The Road Ranger

By Karl Milde

Meet Tom Smith, the entrepreneur-founder of RoadWheels, a hugely successful company that carries people and their cars from city to city in uniquely designed, double-deck tractor-trailers. While tailing a car that his company brought north from New York City and unloaded at Niagara Falls, a car he believes is smuggling contraband into Canada, Tom is ambushed, knifed and left for dead. An alert Canadian border official, Alonzo Sierra, saves his life by bringing him to a Toronto hospital. During his recovery, Tom decides to feign his own demise and continue his investigation incognito, his true identity known only to the top managers of his company and to Alonzo.

Wearing silver aviator glasses to mask his face, Tom follows a trail that leads him from New York City to a remote island in the South Pacific. As he gets ever closer to finding his attacker, a vicious killer known as the Enforcer, and the Enforcers boss, an evil woman who leads the smuggling operation, he loses his ownership of RoadWheels and unknowingly enters their deadly trap.

While following the twists and turns of his investigation, Tom meets one person after another who desperately needs his help. He takes time to stop whenever and wherever he finds injustice to protect the innocent and bring the wrongdoers to task. Step by step, Tom finds his true self, and a hero is born. He becomes the Road Ranger, destined to travel the highways with his all-black tractor-trailer and silver motorcycle, accompanied by his young companion, Alonzo, whom he has dubbed Toronto.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491717738

Karl Milde

Karl Milde recalls sitting by his family's staticky radio (he lived on a farm a long way from New York City from where the signal was broadcast) at eight o'clock each Wednesday evening to hear the program, The Lone Ranger." Karl liked the music (excerpts from Rossini's William Tell Overture and Les Preludes by Franz Liszt) and over time he grew to know and love the characters: John Reid, a Texas Ranger who was ambushed by a vicious gang and left for dead, andTonto, a Native-American, who found John in the wilderness and nursed him back to health. When John woke up, he asked Tonto what had happened. Tonto replied, "You only Ranger left... Others killed. You lone Ranger."Hearing this, John decided to dedicate his life to thefight for justice. He donned a mask to hide his true identity and adopted the name, "The Lone Ranger." Affectionately calling him "kemosabe," which means "friend," Tonto promised to be his faithful companion.The Lone Ranger owned a silver mine that provided him with funds as well as silver for his matched set of silver six-guns and his famed silver bullets. He named his pure white stallion "Silver" and outfitted him with silver horseshoes. Tonto's horse was a golden Palomino that he named "Scout."The Lone Ranger never drank alcohol or smoked, always used correct grammar, and never shot to kill his adversaries. He had the ability to shoot the guns out of his adversary's hands.Inspired by this radio program, Karl wrote this book as a homage to these legendary heroes. The names became "Road Ranger" and "Toronto" (a Latino who grew up in Toronto), and the horses became motorcycles, but he otherwise tried to remain true to the original Lone Ranger story. Karl hopes you enjoy reading this book as much as he enjoyed writing it.Karl lives with his wife, Cheryl, in Somers, NY, a suburb that's due north and a one-hour train ride from New York City.

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Copyright © 2013 Karl Milde.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-1775-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1774-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1773-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013922491

iUniverse rev. date: 12/06/2013

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

The Road Ranger Rides Again!

Prologue

Chapter 1

This novel is dedicated to my wife, Cheryl Milde, for her love and encouragement over the three years it took to write. Along the way it was read and refined by my friend Vin Dacquino and the many literary voices in his Mahopac Writers Group and by Tom Kersting and the wordsmiths of his Lake Writers Group in Carmel. And finally, it was beta tested and critiqued by my friend and the brilliant financier Andy Szabo, who read the final manuscript and provided his insightful commentary.

PROLOGUE

The building was an anomaly. It stood alone in an open area in a run-down residential neighborhood of the city, a windowless two-story monolith of concrete. It had been vacant and abandoned for as long as the young boy could recall, but it had just recently come to life with internal activity.

