The Rules

The men with guns had formed a perfect semicircle around my truck, like actors hitting their marks in a well-rehearsed play.

This was no chance encounter. It was a planned ambush.

One of them approached me slowly. No sheriff's badge, no cowboy hat. Just a bizarre getup — a tactical vest that didn't belong over a threadbare shirt, with a coat thrown on over the top.

Looking closer, I recognized him. The owner of that diner from earlier.

He flipped his coat open, making a point of showing off the pistol holstered at his hip. Then he jerked his chin, signaling me to roll down the window. I pressed the switch without a fight.

The glass hissed down, and his gaze cut into the cab on a blade of cold air. He looked up at me in the driver's seat and put on a sly, easygoing smile.

"Hey there, friend. Doesn't look like you've paid the rest-stop fee yet."

"Rest-stop fee?"

What the hell kind of fee was that supposed to be?

"That's right. A usage fee. This is our territory. And if you're gonna use our territory, you gotta pay. Ain't that right?"

His voice was soft, but the long guns ringing us turned every word into a threat.

Great. Just what I needed.

Starting a firefight here would have been insane. I didn't care about much else, but there was no guarantee my truck would come through it in one piece. If I could bargain my way out, that was the better play.

"How much?"

He looked my truck up and down, then spoke with a satisfied expression.

"Well, well. A polar bear's come down to visit."

He was reading my license plate. Northwest Territories plates carried a polar bear — unmistakable at a glance. It used to be a point of pride as a trucker. Now it was just a convenient way to get yourself marked.

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠man went on.

"And a fella driving a shiny rig like this can surely spare, oh, five hundred dollars. Don't you think?"

"I don't have that kind of cash. All I've got ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on me is fifty dollars."

The smile vanished. He put on an intimidating look and took another step closer.

"Then I'll just keep an eye on this fine truck of yours while you head into town and fetch the rest."

His suggestion was a threat, plain and simple.

Leave the truck with them? Not a chance in hell.

"I came down from up north. That's all the American dollars I have. But I've got some Canadian. A thousand dollars. If that'll do, I'll pay it and be on my way."

The man thought it over for a moment, then shrugged.

"Fine. Money's money."

I pulled a rubber-banded stack of a thousand Canadian dollars from my bag and tossed it out the window to him. He caught the bundle and stepped back, looking satisfied.

That's right. No need to fight if I don't have to.

I repeated it to myself as I eased the truck into gear and started rolling. I was almost clear of the rest stop when a sharp whistle cut the air.

The man from before had blown it. At that signal, the long guns scattered along the roadside began to stir again, sliding back into position across my path.

I stopped. The same man approached once more, slowly. The greed on his face was even more naked than before.

"Hey. I changed my mind."

The ringleader slammed his palm down on my truck's gleaming fender. Bang. Bang.

This son of a bitch just put his hands on my truck?

A curse boiled up from deep in my gut, but I forced it down.

"What are you talking about?"

"Canadian dollars ain't enough. A gentleman rolling a toy this expensive can surely donate one of those spare tires off the trailer on his way out. Don't you think?"

Anger surged through me. But I knew well enough that rage only clouds judgment.

The tire is just an excuse. Their real goal might be to pull me out of the driver's seat.

To buy time — and to figure out what they actually wanted — I played dumb.

"Listen, that tire weighs over two hundred pounds. I try to take it down by myself, I'll get crushed."

He cackled and called his buddies over.

"Hey, get over here."

While they snickered and clustered along the side of the truck, the road ahead of me opened for a split second. Should I just punch it and run? I considered it for a heartbeat, then let the thought go.

The rest stop's entrance and exit swept around in a curve. I'd be back in their line of fire before I could even get up to speed. And more than anything, I didn't want bullet holes in my truck.

Just as the thought stretched on—

Bang!

A single gunshot from the diner owner tore through the gray sky. The instant I heard it, something in my head snapped.

The roar of an IED going off in some Afghan alley. Rounds whispering past my ear in the Sahel. Battlefield memories I'd buried came flooding back, summoned by that one shot.

The ringleader leveled his smoking pistol at me and bellowed.

The air around us froze. But my mind went strangely, ice-cold clear. I raised both hands slowly, putting on a theatrical little shrug.

"Now, now. We could've settled this with words. No need to get ugly."

While I held their eyes, my right hand slid quietly, very slowly, down beneath the driver's seat.

Cold steel. My thumb eased the safety off the Remington TAC-14 without a sound.

A tiny mechanical click. It sounded like the ticking of a clock announcing the end of the world. A round of buckshot was already chambered.

I swung the driver's door wide open, using it to block the approaching men's line of sight. I climbed down with my back to them, showing them my spine — keep the enemy relaxed, minimize the time the weapon is exposed.

I used the momentum of dropping from the high cab to spin, put the ringleader's head in my sights, and pulled the trigger. The TAC-14 was a stockless, point-and-shoot shotgun, but I extended my arms and aimed true.

