Police Escort - 03

The cruiser cruised past the last gas station on the edge of Port Mason, its tires humming over wet asphalt. The morning fog was starting to burn off, revealing two empty lanes flanked by pine trees that stretched out like they had no end.

Mitch Keller kept both hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road. His uniform was neat, his vest snug, and his service weapon holstered with the safety strap clicked shut. He hadn’t spoken in ten minutes.

He didn’t need to.

There wasn’t anything to say.

Roarke should’ve been here. That thought kept tapping the back of Mitch’s skull like a metronome. The chief had shrugged it off. “He called in sick. Probably just a 24-hour bug.” But Roarke didn’t just not show. He didn’t answer his phone. And when Mitch swung by his place early that morning, the lights were off, the driveway empty.

Still, there were no red flags. No emergency calls. No alarms.

Just silence.

He glanced in the rearview mirror.

Elias Voss sat quietly in the back seat. Hands cuffed behind him, posture relaxed, gaze angled lazily out the window like he was enjoying the ride. No shackles, no belly chain. Small town. Small resources. Mitch had followed protocol, same as always.

Elias hadn’t said a word since being loaded in.

Fine by Mitch.

Ten minutes out, the radio clicked on.

“Unit 7, confirm status.”

Mitch reached up, kept one hand on the wheel.

“Unit 7. En route to Clearwater County with one inmate. Departed 0705. Over.”

“Copy that. Check in again at 0800.”

“Roger.”

He hung the mic back on the hook and exhaled through his nose.

Still nothing from the back seat.

Twenty miles down the road, Elias finally spoke.

“Quiet morning.”

Mitch didn’t reply. Just blinked, eyes still on the yellow lines stretching out ahead.

“This route’s beautiful in the fall. Leaves start turning up here early. You ever drive it then?”

Nothing.

Elias let the silence hang.

Then—

“They usually send two of you, right?”

Mitch’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t respond. The voice was casual, not probing. Not yet.

“Protocol, I mean. You never drive along. You know.”

Still nothing.

Mitch just kept driving. Eyes forward. Hands steady.

Elias shifted slightly in the seat, settling back.

“Guess things change.”

That was the end of it.

At 8:00 sharp, the radio crackled again.

“Unit 7, status check.”

Mitch grabbed the mic without hesitation.

“Unit 7. All good. Continuing to Clearwater. Over.”

“Copy that.”

He clicked it back in place and checked the clock. Ninety more minutes.

The cruiser rolled on through the dense trees, winding slowly toward the county line. Elias didn’t speak again. Mitch didn’t either.

But the silence wasn’t comfortable. It felt like pressure — building. Waiting.

The trees blurred past in a wall of green and shadow as Mitch pushed the cruiser deeper into the backroads. The radio stayed quiet after the last check-in. No other units on this stretch. No chatter. Just the hum of tires on cracked asphalt and the faint rattle of metal in the back seat.

Elias hadn’t said a word in over half an hour.

Mitch liked it that way.

He didn’t trust men who smiled too easily — especially ones with sealed court records and a reputation for making deals that always ended badly for someone else.

But Elias wasn’t trying to deal. Not yet. He was just riding, like he had all the time in the world.

Mitch’s eyes flicked to the mirror. Elias’s head was leaned slightly to the side, staring at the window. Calm. Maybe even bored.

Then — without changing posture, without looking forward — he spoke.

“Roarke.”

Mitch’s fingers twitched against the wheel.

“That’s his name, right? The one who’s usually riding with you.”

Silence.

Elias smiled to himself.

“Tall guy. Drives a gray F-150. Keeps the porch light on, even during the day.”

Mitch didn’t answer.

But his grip on the wheel turned white-knuckled.

How the hell does he know that?

Elias tilted his head slightly, like he was admiring the sky.

“Nice house. Bit outside town. Long driveway. Trees on both sides.”

Mitch’s jaw flexed.

“You ever get the feeling something’s not right?” Elias continued.
“Like… something’s wrong and nobody else seems to notice?”

Mitch didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He just stared straight ahead, pulse starting to pound in his neck.

“You did everything right this morning,” Elias said, voice smooth. “Clocked in. Took the paperwork. Logged the departure. Reported in on time.”

Check-in’s at 9:00... still thirty minutes away.

“And still...” Elias’s voice dropped into something softer.
“...You’ve got no idea what’s really going on.”

The cruiser kept moving. Trees rushing past. No other cars.

No options.

No fucking way he just guessed that.

Mitch’s breathing was shallow now, but controlled. He wouldn’t give Elias the satisfaction of a reaction. Not a word.

But the voice from the back seat kept coming — quiet, cruel, deliberate.

“I like Roarke. He’s dependable. Solid guy.”
“Shame he’s not here.”

The cruiser rolled on. Mile markers blurred past.

Roarke. Porch light. Gray F-150. Trees on both sides.

Mitch said nothing. His jaw clenched so tight it clicked.

But in his head, the switch had flipped.

This wasn’t random. This wasn’t luck.

The detail. The specificity. Elias wasn’t guessing — he knew.

This is a play. It’s coordinated. Which means Roarke—

He stopped that thought.

Don’t jump.

Don’t assume.

Don’t give him anything.