The boy, Richie, was just barely into his teens, and, partly from malnutrition, he looked younger than his years. His ragged jeans and oversized T-shirt, purchased for a few dollars from the Salvation Army, contributed to his waiflike appearance. He was indeed an orphan in the strict sense—both his parents had died when he was too small to remember—but at least he had a home with someone who cared. He lived with his grandmother in her rented apartment on a third floor walk-up.

Natural curiosity got Richie started. He paid little heed to the building at first, but he grew more and more curious as he gathered intelligence about the strange goings-on. He eventually spent hours and days watching from a safe distance as the heavy garage door on the front of the building rose up to allow a small car to either enter or leave and then lowered and closed itself again. It was as if the building swallowed the car whole and then, at some later time, spit the car out. Usually the car that came out had a different color than the one that went in, but it was always the same type of car: a Mini Cooper. At first Richie thought the cars were painted inside, and he began writing down their license plate numbers in an attempt to keep track. From this he made a startling discovery. No two plate numbers were ever the same.

As he watched the building, Richie could detect patterns of activity. The workers were there every day except Sunday, and they always left at about the same time, between nine and ten in the evening. On Sunday the place appeared vacant, but because it had no windows Richie could not be sure no one stayed inside to stop intruders. One Sunday Richie got up the courage to try the side door but found it locked.

A Mini Cooper arrived about every other weekday, and another one left the building about a day later. By watching carefully Richie noticed something odd. The Mini Coopers that came out appeared to ride lower on their wheels than the ones that went in, as if they were carrying a heavy load.

Over time Richie grew an urge to look inside the building to see what was going on. Initially, the urge was just an idea that he rejected as being impossible to carry out. But the urge grew stronger with each passing week and month until eventually it was not whether he would attempt to break in, but how.

Frequently a black limousine drove up and stopped in front of the garage door. The driver, a very large man, would get out and open the rear car door for his passenger in the backseat. The passenger was a woman who would sometimes take her time in stepping out, barking orders into a cell phone held up to her ear. One of the workers would come out to meet them and they would talk for a few minutes. The driver and the woman would enter the building through the side door, leaving the worker to guard the limousine outside. Richie could see he had a weapon, something that looked like a large, heavy rifle. About an hour later the man and woman would emerge from the building, climb back into the limousine, and drive away. The worker with the gun would return to the building through the side door.

Richie finally built up the courage to talk to this woman, who was clearly in charge. The next time he saw the limousine arrive he came out of hiding and walked up as she got out of the car. The driver who held the car door glared at him fiercely. Richie sensed a hostility in this man but couldn’t understand why this was so. He stifled an urge to turn and run but instead took a deep breath and pressed forward to speak to the woman.

Go away, the limousine driver ordered with a gravelly voice. The woman turned to look at Richie and then held up her hand to signal silence.

What do you want? she demanded. Richie looked up at her and had to avert his eyes. Her pupils burned into him with an intensity he had never seen before. Before shielding his own eyes he caught a glimpse of what seemed like the red laser eyes of the devil.

He managed to say, I… I’d just want to know what you’re doing inside the building.

Why?

I… I don’t know. The building’s been empty, and…

What is your name, boy?

Richie. Richie James.

Where do you live?

I… I live up that street over there… Richie pointed in the direction of his grandmother’s apartment house.

"Well, go home. You’re trespassing. Do not come here again. I am warning you."

Uh, okay, I’ll go. But can’t you just tell me what’s going on? What’s the big secret?

At this point the limousine driver interrupted the exchange and commanded, Go now!

Richie turned on his heels and complied. Not to appear afraid, although he was, he did not run, but he walked as quickly as he could toward the street where he lived with his grandmother.

Richie should have heeded the warning, but it was too late for that. He just had to look in the building to see what was there. He decided to go the very next Sunday. He would knock loudly, first on the garage door and then on the side door, to make sure no one was inside. If the coast was clear, he would break open the side door with a crowbar. The next morning the workers would discover someone had broken into the building, but even though they might suspect he was the one, they could not prove it. They would look around to see what was taken, and, finding nothing was stolen, they would not call the police.

