Hazards on. Shoulder stop. Rain pounded the hood like nails while Dan threw open the door and stepped into water up to his ankles. The trailer’s rear latch hung slightly ajar—impossible, he’d checked it twice at the depot.
He jogged back. On the edge of the lane, one of the fallen cases had exploded, spilling foam and velvet into the runoff like a torn suitcase.
Inside were small black boxes—identical, heavy, and warm to the touch despite the cold night air.
He cracked one open under the headlights—and what winked up at him from the velvet was the last thing a trucker expects to see.
