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.
«Call him off! Oh God, call him off!»
«Duke, Aus,» Miller commanded.
The dog released instantly but stood over the man, barking inches from his face. Miller holstered his taser and dragged Kovich up, spinning him around and pressing him against the side of the truck.
He cuffed him, tightening the ratchets until Kovich winced.
«Who is in there?» Miller roared, keeping Kovich’s face against the metal. «How many?»
Kovich was hyperventilating, staring at his injured arm. «I don’t know! I just drive! I just drive!»
Miller grabbed him by the collar. «There are four bales, Kovich. Are they all full? Tell me!»
«Yes, yes, they’re all full! Just get the dog away!»
Miller threw Kovich into the back of the cruiser and locked the door. He looked at the trailer. Four bales.
If the configuration was the same, that could be four people. Maybe more. And the woman had sounded weak.
Miller ran back to the trailer. He was alone. The backup was still twenty minutes out. He couldn’t wait.
The sun had broken through the clouds, and even in the cool air, those boxes would be stifling. If they were sealed tight, oxygen was the enemy now. He keyed his radio, his voice shaking but clear.
«Dispatch, upgrade to a 10-33. Emergency traffic only. I have a human smuggling situation. Multiple victims trapped in sealed containers disguised as cargo. I need heavy rescue. I need EMS. I need everything you have rolling now.»
«Copy, 2-Adam-12. Units are running Code Three.»
Miller climbed back onto the trailer. He didn’t have specialized tools for this. He had a knife and a pry bar in his truck box.
He retrieved the crowbar. He attacked the first bale, the one with the woman. He jammed the crowbar into the plywood seam and heaved.
The wood screeched. He put his back into it, grunting with effort. The panel popped free.
The smell that hit him was visceral. Waste, sweat, and the stale, recycled air of terror. The compartment was tiny.
It was a coffin, essentially. A wooden box constructed inside the hay, maybe three feet wide and four feet high. Inside, curled into a fetal position, was a young woman.
She looked to be in her twenties, her hair matted to her forehead. Her lips were cracked and blue.
Miller reached in. «I’ve got you. I’m a police officer. You’re safe.»
She couldn’t walk. Her legs were cramped from hours, maybe days of confinement. Miller lifted her. She was light, terrifyingly light.
He carried her to the edge of the trailer and lowered her gently to the ground, grabbing a bottle of water from his pack.
«Drink slowly,» he instructed.
She clutched the bottle with trembling hands. «Others,» she whispered, coughing. «My brother. Please.»
She pointed to the bale behind hers. Miller looked at the massive cylinders of hay. He was one man. He had to open three more tombs.
He moved to the second bale. This one was harder. The glue was thicker.
He slashed at the hay, blinding himself with dust and chaff. He found the wood. He hammered the crowbar in.
Crack. He ripped the panel off.
Inside were two people: a man and a teenage boy, squeezed together in a space meant for neither. The man was unconscious. The boy was awake, eyes rolling in his head, gasping for air.
«Hang on!» Miller yelled.
He dragged them out, laying them on the cold asphalt beside the woman. The man had a weak pulse. Miller positioned his head to open the airway.
He moved to the third bale. His arms were burning. His lungs heaved. The physical exertion was immense, but the adrenaline masked the pain.
He tore the third bale open. Three people: a mother and two small children. They were silent, lethargic, and hypoxic. They were running out of air.
«Wake up! Look at me!» Miller shouted, tapping the woman’s cheeks lightly as he pulled them into the fresh air.
The children began to cry—a beautiful sound, because it meant they were breathing. He reached the fourth bale. The final one.
He jammed the bar in, but his sweat-slicked hands slipped. He smashed his knuckles against the wood, skinning them raw. He didn’t stop.
He reset his grip and heaved with a primal roar. The wood shattered. Two more men.
These were awake, but disoriented. They tumbled out, vomiting bile onto the trailer deck.
Eight people. Miller stood on the flatbed, chest heaving, looking down at the scene. Eight human beings packed like sardines into farm equipment.
If he hadn’t stopped that truck, if Duke hadn’t barked, they would have been driven north—maybe to a drop house, maybe to a grave. Miller jumped down to check on the unconscious man. He was starting to stir.
Miller grabbed his medical kit from the trunk and began checking vitals. That was when he saw the SUV.
It was a black Chevrolet Tahoe approaching from the north, the opposite direction Kovich had been heading. It wasn’t speeding; it was slowing down. It had tinted windows, dark as oil.
Miller knew how these operations worked. There was the load vehicle, and there was the trail vehicle. Sometimes there was a scout ahead.
This was the reception committee, or the cleaner. The Tahoe pulled onto the shoulder across the divided highway about a hundred yards up. It idled there.
The window rolled down a few inches. Miller couldn’t see a face, just the darkness of the interior. Miller was exposed.
He had eight helpless victims scattered on the ground. He had a suspect in the car, he had a dog, and he had one service weapon. He drew his pistol and moved to the cover of the blue truck’s engine block.
He keyed his radio microphone clipped to his shoulder.
«Dispatch, I have a suspicious vehicle. Black Tahoe, no plates visible. Stopped on the northbound shoulder. Possible hostiles.»
