Page 145 of Unruly

Routine.

Nothing new.

Cross flipped open the glove compartment, and pulled out the items he would need to get across the border crossing. He set the Passport, IDs, truck information, and falsified driving log to the passenger seat.

As far as the crossing guards would know, he was a long-haul Canadian trucker returning home from a work trip. The address on his IDs said he lived just beyond Grand Falls in New Demark, about a thirty minute drive once past the border. It would absolutely make sense to the custom guards that the trucker would want to pass on a border with no scale while he had an empty load. On the other hand, a driver with a full load would have crossed the border further down Maine—one Cross knew he couldn’t pass without being caught.

The burner phone in the cup holder rang with a call. Cross’s gaze drifted between the road in front of him, and the phone. Only a couple of people had the phone’s number. Zeke, Rick, and Catherine. That was it. Once the run was over, he would destroy the phone as he always did.

The eighteen-wheeler didn’t have Bluetooth, and picking up a call while driving in this area was a crapshoot. He did not need to be pulled over by cops for having a phone stuck to his ear while behind the wheel.

Soon, the call cut off.

Cross saw the flashing blue and red just a couple of miles ahead of him as the phone began to ring again.

Something in his mind whispered, Fuck.

He didn’t know what was wrong, but something was.

His heart thrummed with it.

His blood thickened with it.

He just knew.

Cross slowed the rig down another gear, but not enough to be noticeable. Cars and trucks were backed up a good mile from the border crossing. Entirely unusual for the spot. A lot of workers for hospitals and Canadians who went to the University of Maine and Presque Isle used the border, so traffic moved smoothly.

It should not be backed up.

Those red and blue lights kept flashing.

Cross answered the call, put it on speaker, and set it into his lap. His rig came to a stop at the very back of the line.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He could not turn back, now.

There was no fucking way he could get this truck turned around without drawing attention to himself.

Cross eyed the long line of cars leading up to the border as a voice filtered over the phone.

“Cross, man, you there?”

“Zeke,” Cross said.

“Tell me you’re not at the border, Cross.”

His body went cold.

His fingertips numbed.

“There’s dogs,” Cross murmured.

K9 units were sniffing down the line of cars. The colored patch on the dogs’ vests told him they were drug, currency, and weapons trained.

He was fucked all over.

“Shit, you’re at the border,” Zeke hissed.