BOOM!

The diner owner's head came apart in a thunderclap.

I didn't even glance at the other three faces. I racked another round, took a step forward, and fed a load of 12-gauge buck to the farthest one — the one holding the most dangerous weapon, an automatic rifle.

BOOM!

Beside me I heard the frantic rustle of someone trying to unsling a rifle and chamber a round. Instinct took over. I drove my right hand — TAC-14 and all — straight into his jaw like a punch.

The shotgun punched into his chin like a short spear. I felt the steel muzzle shatter his jawbone through my hands, that ugly, intimate feedback of steel meeting bone. He dropped without a sound, folding like a dead tree. I used the rebound of pulling the shotgun back to rack another shell — and then a shot rang out.

Crack!

The first round from the hunting rifle went wide. The thick gloves had thrown off his aim. In the split second he worked the bolt, my Remington TAC-14 erupted again.

BOOM!

The buckshot caught him square in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the pectoral, just below the collarbone. He dropped the rifle and went down. Then came the wet, choking sounds — wine-dark foam bubbling from his mouth. The lead pellets had shredded the lung tissue. Air was being sucked in through the torn flesh, leaking from the alveoli into the blood vessels and the bronchial tubes.

Four men, gone in an instant.

I drew the Heckler & Koch VP9 from my hip and put a round through the forehead of the one who was still breathing.

Bang!

Then I walked slowly to the rest of them and pulled the trigger.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I put one more into what was left of the ringleader's half-missing skull.

The smell of gunpowder hung everywhere. The stink of blood began to spread through the cold air. I stood for a moment, looking down at the four corpses in silence.

Then I quietly collected the spoils.

I stripped the diner owner's belt off him, holster and all. From the corpse with the shattered jaw, I picked up a shotgun that looked unusual.

Huh. A semi-auto shotgun.

A gun you couldn't buy in Canada. I didn't forget to search the slack body for spare magazines.

I left the rest of the firearms. I was running out of hands, and I couldn't afford to linger.

I climbed back into the W990, put it in gear as if nothing had happened, and eased down on the accelerator. I cleared the rest stop completely and merged back onto I-15. I didn't even glance at the place shrinking in the rearview mirror.

But the body is honest in ways cold reason is not.

My heart hammered against my ribs like it meant to break them. The hands on the wheel trembled, just slightly. I tried to find my composure, but I could feel the adrenaline coursing through every vessel in my body.

I drew a deep breath, let it out, and replayed what had just happened in my head.

It's already done. Think about what's next.

Then I called Dave.

"Hey, Chan. Perfect timing."

"You ready?"

"Yeah, we should be able to roll out tomorrow morning. Frank and his family too."

"Good."

Hearing Dave's voice, I felt something in my chest settle.

"Dave, the plan's changed."

"Huh? Changed how?"

"Something came up here. I don't think I can wait in Montana. Skip Great Falls. Let's meet at the next rally point."

"What? What happened? You okay?"

Worry bled into his voice.

"I'm fine. Just... something came up. I'll tell you when I see you."

I steered the conversation away.

"The border's starting to get crowded. You should move as fast as you can. If it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠looks like you can't get across, call me back."

"Got it, buddy. Watch yourself out there."

I hung up and drove on in silence, rolling straight through Great Falls, the capital of Montana. Passing the rally point without stopping hurt, but I couldn't stay here any longer.

I drove for several more hours without a break. Only when I reached a deserted shoulder on a lonely stretch of road heading toward Idaho, after crossing Montana's vast plains, did I finally bring the massive truck to a halt.

I killed the engine, and a silence fell as if every sound in the world had been switched off. All I could hear was my own ragged breathing and the hard, heavy thud of my heart. The mind that had been ice-cold during the fight was only now beginning to burn.

Adrenaline was still tearing through me. I realized I was still amped.

Guess I've got a decent excuse to start smoking again.

I smiled bitterly, grabbed the pack of Marlboro Reds I'd tossed on the passenger seat, and climbed down from the truck. I cracked the red pack, pulled out a cigarette, and put it between my lips. I flicked the lighter and lit up.

The smoke I drew deep into my lungs after so long was harsh and acrid. A cough tore out of me on its own. But then the familiar nicotine kick landed in my brain with a clean, solid hit. The nerves that had been wound tight began, little by little, to loosen.

I exhaled a long stream of smoke and started going back over the rest stop, piece by piece.

That dilapidated diner didn't have any cameras. And even if it had, I doubted they actually worked.

Next, witnesses. The ringleader — the one who'd looked like the diner owner — was dead. There hadn't been any other customers besides me. The handful of beat-up pickups in the parking lot had probably been theirs.

And last: all four of them were dead. I'd checked myself. The ones whose heads were still intact each got a 9mm Parabellum.

Just the rules of a changed world.