On Sunday, Richie awoke early, excited to carry out his plan. He grabbed the crowbar he had scrounged for the day and crept quietly out of the apartment without waking his grandmother. He took a circuitous route to the building to avoid any chance of detection.

Breaking in was no problem. The door gave way and snapped open on his first try with the crowbar. Richie quickly stepped in, pulling the door closed behind him. With no windows, the inside of the building was dark. Richie stood on the threshold for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The first thing he noticed was an orange glow emanating from the center of the large, open space. The second thing he noticed was the heat. The inside air felt uncomfortably hot, reminding Richie of a warm oven.

Richie looked around and noticed a light switch on the wall. He flicked the switch, heard a thunk from an electrical box somewhere nearby, and banks of kliegs above him suddenly bathed the entire space in artificial light.

What immediately caught Richie’s eye was a large cupola furnace with a ladder leading up to its open top. It stood alone, ominous and silent, the source of the heat and the orange glow that escaped through small cracks near the bottom. Occupying nearly the rest of the space in the building was a number of Mini Cooper cars in various stages of disassembly and repair. They lay on the floor like carcasses, their insides open and exposed.

Richie walked toward the furnace, and as he came close, he shuddered. The open top of the cupola was nearly big enough to swallow a whole car. He looked about and noticed several groups of rectangular molds. He walked over to examine them but stopped short to listen. He thought he heard a noise, the sound of a car driving up outside. He froze.

There was no place for him to hide, but if there were he could not have made use of it. Panic had set in and immobilized him. His brain went blank.

Suddenly a man burst in through the side door behind him and shouted hoarsely, Don’t move!—as if Richie was capable of running away. Richie managed to lift up his hands while standing with his back to this man at the door. Richie slowly turned around with his hands held high until he could see who was there. He instantly recognized the limousine driver. The man stood holding a pistol pointed straight at his face.

You again! was all the man said and fired once. Richie felt a jolt and a stab of pain in his left shoulder. The man continued to train his gun on him and walked toward him, glaring at him in anger. Turn around! he shouted with a gravelly voice. Climb that ladder!

In front of Richie was the ladder that led to the top of the cupola. He walked up to it and grabbed hold, but instead of climbing, he turned back to face the hostile man. Wha—what are you going to do? His hands were trembling. He tried his best to hold back tears.

The man with the gun shot again, this time hitting Richie in the leg. The young boy screamed in pain and fell over. Go up that ladder! the man barked. Now!

D—do—don’t shoot! He grabbed hold of the bottom rung with his right hand. His left shoulder and leg were shattered and bleeding badly. The gunman came forward and lifted him off the ground so he could start climbing with his free arm and leg. Almost fainting from the pain and shock, Richie did as he was told, grabbing one rung after another with his right hand while holding on with his left, slowly pulling himself up. Every movement multiplied the pain. He finally reached a point where he could look into the furnace from the opening above. He saw orange-hot metal bubbling at the bottom. It was like looking down into the fires of hell.

The man with the gun suddenly charged up the ladder behind him. He grabbed hold of Richie’s legs and lifted him up past the top of the ladder. Having nothing to grasp on to, Richie teetered in space in unspeakable horror and then plunged over the edge of the furnace into the fires inside.

CHAPTER 1

Bonnie came running out of the RoadWheels office when she saw Tom pull into the Clarence Travel Plaza with his all-white tractor-trailer and ease to a stop, air brakes hissing. Bonnie reached Tom just as his tall, lanky frame swung down from the tractor and his cowboy boots touched the tarmac. Without so much as a Hello! How are you? she let him have it with both barrels: Houston, she said urgently, we have a problem.

