Page 2 of Dark ’N’ Deadly

Strobes lit up the Interceptor like a Christmas tree. The siren wailed like a banshee, and still the pickup didn’t pull over.

So much for a quiet Federal Friday.

The pickup serpentined through traffic like the highway was the driver’s personal NASCAR track. His speedometer’s needle passed eighty-five and was approaching ninety.

“This guy’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

There’s no way he can outrun an Interceptor.

ATF special agents didn’t normally do car stops or high-speed chases, but the four 55-gallon drums in the back of the truck slid around with enough momentum to launch them right over the tailgate and crashing through someone’s windshield.

With the Interceptor’s engine roaring, he easily stayed close to the pickup, but far enough from the bumper in case the driver suddenly decided to pull his brains out of his ass and hit the brakes.

At six a.m. the westbound lanes of I-78 were nearly empty. Good thing, because this brainless road warrior was going to kill someone.

The truck fishtailed then veered right toward an exit ramp. Eric checked his rearview mirror then cut hard right to give chase on the service road.

“You okay back there, Tiger?” His K-9’s dark, almond-shaped eyes glinted in the bright morning light as he let out another snort. “C’mon. Pull over, you moron.”

What the hell’s in those drums that’s worth a high-speed chase?

“Time to wake the neighborhood.”

He pushed a button, and the Interceptor’s air horn blasted. If the town wasn’t awake before, it was now. Another minute went by before the truck finally braked and pulled onto a shoulder adjacent to a steep hill.

“About f-ing time.” Keeping half an eye on the driver-side door, Eric flipped up the lid on his mobile computer. The tag came back not on file. Odd. The truck had to be at least twenty years old, so the tag should have been in the system. Unless it was stolen and someone had swapped in an inactive tag.

Behind him, Tiger pranced back and forth on the bench, eager to go to work.

“Blijf,” he ordered his dog, and Tiger responded with a disappointed grunt. Eric wanted his K-9 to remain in the SUV until he got a bead on the driver. If anything went down, all he had to do was hit the door-popper on his belt and the kennel door would fly open, releasing Tiger to back his ass up.

He activated the dash cam then opened his door. The air was typically hot and humid for mid-July, with a stiff, warm breeze blowing in from the east.

With one hand on his Glock, he stepped toward the back of the truck, watching it for signs of movement. As he neared the tailgate, details of the Alabama plate caught his attention. The paint color was off, and the crane looked more like a duck. No wonder it’s not on file. The tag’s bogus. If he hadn’t spent nine years working out of the Birmingham RAC office, he might not have known. But he did.

Hairs on the back of his neck prickled. With his free hand, he pressed his fingers against the truck’s left rear quarter panel. If this went to shit, not only would there be video, but his prints would be left behind for investigators to find in the event that he was found cold and dead on the side of the road.

His heart beat out a steady rhythm. Not fast, not slow. Just enough to pump more adrenaline through his veins because something was royally off. He could taste it. More to the point, he could feel it in his bones, and his bones were sending out a warning louder than a detonated stick of dynamite.

The back of the driver’s head was visible through the rear window. Cautiously, he approached and knocked on the side door.

It’s just a kid. With a shock of curly red hair. He’d only seen hair that vibrant once before in his life, but that had been on a woman.

Slowly, the window rolled down. At nearly six-four in his boots, Eric easily looked down into the cab. Most people would have their wallet or driver license ready for inspection, but the only thing this kid had was a stack of papers in his lap—a diversionary tactic used by “sovereign citizens” and the very thing that had gotten two police officers killed in West Memphis, Arkansas. But sovereign citizens were few and far between in New Jersey.

Eric tightened his grip on the Glock. He was a hair’s breadth from drawing down on the kid.

He glanced to the back of the pickup, then over his shoulder. No one else was there, but something was so off it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up even straighter.

The kid’s hands began to shake. “Step out of the vehicle.” Eric backed off enough to allow him to get out.

The driver opened the door, taking the three-inch-thick pile of documents with him. He was just under six feet and skinny as a rail, weighing in at around one-fifty. Fear brimmed in the kid’s bright green eyes.

“Get out your driver license, registration, and proof of insurance,” he ordered.

“Um, I got papers,” he answered in an Alabama drawl, then thrust the documents at Eric’s chest.

Eric backed off more, tightening his grip on the gun. The pulse that had been beating slow and steady began pounding in his ears, screaming out an even louder warning.