Evans was in pursuit of the speeding UHAUL with his lights on. The driver must have finally noticed, as he began to slow down as he pulled over to the shoulder. Evans was continually surprised by the large percentage of people who only use their mirrors every mile or so. Fucking idiots, he thought. Only making their ticket cost more money.
As Trooper Evans parked his car behind the UHAUL, he ran the plates in his computer. The truck was registered to a small border town, and showed no tied warrants and was not stolen. This was a slight disappointment to Evans. Never any action, he thought.
Sam looked at the side mirrors on the truck and noticed that the driver was looking at him with some confusion. Perhaps the driver did not realize after pulling off the interstate that the speed had reduced. Oh well. Speeding was speeding. It was posted so really there was no excuse. Evans leaned over and grabbed his ticket book from the passenger side dash. He strained at its weight.
When Evans was in OJT, or on the job training, his trainer gave him a tip on how to take a ticket book serve two purposes. By placing an old armor plate in the ticket book, it could be turned into a small bullet proof shield. The vests that the Troopers wore protected the torso and the organs within, but the head was totally exposed. In a pinch, if some crazed gunman decided he didn’t want a ticket so bad he was willing to kill over it, the ticket book could be used to protect the throat, face, and head.
Evans liked that idea and had armored his ticket book. He felt that the added weight to it was worth it on the slim chance that it would ever be needed. The trooper would have never believed that within the next six minutes, the ticket book would have three rounds resting within.
“Dispatch, 6-2-0,” Evans said boringly into the radio on his shoulder.
“6-2-0-, Dispatch. Go ahead 6-2-0,” replied an even more bored voice on the other end.
Dispatch, this is 6-2-0, I am currently 10-6 with a 10-45, on Highway 40 near mile marker 112. Ran vehicle for wants and warrants, 10-4 on that end.”
“10-4, 6-2-0.”
With that, Evans opened his door and began to walk slowly to the UHAUL. He noticed that the driver was still looking at him with a puzzled look.
As soon as Evans reached the driver door of the truck, he noticed a second individual in the passenger seat. Both the passenger and the driver were Hispanic. The driver appeared to be in his mid to late 50’s and the passenger looked to be early 20’s. Evans couldn’t help but notice that the passenger had a look to him that was not normal. It wasn’t a nervous look. It wasn’t a frightened look either. But Evans had seen that look before.
“Sir,” Evans said to the driver as he looked from behind his sunglasses inside the truck. “Will you do me a favor and turn off your engine. I don’t wanna waste your gas today.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver responded in a thick Mexican accent. He then turned the key and killed the engine.
“Now, sir,” Evans said to the driver. “Could you do me another solid and let me see your license, proof of insurance, and registration for the vehicle?”
“Yes, sir,” the driver repeated as he grabbed the paperwork and the license from the middle glove box. “Why did you pull me over today, sir?”
Evans grabbed the paperwork and the license and responded “Well, buddy, you were going a little fast today. Fifteen miles an hour over the posted speed limit to be exact. That’s a little unsafe, partner.”
“Oh,” the driver chuckled softly, “I didn’t know. Sorry about that, Officer.”
“Don’t worry about it. I just would rather pull you over for speeding and have you slow down than see you in an accident. So where are you fellas heading today?”
The driver paused. “We are heading to Wichita, Kansas. My son and I will be moving there. He got a job on a farm there that pays good money.”
Evans looked at the passenger. “Is this your son?”
“Si…uh, yes, sir,” the driver answered. Evans noticed that the driver, whose name according to the license was Juan Perez, was beginning to look nervous as he looked at his son.
“Son,” Evans said to the passenger, “what’s your name?”
The passenger just stared blankly toward the open road.
The driver said something to the passenger in Spanish and looked back at the Trooper. “Sorry, sir, his English is not so good. His name is Pablo. He is a good kid, but his English is not…”
Evans watched Pablo as Mr. Perez continued to talk. That look. He had seen it before and his gut told him that something was not right. Sam cut off Mr. Perez in mid sentence.
“Mr. Perez what is in the back of this truck?”
Juan looked at the passenger and did not answer.
Evans repeated the question, keeping his eye on the passenger. “Mr. Perez what is in the back of this truck?”
“It is our belongings, sir. We are moving to Kansas.”
“Do you have any illegal firearms or other contraband on here, sir?”
“No.”
Evans noticed that Juan’s hands were gripping the wheel tight. Juan was worried.
“Mr. Perez, do you mind if I take a look at the contents of this truck?”
“Sir, we don’t have anything…”
“In that case it won’t take but a moment.”
“I would prefer if you don’t, sir.”
Evans clipped the paperwork and license on his ticket book and figured that a search of the vehicle would be worth the time.
“Mr. Perez, I am going to run your license and make sure you are not wanted in any of our 50 states. I will be right back.”
“Okay, sir.”
“Hold on, partner, I will be right back.” With that, Evans began walking back to his patrol car. His instincts told him that there was something wrong. He watched the truck out of the corner of his eye until he made it into his unit.
“Dispatch, 6-2-0,” Evans said into his shoulder, while watching the truck vigilantly. The driver was now talking to the passenger, apparently arguing with him.
“6-2-0, Dispatch, go ahead.”
“Dispatch, this is 6-2-0, I am still 10-6 on this 10-45, requesting an additional unit. Possible Code-3.” Evans was letting the dispatcher know that he believed there was contraband in the vehicle and needed a K-9 unit for probable cause.
“10-4, 6-2-0,” the dispatcher replied. “4-0-2 is en route to your location. ETA 10 minutes. Stall them if possible.”
“10-4, Dispatch. I’m gonna go talk to them.”
“10-4, 6-2-0, be safe.”
As Evans began writing the speeding ticket, he ran the license number. The license number came back to a Robert Goodman, not a Juan Perez. Evans looked at the license and noticed that it had been manipulated. It was a fake or an alteration.
Evans stepped out of his unit and held the ticket book in his left hand while his right hand unsecured his side arm. It was just then that he remembered where he had seen the passenger’s blank stare before. It bothered him that it took so long to see it.
It was the same look on all the faces of his SEALS right before action. It wasn’t a look of fear or nervousness, but of knowing what was about to happen. The passenger must have known that they were going to be busted for whatever contraband was in the vehicle. Evans opted to walk up to the passenger door.
“Dispatch, this is 4-0-2, I am on the highway now, about three minutes out from 6-2-0.”
“10-4, 4-0-2, make sure the dog is awake.”
“10-4.”
Evans was walking slowly toward the passenger door when he saw it happen. The passenger was holding a Hi-Point 45 to the head of the driver.
“No!” Evans yelled as he upholstered his weapon. At that moment, in the side mirror, he saw the passenger pull the trigger, which ripped a hole in the skull of the driver. Trooper Sam Evans then fired four rounds into the cab of the truck as he tactically retreated to the rear of the truck.
Evans called out with shots fired on his radio, and then all hell broke loose.
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