Near the American-Canadian border
Lloyd Franklin is driving his battered black Ford F-150 pickup truck and his cousin Josh is riding shotgun when Lloyd spots two figures emerging from the deep woods along this narrow dirt road five miles south of the Canadian border.
Josh is sleeping, his bearded face drooping and nearly touching the stained Boston Bruins T-shirt covering his beer gut, and Lloyd nudges him with his elbow and says, “Wake up.”
Josh coughs, wipes at his eyes, and says, “Trouble? What? Border Patrol?”
Good question, because secured under a worn blue tarp in the rear of Lloyd’s truck are ten cases of Marlboro cigarettes—five hundred cartons total—heading to their smuggling partner in Ontario. Bought at forty-eight dollars per carton at a number of stores in and around Lebanon, New Hampshire, Lloyd and Josh charge eighty dollars American in Ontario.
Even with the cost of gas and the payoff to their Canadian partner, Lloyd and his cousin are going to clear over fifteen thousand dollars in this quick trip on this narrow dirt road that’s one of the many illegal crossings in and out of their northern neighbor. Jobs that Lloyd and his cousin could do up here have been fading away, and food stamps and surplus cheese and oatmeal just ain’t making it.
Lloyd peers through the dirty windshield. “Don’t know who the hell they are. Dressed all in white.”
“Priests, maybe?” Josh asks.
“I—ah, you asshole!”
The two strangers come out in the middle of the dirt road, the taller and older of them holding up a hand. Lloyd brakes—he feels the grinding underfoot; with the cash they’ll be getting, he can finally afford to get the rotors replaced—and stops about four feet away from the two guys.
“Look at that, will you?” Lloyd says, thinking, Yeah, they’re wearing white jumpsuits and they look pretty weird out here in the middle of nowhere.
Josh breathes heavily, reaching under the seat, pulling out a holstered .357 Ruger revolver. Josh unholsters the revolver, holds it in his plump lap, and says, “If these two don’t get out of the way, I’ll handle it.”
Lloyd lowers the window as the taller and older man starts walking toward them. “Lighten up, Josh. Probably just a couple of freaks, lost in the woods. Looking for their yoga partners or something.”
“You lighten up,” Josh snaps back. “Goddamn Citizens Bank is about to foreclose on my house, kick me and Lisa and the kids out, and I’m not going to let that happen. Don’t care if these two are starving or been lost for a month: we’re not helping, and we’re getting to the handoff on schedule.”
The man comes up to the driver’s side, smiling, dark skin, bushy eyebrows, and says in an accented voice, “Sorry to bother you.”
“What’s the problem?” Lloyd asks. “And why are you wearing those…hazmat suits, right?”
The man continues to smile, an odd look in his eyes. “That’s correct, you smart fellow. And there’s no problem. We just need your truck. Now.”
There’s a light amusing tone to the man’s voice, but fright creeps up the back of Lloyd’s neck, and Josh says, “Screw this. Get moving, coz.”
The man says, “Ah, yes, screw this. I bet we are interrupting you, the two of you. Ready to pleasure each other?”
Lloyd throws the truck in Park and Josh says, “You two…,” and Lloyd slams open the door, hitting the guy. He and Josh have done roofing, house framing, logging, and have ridden for years with the North Mountain Boys motorcycle gang, and these two creepy shits are about to get tuned up. He and Josh have at least a good half foot on both of them, and about forty or fifty pounds.
This is going to be fun.
Josh slides his revolver into his waistband and goes to the younger, smaller guy, grabbing him by the collar. He says, “You think this is funny? You think we’re fags or something?”
Lloyd is moving onto the first guy but pauses, wanting to see Josh get the first hard punch into the little guy, and—
The small guy squirms, doing something fast with his hands.
Josh yelps.
Spins around, pretty quick for a big and heavy guy.
Josh’s hands are around his throat.
He stares at Lloyd.
Josh gurgles.
Coughs.
Blood sprays out from between his fingers, trying to hold his severed throat together, and he stumbles two steps and falls down heavy on the dirt road.
Lloyd panics, seeing the first guy coming toward him, still smiling, and he realizes with sharp horror why the two are wearing hazmat suits—so they don’t get soaked with blood—and he turns and has started running when there’s a hard punch to his back.
His legs fold up underneath him.
He hits the dirt hard, tasting it, and then he’s rolled over by the first man, who’s holding a sharp skinny knife in his hand. There’s a bright red drop of blood on the point of the knife. Lloyd stares at it. His breathing slows down.
The man says, “I’ve severed your spinal cord between the L3 and L4 lumbar region. I learned the technique in medical school, years ago in Tunisia, and practiced it many times in combat across the world. You will never walk again.” Then he laughs. “But the time period of ‘again’ is flexible, isn’t it?”
The other man joins him, also smiling.
Lloyd whispers, “Why?”
“Why not?” he says as the knife comes down for the last time.