said quietly. Greer let out a loud laugh. — Sure it isn’t. Must’ve flown in there on its own.
— Listen, ma’am, you’re in serious trouble. That’s a felony possession charge. Real prison time.
— You planted it. I want a report filed and witnesses present. — Oh, come on, the younger one said with a dismissive wave.
— Let’s head to the station. We’ll sort it all out there. Maybe there’s a way to work something out. Victoria felt anger rise, hot and sharp.
These two had done this before. Stop a car, plant evidence, squeeze for money. It was a system.
How many decent people had already been dragged through their racket? How many had paid up? How many were sitting in prison because of men like these?
She slowly slipped a hand into her jacket pocket. She needed her phone. She had to alert Rodion Whitaker, her team commander.
Victoria quickly typed an emergency message, shielding the phone near the edge of the seat: “Code 7. Coordinates sent. Highway patrol. Evidence planted.”
She hit send. — Hey, what are you doing there? Greer barked, yanking the car door open. Victoria didn’t quite get the phone hidden in time.
The younger officer snatched it from her hand. — Look at that. Smart girl, he said, smirking at the screen. — Who exactly were you texting?
— Give me my phone back, Victoria said in a flat, icy voice. — Give it back? Greer mocked.
— You want to talk about your rights now?
