Chapter 14 - THE INTERSTATE DRAFT
The snow was falling heavily along Interstate 90, reducing visibility to less than fifty feet as the black armored van navigated the slippery asphalt. Inside, two former private security contractors sat in silence, a heavy steel briefcase locked between their seats.
At 5:45 AM, three dark grey SUVs pulled out from the fog, forming an effortless, synchronized formation around the van—one in front, one behind, and one running parallel in the left lane.
The driver of the armored van reached for his radio. "Dispatch, this is Transport Seven. We have three unidentified vehicles matching our speed on I-90 East, mile marker—"
The radio went dead, filled suddenly with static, followed by a calm, refined voice coming through the emergency frequency.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Matteo Moretti’s voice echoed clearly through the cab. "The road ahead is iced over, and the local state police barracks are currently experiencing a complete network outage. I suggest you pull onto the shoulder near the next service station."
The passenger guard drew his sidearm. "Maintain speed! Ram the lead vehicle if you have to!"
The lead SUV's rear hatch opened automatically. A high-intensity directional electromagnetic pulse array, mounted to the trunk bed, flared once with a dull white spark.
Instantly, the armored van's engine cut out. The digital dashboard flickered and died. The power steering locked, forcing the driver to fight the wheel as the heavy vehicle slid off the roadway, coming to a soft, deep halt in a massive snowbank along the shoulder.
Before the guards could push their doors open against the snow, the rear doors of the van were forcibly unlatched from the outside.
Matteo Moretti stepped into the doorway, wearing a camel-hair overcoat and leather gloves, holding a steaming paper cup of espresso. Behind him stood four silent men in tactical gear.
Matteo glanced at the two shivering guards, whose weapons were still drawn but trembling violently.
"The briefcase," Matteo said pleasantly, taking a sip of his coffee.
"This is private legal property—" the passenger started.
Matteo held up a single gloved finger, cutting him off mid-sentence. "That briefcase contains stolen corporate records belonging to Moretti-Vance Development. You are carrying stolen goods across state lines. Now, you can either give me the keys to the lock, or my associates can leave both of you here in this snowbank with disabled cell phones and a three-mile walk to the nearest gas station."
The driver looked at the freezing darkness outside, then at his partner. Slowly, he unclipped the key ring from his belt and handed it over.
May you like
Matteo took the key, unlocked the briefcase, and retrieved the worn leather ledger. He flipped through the yellowed pages once, verified the dates, and slipped it into his inner coat pocket.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Matteo said warmly. "There is a thermos of hot coffee in the front seat of my trailing vehicle. Consider it a courtesy from the Moretti family."