Let’s talk was all Tom said to her as he motioned to Bonnie to follow him and pressed a hidden button on the underside of his trailer. A powered doorway on the side flipped outward and down, forming a staircase. Tom climbed up the few steps into the building on wheels and, when inside, took another narrow stairway to a second floor deck. Bonnie gave her blonde locks a quick shake, kicked the stairs to knock the dust off her UGG boots, and dashed lightly up, two steps at a time, following the tall man up to his spacious office.

Bonnie sank into one of the comfortable seats at a conference table. Tom took a seat facing her and nodded. Okay, talk to me, he said. What’s going on?

For some months now I have… noticed things, Bonnie began, slowly and deliberately. I think we have become a link in a chain of smuggling into Canada.

Smuggling? What, drugs? Tom stared at her, startled, his square jaw tensing.

I don’t know. Maybe.

Why would anyone use our system?

I think… to avoid detection. Possibly getting stopped on the highway by the police.

Stopped for what?

For anything. Speeding, changing lanes, broken taillight. DWFB, whatever. The police have their quota.

DWFB?

Driving while female blonde, she said sarcastically, giving her shoulder-length blonde tresses a toss for emphasis.

Yeah. Tom smiled, conveying he liked the joke. So how do you know there’s a problem?

Their cars are—uh—different. They’ve been modified.

Modified?

They’re Mini Coopers—very heavy, like they’re carrying lead. But they’re powerful. Been souped up.

How do you know this? Tom asked.

We drive them on and off the trailers, remember? The guys have even weighed these cars.

Weighed them?

We became suspicious, so we got some road scales. Like the ones they use at the truck weigh stations. Bonnie’s voice inflected upward as if she had asked a question. Placed them at the end of the ramp and weighed the cars as we backed them out. Nobody could guess what we were doing.

What’d you find out?

We knew the standard weight of that model Mini Cooper. We knew the weight of the driver. We just subtracted them from the weight we measured.

There was a difference? Whatever the difference was, Tom knew, was probably contraband.

It varied a bit from car to car. But the average load on those Mini Coopers was about one hundred pounds.

What about luggage? That could explain it, Tom probed.

I suppose. Pretty heavy luggage, though. And you could see into the trunks of those cars through their back windows. The luggage compartments were empty.

So the cars were extra heavy. That’s it?

No. There’s more, Bonnie continued.

Oh? What’s that?

"The cars would never travel south with us to New York City. But we noticed these same cars kept coming back from New York. It was always one way."

Same cars? How did you know? Tom looked at her skeptically.

Good question. The license plate numbers were always different, but we checked the VIN numbers on these Minis. Our guys became familiar with these cars. It got so we could easily identify them.

Did you check out the license plate numbers?

Yes, we did. Those plate numbers were issued to real people, all right, but when we checked on these people, it was clear they weren’t the ones who owned those cars. The plates on the Minis were fake. Made with forged numbers.

Tom paused for a moment to reflect. Did you alert the police?

No. I wanted to speak with you first. We don’t want this to affect our business. It might scare customers off.

Don’t worry about that, Tom said assuredly. I want RoadWheels to do the right thing. But the police might spook these guys. Once they’re onto the police, they’ll just stop doing what they’re doing and the police won’t have enough evidence to get a conviction. Maybe I should check into it first.

I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Bonnie warned.

Oh? Why not?

These cars trickle in on a steady basis. When they arrive, there’s this kind of entourage of forces that meets them here at this RoadWheels station and follows them north toward Canada.

Entourage?

Nothing too obvious. It’s just that if you were here, operating this station as long as I have, you would start to notice things. Whatever’s in those cars must be very valuable and worth protecting. Those guys have guns. I’ve seen them.

How do you know they’re heading for Canada?

My boyfriend’s a customs officer at the border. He tells me things.

Things? Like what?

Like the Mini Coopers that leave here always cross into Canada.

If your—uh—boyfriend suspects them, why doesn’t he check out the cars at the border?

No probable cause. They can’t just tear a person’s car apart with no good reason. The drivers have passports; the plates appear legal.

What about that entourage? Doesn’t that raise enough suspicion?

That’s just it. Those guys with guns never cross the border. My boyfriend’s never seen them.

