A black sedan blocked the road, hazard lights flashing in rhythm with the storm. The driver’s door opened. A man stepped out, umbrella useless against the downpour.
He held up an ID card, but Dan couldn’t read it through the rain. “Mr. Carter,” he said, “you’re in possession of restricted materials.”
“Who are you?” Dan shouted through the window.
The man smiled—a polite, corporate smile that didn’t belong on a midnight road—and said, “That depends on who you work for.”
