The moment I heard the SUV’s engine roar to life and the tires kick up gravel, I scrambled out. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped my phone as I dialed 911. “I need police at the Mile 14 drainage pipe, now!” I screamed.
I gave the dispatcher the description of the black SUV and the direction it was heading. I didn’t care about the money anymore; I just wanted to get home and lock my doors. Max jumped into my arms, sensing the frantic energy in my body.
Within ten minutes, the quiet country air was shattered by the high-pitched wail of sirens. Four patrol cars raced past the pipe, chasing the red taillights of the SUV in the distance. A deputy pulled over and hopped the fence, his hand on his holster.
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“You the one who called?” he asked, his eyes scanning the muddy ground around the culvert. I pointed to the remaining scraps of cash and the oily residue left behind on the concrete. He whistled low, calling for a forensics team to head our way.
He explained that they had been tracking a major trafficking ring moving through the state for months. Apparently, the “Level 1” suspects had dumped the cash during a surprise highway checkpoint days earlier. They had planned to come back for it once the heat died down.
