again to seek out the comfort of a repeated activity.
When I finally settled enough to lay down again, I realized I still hadn’t taken any of my meds. Nor would I be able to for the next twenty-four hours. I still had some anxiety medication running through my system, but given my current highly anxious state, I’d surely be an obsessive freak by tomorrow. Not a good thing at all.
Sadly, I got only about forty-five minutes of sleep before I reported in to Roscoe. He wasn’t there when I arrived, but one of the guards had a set of keys for me and a note with my instructions.
“It looks like you’re getting a DT 466,” the guard said as he led me out of the building.
“A what?” He’d spouted some other language most likely. The language of vehicles and their associated models wasn’t something I was familiar with. In a past life, my time in New York, I’d been a fervent researcher of knowledge to verify facts for a publishing company, but trucks were not in my repertoire.
According to the note, I had to deliver the truck by dawn tomorrow at a park near Frye Mountain in Jackson, Maine. It shouldn’t be too hard to do this.
The guard gave me a quick ride in a Jeep to a large vacant lot not far from the marina. The whole areasmelled of fish, construction, and sewage. A lovely combination on a Sunday morning. From what I could see, the lot had a bunch of cars, trucks, and such in various stages of disrepair. Dread hit me when I realized that none of these vehicles looked new—or clean.
“When you get to the Atlantic City Expressway, use the second lane at the toll. Roscoe’s got a wolf stationed there, so you shouldn’t have any problems getting through.”
“How kind of him to check on me.”
The guard shrugged. “One more person to keep you out of trouble.”
“Or in line,” I mumbled.
We continued to drive through the lot before another important question came to mind.
“Did Roscoe tell you what I was transporting?”
“Naw. It’s none of my business.” He paused for a moment to turn down one of the lanes in the lot. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with it either.”
I snorted. “I should probably know if I’m carrying enough narcotics to get the entire New England coastline high. You know, just in case I need to gun it if the police are on my tail.”
If Roscoe was having me carry drugs, what would I do? I’d have no trouble smelling them and would definitely know if they were in the truck. But could I transport drugs, even to help my family? Under most circumstances, I knew I’d do bodily harm to anyone who hurt my loved ones, but transporting drugs or harming kids was on the list labeled HELL NO.
The guard said nothing, so I remained silent. Fine. I’d find out soon enough.
We pulled to a stop next to what couldn’t exactly be called a truck. My body steeled up, and I mumbled, “Is that it?”
It was a damn dump truck. Not a new truck or evenone that had been recently cleaned. It was one of those rectangular trucks people used to haul crap around. There was no way this was a regular delivery truck. It had gigantic stains, peeled-off paint, and endless rust spots. I could smell it from over fifteen feet away. It sure as hell didn’t smell like cocaine, pot, or some other rave-based happy pills.
As I got out of the Jeep, for a second I wished I were transporting drugs, so long as they were in a brand-new dump truck.
“This is the transport,” the guard said. “You got until tomorrow morning.” He used a set of keys to unlock the door, he opened it, and then he threw them to me.
When I didn’t move, he chuckled. “Sunup these days comes between six and seven a.m. so I suggest you be on time. The client’s a stickler about time.”
“Trucks this size require a D class license to drive them.” The words came out of me like a robot. I hadn’t expected to say that out loud, but I did. I didn’t know much, but at least I knew that little fact.
“Good luck with
When I finally settled enough to lay down again, I realized I still hadn’t taken any of my meds. Nor would I be able to for the next twenty-four hours. I still had some anxiety medication running through my system, but given my current highly anxious state, I’d surely be an obsessive freak by tomorrow. Not a good thing at all.
Sadly, I got only about forty-five minutes of sleep before I reported in to Roscoe. He wasn’t there when I arrived, but one of the guards had a set of keys for me and a note with my instructions.
“It looks like you’re getting a DT 466,” the guard said as he led me out of the building.
“A what?” He’d spouted some other language most likely. The language of vehicles and their associated models wasn’t something I was familiar with. In a past life, my time in New York, I’d been a fervent researcher of knowledge to verify facts for a publishing company, but trucks were not in my repertoire.
According to the note, I had to deliver the truck by dawn tomorrow at a park near Frye Mountain in Jackson, Maine. It shouldn’t be too hard to do this.
The guard gave me a quick ride in a Jeep to a large vacant lot not far from the marina. The whole areasmelled of fish, construction, and sewage. A lovely combination on a Sunday morning. From what I could see, the lot had a bunch of cars, trucks, and such in various stages of disrepair. Dread hit me when I realized that none of these vehicles looked new—or clean.
“When you get to the Atlantic City Expressway, use the second lane at the toll. Roscoe’s got a wolf stationed there, so you shouldn’t have any problems getting through.”
“How kind of him to check on me.”
The guard shrugged. “One more person to keep you out of trouble.”
“Or in line,” I mumbled.
We continued to drive through the lot before another important question came to mind.
“Did Roscoe tell you what I was transporting?”
“Naw. It’s none of my business.” He paused for a moment to turn down one of the lanes in the lot. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with it either.”
I snorted. “I should probably know if I’m carrying enough narcotics to get the entire New England coastline high. You know, just in case I need to gun it if the police are on my tail.”
If Roscoe was having me carry drugs, what would I do? I’d have no trouble smelling them and would definitely know if they were in the truck. But could I transport drugs, even to help my family? Under most circumstances, I knew I’d do bodily harm to anyone who hurt my loved ones, but transporting drugs or harming kids was on the list labeled HELL NO.
The guard said nothing, so I remained silent. Fine. I’d find out soon enough.
We pulled to a stop next to what couldn’t exactly be called a truck. My body steeled up, and I mumbled, “Is that it?”
It was a damn dump truck. Not a new truck or evenone that had been recently cleaned. It was one of those rectangular trucks people used to haul crap around. There was no way this was a regular delivery truck. It had gigantic stains, peeled-off paint, and endless rust spots. I could smell it from over fifteen feet away. It sure as hell didn’t smell like cocaine, pot, or some other rave-based happy pills.
As I got out of the Jeep, for a second I wished I were transporting drugs, so long as they were in a brand-new dump truck.
“This is the transport,” the guard said. “You got until tomorrow morning.” He used a set of keys to unlock the door, he opened it, and then he threw them to me.
When I didn’t move, he chuckled. “Sunup these days comes between six and seven a.m. so I suggest you be on time. The client’s a stickler about time.”
“Trucks this size require a D class license to drive them.” The words came out of me like a robot. I hadn’t expected to say that out loud, but I did. I didn’t know much, but at least I knew that little fact.
“Good luck with
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