Do you think another group meets the car on the other side?

I don’t know, but I would think so. They’re going to a lot of trouble to make sure the cars get to wherever they’re supposed to go.

Well, it should be easy to find out just where those cars are going. Just tail one of them, Tom said definitively. I can do that.

Don’t let them know you’re following, Bonnie cautioned.

Don’t worry, I can stay well back—provided you do one thing for me.

What’s that?

I want you to attach this device to the next suspicious Mini that comes in. Tom stood up and, reaching over to his workbench, picked up a black object that looked like a small hockey puck. It has a magnet on the bottom, so it will stick to the car wherever you put it.

It’s a bug? Bonnie asked.

A locator. I’ll be able to trace the car with my computer.

Wow, that’s great! You just sit here in your office and watch where it goes.

Unfortunately, it only transmits a couple of miles. And if you put it out of sight under a car, it can’t transmit to a cell tower or a satellite. I’ll have to follow with my van on ground level to pick up the signal.

Got it. No problem. I’ll take care of it, Bonnie replied, getting up from her chair and starting to leave. She wore a form-fitting sweater and tight jeans that showed off her contours.

Thanks, Tom said. So how long do you think it will be until the next Mini comes in?

Well, as a matter of fact, my men are unloading one as we speak.

CHAPTER 2

Don’t call the police just yet, Tom said. As soon as I come back, we’ll talk and make a plan.

Bonnie stood and faced Tom squarely as he also rose to leave. Please be careful, she admonished with real concern in her voice. These men are dangerous. There’s no telling what they’ll do if they find out you’re on to them.

Tom nodded as if to give Bonnie his promise and led the way out and down to the tarmac. As Bonnie was about to go, he held out his hand. Thank you, Bonnie, for watching out for the company. There is so much more to running a business than running a business.

Ignoring his hand, Bonnie embraced him with a big bear hug. "Don’t mention it. Just come back safely—and soon."

When Bonnie left, Tom sprang into action. He climbed the few steps and entered his trailer again, but this time he turned to the right on the main deck to face a large control panel on the wall. Throwing one switch he closed the door behind him and, activating two others, he raised the rear door of the trailer and ejected a ramp down to the ground. He then walked back through the garage space in the interior of the trailer, past a low-slung red sports car, to a white panel truck in the rear.

Tom climbed into the driver’s seat of his van and backed it out. Pressing buttons on a small device clipped to the visor, he reversed the commands and watched as the ramp retracted into the trailer bed and the rear door lowered itself, leaving the trailer enclosed and secure.

Tom then headed over to the restaurant and restroom facilities of the huge travel plaza and parked the van inconspicuously in plain sight, as if he were one of the hundreds of visitors that stopped there each day to take a break from a long drive on the New York State Thruway. While he waited for a call from Bonnie telling him the Mini was on the move, he set up the van’s telecommunications system to receive and process the locator signal and to display the Mini’s position on a dashboard-mounted computer screen.

Within a few minutes, Tom got the call.

Tom, you there? It’s me, Bonnie.

I’m over near the restaurant, parked and ready to go.

The Mini’s heading out. I don’t see any others following.

Maybe they’re getting cocky… no, wait. There’s a black Mercedes that’s just backing out of a parking space here. Maybe—oh, and there’s another! They are both queuing up to leave and appear to be waiting for something… Tom paused for a moment. Yes! Here comes the Mini, and one of the Mercedes cars pulled right out in front of it. The other one is… following the Mini now. I’ll wait until they’re out of sight and follow them.

Do you have the locator signal?

Tom glanced over at the map on the dashboard screen. There it was, a little red dot moving slowly upward on the road that represented the thruway.

Got it! We’re set. I’m on my way.

"Be very careful" was the last thing Bonnie said. Tom heard her voice tighten with concern.

Don’t worry. I’ll check in frequently.

