Chapter 4 - The Weigh Station Trap
By dawn, the mist had cleared, giving way to a pale, bruised sky.
The Kenworth was miles away from the highway, rumbling down a forgotten, two-lane state route. Roger had spent the last three hours taking every backroad and detour he knew from thirty years of mental mapping.
But a massive rig requires massive amounts of fuel, and the needle on the dashboard was dipping dangerously close to the red line. Worse, Arthur’s condition was deteriorating. The gunshot wound was infected, and Mia’s fever hadn't broken.
"I need antibiotics," Elena whispered from the back, her voice laced with absolute despair. "Please, Mr. Malloy. If she doesn't get medicine, she’s going to die."
Roger saw a sign approaching: Rest Stop & Weigh Station - 2 Miles.
He hated weigh stations. They were run by state troopers, and state troopers communicated with local law enforcement. If the Vargas syndicate had cops on their payroll—and they always did—a weigh station was a perfect bottleneck to catch a fleeing truck.
But he had no choice.
"I'm going to pull in," Roger said. "I'm going to hide you all in the sleeper compartment beneath the mattress board. You cannot make a sound. If they find you, I go to prison, and you go in the ground. Understand?"
Leo nodded, his small face pale with fear.
Roger pulled the truck into the sprawling station. He directed the family into the hidden cargo compartment under the lower bunk—a cramped, dark space usually reserved for emergency tools and extra blankets. He locked the panel down.
Roger grabbed his logbook and climbed out of the cab.
The morning air was freezing. He walked toward the main building, pulling his cap down low. Inside, a state trooper was sipping coffee behind a glass partition. But it wasn't the trooper that made Roger stop in his tracks.
Standing by the coffee machine were two men in dark suits. They were clean-cut, cold-eyed, and completely out of place among the tired truckers in flannel and denim. One of them was on a cell phone, speaking in hushed, urgent tones.
"...yeah, a dark blue Kenworth W900. Should have front end damage on the driver's side. Check the logs."
Roger backed away slowly, stepping out of the diner area and retreating to the aisles of the convenience store. He grabbed children’s fever reducer, rubbing alcohol, bandages, and two gallons of water, tossing a hundred-dollar bill on the counter and walking out before the cashier could even offer change.
He moved fast, power-walking across the massive parking lot toward his rig.
He was fifty feet away when he saw the trooper walking out of the building, holding a clipboard, flanked by the two men in suits. They were pointing directly at Roger’s Kenworth.
They saw the scrape on the bumper, Roger realized.
He broke into a run.
He swung up into the cab, threw the supplies onto the passenger seat, and cranked the ignition. The engine roared to life.
Behind him, the trooper yelled, "Hey! Shut the engine off! Step out of the vehicle!"
Roger jammed the truck into gear.
The two men in suits didn't yell. They reached under their jackets.
Roger dropped the clutch. The massive truck lurched forward, blowing a thick cloud of black diesel smoke directly into the faces of the approaching men. The Kenworth barreled out of the parking lot, blowing right past the weigh scales and tearing onto the on-ramp.
Sirens immediately wailed to life behind him.
Roger looked in the mirror. A state trooper cruiser was peeling out of the station, lights flashing.
He was officially running from the law. He was aiding fugitives. He had crossed a line he could never uncross.
But as he heard a faint whimper from the floorboards, Roger Malloy realized something profound. For the first time in five years, he didn't feel like a ghost haunting the highways.
May you like
He felt alive.
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