He tapped the brakes lightly, just enough to slow the cruiser by a couple miles per hour. Subtle. He adjusted the side mirror — just a hair — so he could keep Elias in frame without looking like he was checking.

He’s cuffed. No weapon. Just talking.

Still dangerous.

Mitch’s brain was moving now — scanning his surroundings, mentally mapping the closest turnouts, landmarks, emergency radio codes.

Elias knows where Roarke lives. Which means someone’s been watching. Or worse.

Still, outwardly, Mitch showed nothing. No turn of the head. No eye contact. Just a professional transport run on a quiet highway.

He reached calmly to adjust the volume on the radio — normal movement — but flipped the mic switch to standby without transmitting.

Don’t alert him. Don’t escalate. Get him to talk.

But Elias had gone quiet again, settling back in the seat like nothing had happened. No smile. No smirk. Just patience.

Fuck. He dropped it on purpose. A test. And I didn’t flinch. So now he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.

Mitch felt the sweat building under his vest.

You passed. Now what?

He checked the clock.

Thirty-five minutes to the next check-in.

If something was wrong with Roarke, dispatch wouldn’t know yet. No one would. No one was expecting a distress signal. No one was watching this route.

This was planned. Deliberate. Roarke’s absence wasn’t an accident.

He tapped his fingers lightly against the steering wheel once, twice.

Then stopped.

Stick to the routine. Don’t react. Don’t give him a reason to push faster.

But inside, everything was shifting now. This wasn’t just a transport anymore.

This was a trap.

08:34.

The forest grew thicker on both sides of the highway, the morning sun strangled by the canopy overhead. Mitch Keller’s hands were steady on the wheel, but his gut was tightening.

They were deep in it now — no houses, no signage, no cell towers. Just trees, asphalt, and whatever the hell was breathing behind him.

Elias had been quiet for the last twenty miles.

Too quiet.

The radio stayed silent.

Mitch’s eyes flicked to the clock. Twenty-five minutes until the next check-in.

Then—

He felt the shift.

Not from the road. From behind him.

Elias leaned forward — slowly, deliberately — until Mitch could feel his breath, warm and steady, against his right ear.

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“Pull over.”

The words slid in like a knife under the skin.

Mitch snapped.

His hand shot up, slamming the brakes just enough to jolt the cruiser without losing control. His other hand dropped to his sidearm — still holstered, still secure.

“Sit the fuck back,” Mitch growled.
“Now.”

Elias didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

“You think this is a game?” Mitch snapped. His voice was still low — but all the warmth was gone.
“You say one more word in that tone, I will stop this car, drag your ass out of the back seat, and find a way to shut you up myself.”

A pause.

Silence returned. Thick. Charged.

Elias eased back into his seat without a sound. His cuffs clinked softly behind him.

Mitch stared straight ahead, blood pounding in his ears.

Don’t give him ground. Don’t let him set the pace.

The trees blurred past.

Then the phone buzzed.

One new message. Unknown number. No text. Just an image.

Mitch unlocked it.

And froze.

Roarke.

Tied to a chair. Gagged. Bound in ropes. Uniform soaked with sweat. Mouth sealed shut beneath layer after layer of tape. Eyes wide. Panicked. Silent.

Elias didn’t need to lean forward this time.

His voice drifted up from the back seat. Calm. Controlled.

“That was sent thirty seconds ago. Which means he’s still alive.”

Mitch didn’t turn around. His jaw locked. His thumb hovered over the screen, the image burning into his memory.

“You want him to stay that way?” Elias said softly.
“Pull. Over.”

Mitch didn’t pull over.

Not yet.

His eyes were locked on his phone — the screen still showing that photo: Roarke, tied to a chair, still in uniform, sweat-soaked and gagged with layered, brutal tape. His arms were bound to the chair. His boots off the ground. His eyes wide and pleading.

No way this is fake. No way this is a bluff.

Then — another buzz.

New message. Video.

He tapped it.

Roarke again. Same chair. Same ropes.

But this time he was moving, struggling, trying to yell through his gag

"Hey Officer Keller, got you buddy Officer Roarke here" The voice behind the camera said.

"Got something to say my friend?" He said again followed by muffled moans from Roarke —raw and guttural. Pain and panic muffled behind layers of tape and the thick sock clearly stuffed behind it.

"Just do as you're told, ok bud? And we'll leave him along" He said again before the video ended.

Silence.

Mitch’s hands were clenched around the phone so tightly his knuckles burned. His throat was dry. The photo was one thing.

The video changed everything.

Behind him, Elias leaned forward again — slowly, close enough for Mitch to feel the breath on his neck.

His voice was a whisper:

“Pull over.”

Mitch didn’t move.

“Don’t touch the radio. Don’t be a hero. Just pull over.”

Mitch’s eyes flicked to the side — the trailhead Elias had mentioned was there, barely visible. A narrow gravel path cutting through the trees. No signs. No traffic.

Perfectly isolated.

His foot slid off the gas.

The cruiser turned into the path, swallowed by woods. Branches clawed along the doors. The light faded under the trees.

He came to a stop.

No birds. No wind.

Just his breathing. The engine. And Elias.

“Now,” Elias said, calm as ever, “take your gun out. Place it on the dash.”