Tom backed out of his parking spot and headed for the superhighway. As expected, the Mini and its entourage stayed on the thruway past Exit 49 and took Exit 50 for Niagara Falls. Following the three cars as they traveled the interstate I-290 northwest to I-190, and then heading northwest again on I-190, the main route to Niagara Falls, Tom stayed back a good mile to avoid any chance of detection. The red dot on the screen kept moving steadily forward on I-190 as it traversed the Grand Island and finally crossed over the Niagara River into Canada.

The customs station was on the Canadian side of the river, just over the Peace Bridge. Tom noticed the little red dot had stopped at that point on the map, and although he slowed while still traversing Grand Island to give the Mini time to pass through customs, he nevertheless caught up and caught sight of it as he approached the booths. The driver had stopped at one of the booths and was apparently being interviewed by a customs official.

However, the Mercedes were nowhere in sight. Where did they go? Tom wondered, looking around to see if they had stopped at other booths or were turning around to head back to Grand Island. They had vanished into thin air.

Tom picked the shortest line and pulled up behind another car waiting to pass through another of the booths. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the Mini was cleared to enter the country and took off again on the Queen Elizabeth Way toward Toronto. Still thinking about the two black Mercedes, he edged forward toward the customs booth as the car ahead of him was cleared and sped away.

Hello, officer. Here’s my license. Tom held out his driver’s license for the official to review.

Sorry, we need your passport.

Damn! I completely forgot. I don’t have it with me.

"You people always think of Canada as just another state. Well, hello! We’re another country, eh?"

That’s very funny. I’m sure you get a lot of laughs with that one. Tom looked at the young man and took a wild flyer on the off chance that the customs official happened to know Bonnie by way of her boyfriend. By the way, he added, have you heard of a Bonnie Salerno?

Why do you ask?

I’m her employer. She works for RoadWheels.

"You’re… Tom Smith! Well, duh. Sorry I didn’t recognize you. Welcome to Canada, my friend."

You mean I can go in?

Well, no. No passport, no entry. That’s the rule nowadays.

You still didn’t answer my question.

Can you come in? The answer is no.

I mean my other question. Have you heard of Bonnie?

Yeah, of course! Everyone here knows Bonnie. She’s our best customer.

Best customer?

On a good day she sends us almost a thousand people.

That’s a good thing?

Good for the economy, eh?

She told me her boyfriend works here.

"Boyfriend? She called me that? I’m flattered."

"You’re her boyfriend?"

The one and only. At least I think so.

"She said you’ve been nice enough to provide her with certain… uh… information."

Issat so? Now what kind of information is that?

About some Mini Coopers that keep going back and forth between our country and yours.

She told you that?

Yes, Tom acknowledged.

Okay, yeah. We’re looking into that, it’s true.

Small Mini’s without a mini weight.

Aye. We’re trying to find out where they are going. They keep giving us the slip.

So you’re on to them?

Bonnie thinks they may be smuggling something in.

Why don’t you just tail them?

Can’t. No probable cause.

Well, I can. And I was tailing one of them until you stopped me.

You were?

Yes. And if you let me pass I’ll catch up with the guy and maybe find out what’s going down.

Nope. Nice try. Can’t let you in. No passport, remember?

You’ll make me turn around and go back?

You can’t go forward, that’s for sure. You see any other way except back?

You’re very funny, Tom said, looking in the rearview mirror and seeing a car directly behind him. So how do I do that?

Head over there and turn around. The customs officer pointed to a marked-off area to the left. I’ll bet that next time you’ll bring your passport! he shouted as Tom sped away.

Neither Tom nor the customs officer noticed a black Mercedes with tinted windows parked way over on the side of the large expanse of roadway.

CHAPTER 3

Tom was allowed to drive forward through the customs booth area to turn his car around. Returning in the way he came on I-190, he chided himself for forgetting his passport.

As he crossed over the bridge onto Grand Island, he glanced in his rearview mirror and noticed a black Mercedes tailgating closely. The car could have easily passed him on this near-empty stretch of superhighway but it continued to follow. Before he had time to think about what to do, he noticed a second black Mercedes dropping back on the highway in front of him. The timing was too perfect. The Mercedes behind must have called the Mercedes in front. Obviously, they were working together, but what did they want?

