I squeeze my hands on the Wrangler’s steering wheel. Look at the evidence, I think. Look at the data points. The trooper didn’t pull me over in traffic. No, he made a routine traffic stop when he saw a Jeep with Virginia license plates pulled over to the side.

Routine, then.

All right.

If I wasn’t in the NCIC, then what triggered him? Was it something I said? Something that he spotted that got his suspicious-cop mind working? I understand cops and their “gut feelings.” Once you’ve performed hundreds of traffic stops, your subconscious and muscle memory work together to warn you when something doesn’t feel right.

I take a deep breath, check the time.

I need something to eat.

I’m not hungry, but I need fuel to keep me going all the way to Texas.

I spot a sign for a truck stop called Love’s, up ahead off exit 174. This interstate is really a narrow two-lane blacktop, with woods and flat farmland extending on each side, and a wide and grassy tree-covered median separating me from the northbound lanes. Back home in Virginia, serious commuters would laugh at calling this an interstate.

I come to the exit, make a right, and then turn left at the bottom, going a hundred or so yards on Steele Station Road. This Love’s Travel Stop is part of a large, national chain, and it almost gives me a bit of comfort as I drive into the fuel pump area, step out, and start gassing up my Wrangler. With the pump running, I quickly walk to a Subway to the left of the truck stop, which is a wide, one-story building with a brick facade. It looks cute and homey.

A few minutes later I emerge with a steak-and-cheese sub, a bag of Lay’s chips, and a Diet Coke, and after putting the nozzle back in the pump, I drive to the side of the parking lot, step out, and decide to have a quick little picnic on the hood of my Wrangler. I take out my maps and road atlases, start gauging distances and times, run some rough figures, check my watch.

I lost some additional time due to road work, but according to my figures, it will take me about fourteen hours to get to Three Rivers, Texas. I have plenty of time to stop for the night and arrive on time and fully rested.

The steak-and-cheese sandwich is probably tasty as hell, but I can’t really taste it. I just chew, swallow, chew, swallow. It’s an overcast day, with low clouds.

An Alabama state police cruiser slowly glides into the parking lot, parks in front of the brick building. I give the cruiser a quick glance, go back to my meal. A female trooper emerges, goes into the store. I finish up my sandwich, devour the chips, and take another good, long acid swallow of the Diet Coke.

Once I get to Three Rivers, I can scope out the address and then…well, come up with a perfect plan to seize somebody I don’t know and toss him into my Jeep, to exchange later for my loved ones.