It didn’t take long for Tom to find out. No sooner did Tom realize that he was locked in tight, between these two black cars, than his cell phone rang. He answered using his cell’s Bluetooth connection by saying aloud, Accept the call. Instantly, background highway noises came over the speaker and, after a beat, a gravelly male voice announced, Pull off at the next exit.

That’s not where I’m going, fella, Tom replied, with as much conviction as he could muster under the circumstances.

Yes, you are. You can’t see them, but we have guns trained on your vehicle.

Tom was in the right-hand lane. He tried to move left into the passing lane, but the car behind him sped up while the car in front slowed down slightly, adjusting their speeds until they both made contact with Tom’s car, front and back. Tom’s car was suddenly squeezed between them like a hamburger patty between two buns. He considered briefly turning the steering wheel sharply to the left to force his way out of the box but thought better of it, realizing that his car would become unstable and start tumbling, involving the Mercedes in a major tangle that could cost him his life. Instead he eased off the gas, and he and the two Mercedes, behind and in front, began to slow down.

You’re doing just fine so far. Now we’ll get off at the next exit, came the gravelly voice.

As if Tom had a choice. He passed a sign that announced Whitehaven Road and knew he had only a few brief seconds to take some action before he reached the exit ramp. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911.

Don’t do that, came the voice over his speakers.

Do what? Tom said aloud. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

"You’re calling 911. Put down the phone, now!"

Tom dropped the phone. The Mercedes in front of him started moving to the right to leave the highway, and Tom had no choice but to follow.

At the end of the ramp take a right on Whitehaven.

When Tom was halfway down the ramp, the car behind braked abruptly, giving Tom’s car space to maneuver. Tom stopped at the bottom of the ramp and turned onto Whitehaven, with the other Mercedes leading the way.

The Niagara River between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario splits into two, the East River and West River, with Grand Island between them. Whitehaven is a ruler-straight, east-west highway that bisects Grand Island at its widest part. The western half of Whitehaven passes through marshland, devoid of development, in a long, lonely stretch where the Mercedes in front pulled off the road and stopped. Two men got out of the car and flagged Tom to a stop behind them. The other Mercedes pulled up behind Tom.

Tom sat in his car and thought, desperately trying to formulate a plan. He could make a run for it, now that the other cars had stopped and their drivers were standing there outside, but he felt sure that the men were carrying guns and would blast away at his car, blowing out his tires at the very least but more likely putting a bullet through his head. He felt his safest option was to play along with them at this point, talking with them and trying to learn their game. This was a Hobson’s choice, to be sure, but it was better than stopping a stray bullet.

Get out of the car. The driver of the rear car turned out to be the one with the gravelly voice. This man stepped up and stopped behind Tom’s side window, like a police officer walking the walk, and assumed command. Tom complied. He didn’t know whether or not he should put up his hands, so he kept them down at his side, ready to use them in self-defense. He wouldn’t have much of a chance anyway. The four men, each presumably with a gun, eased into position at the four corners of a square with him at the center.

You were following us. The gravelly voiced man stated the obvious.

"I wasn’t. You were following me."

I’ll tell you this just once: Don’t piss me off. You won’t like what happens. Just answer the question. Why were you following us?

I wanted to find out where you were going.

So you saw we were going to Canada. So what?

So nothing. You didn’t go to Canada after all. Here we are in the United States.

I hate wise guys. You’re pissing me off now.

What do you want from me?

I don’t want nothin’. I want you to cease to exist.

Just because I followed you?

That’s it. You’re dead. The man nodded and his men moved in. Tom attempted to spring away but one man immediately grabbed him from behind. There was no way he could escape. While the man behind held him tight around the neck, another one stepped up and slammed him in the face with his fist. A terrible pain exploded through Tom’s entire body.

The third man reached down and quietly pulled