CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Shadows stretched across the asphalt road, the evening sun low enough to paint the western sky in streaks of orange and gold. Corey McLaughlin had been driving this route for three years now, knew every curve and pothole between Westminster and the county line.
“Last stop, finally done,” Corey muttered to himself, adjusting the air conditioning vent. The delivery truck cabin had grown stuffy, trapping heat that slipped in at every stop he made during the day. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the ache of twelve hours on the road.
His mind wandered to his plans for the evening—a cold beer, the baseball game he’d recorded, maybe ordering that pizza with the works from Gino’s.
Simple pleasures that seemed sweeter after a long day of rural deliveries.
The TransGlobe logo on his sleeve caught his eye in the side mirror—royal blue against khaki, the uniform he’d worn five days a week for nearly three years now.
That was when he noticed it—a thin column of smoke rising above the woods to his right. Not large, but definite. Corey slowed the truck, eyes narrowing as he tracked the gray plume against the darkening sky.
“That’s not right,” he said, tapping the brakes.
The road was empty in both directions, nothing but dense Virginia forest on either side.
The column was too small to be smoke from a house fire but big enough to be concerning.
The weather had been dry lately, and the conditions were perfect for trouble.
If that fire was unattended it would surely spread.
Corey eased the truck onto the gravel shoulder, hesitating with his hand on the gearshift.
Squinting through the trees, he estimated the smoke’s source at about a quarter mile in.
No thunderstorms had rolled through recently—he’d have remembered anything like that.
Maybe just campers with a controlled fire?
But these woods fell within state park boundaries—no residences dotted these acres; no designated campgrounds existed for miles.
Whoever had lit that fire wasn’t supposed to be there.
The company manual was clear about procedures: report hazards, but don’t engage.
Not his job to play hero. He gave a deep sigh and told himself to just let it go.
But Corey knew he wasn’t going to relax like he planned if he still had this on his mind.
If it was just starting, a small fire might be stopped before it spread.
But even if he reported it now would anybody get to it in time?
He’d hate to see this patch of forest burnt, destroyed because of human carelessness as some others had been.
As he reached for his phone, a news snippet from that morning’s radio broadcast filtered back into his thoughts. Two delivery drivers, ambushed on rural roads just like this one. Both in Virginia, both still missing the last he heard.
Corey’s hand drifted to his hip, feeling the reassuring outline of his Glock 19 beneath his uniform shirt.
He’d gotten his concealed carry permit three years ago, right after he started the rural routes.
The company didn’t officially know—or at least pretended not to know—but plenty of drivers carried these days. Better safe than sorry.
“Nothing to be scared of,” he reasoned aloud. “This is just a fire check.” He was thirty-six, in decent shape, and armed. Not some easy target.
Decision made, Corey killed the engine and pocketed the keys.
He stepped down from the cab, the gravel crunching under his boots.
The evening air smelled of pine and warm asphalt, with just a hint of smoke riding the light breeze.
Insects hummed in the underbrush, and somewhere deeper in the woods, a bird called out, its song trailing into silence.
Corey pulled out his phone and opened the camera, taking a quick shot of the smoke and his location. He sent it to his supervisor with a brief text: “Checking smoke off Route 17. Possible fire. Back in 15.” He put the phone back into his pocket and began walking toward the trees.
As he entered the forest, the sun was still high enough to cast dappled light through the leaves, but shadows pooled between the trees were growing darker with each step away from the road.
The floor was a mix of pine needles, last autumn ‘s leaves, and twisted roots that seemed determined to catch his feet.
Corey moved carefully, following the thin column of smoke that grew more distinct as he approached.
The scent grew stronger too—definitely wood burning, not plastic or chemicals.
The holster pressed against his side as he walked. His hand brushed against it once more, a ritual of reassurance.
Something rustled in the underbrush to his left. Corey’s hand jerked toward his weapon before a squirrel darted up a nearby trunk, chattering angrily at the intruder. He exhaled slowly, feeling a prickle of sweat on his neck despite the cooling evening.
“Get it together,” he muttered. “It’s just a damn squirrel.”
After about ten minutes of careful navigation, Corey emerged into a small clearing. In the center, just as he’d suspected, was a modest campfire, flames licking at a neat tepee of sticks. The fire was contained in a circle of stones, burning steadily, smoking, but not spreading.
Corey scanned the area, suddenly acutely aware of how alone he was. “Hello? Anyone here?” His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet clearing.
No response came back but the soft crackle of the burning wood.
He approached the fire cautiously, noting how recently it had been built. The wood was hardly consumed, the flames still bright and energetic. Someone had been here very recently—maybe still was.
“Park rangers? Anyone around?” he called again, turning in a slow circle. The trees stood silent around the clearing.
The fire was well-built but was apparently abandoned—irresponsible in the dry conditions. Corey sighed, looking around for something to douse it with. He spotted a half-full water bottle at the edge of the clearing and grabbed it, uncapping it with a twist.
“Idiots,” he muttered, pouring the water carefully over the flames. They hissed and sputtered, sending up clouds of steam and smoke. “How hard is it to put out your own damn fire?”
He kicked dirt onto the embers, grinding them under his boot until he was satisfied, they were extinguished. The smoke thinned and then ceased altogether, leaving only the acrid smell of wet ash.
A sudden silence fell over the clearing. The insects that had been buzzing moments before went quiet. Even the distant birdsong stopped. Corey froze, suddenly aware of the heavy stillness.
Something had changed.
His hand moved to his holster, brushing the grip of his Glock. The fading light seemed to thicken the shadows between the trees, turning the once-benign forest into a maze of potential hiding places. Corey turned slowly, scanning the tree line, ears straining for any sound that didn’t belong.
Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.
“Just spooked yourself,” he said, but the words fell flat in the silent clearing. It was time to go—the fire was out, and suddenly the truck seemed very far away.
Taking the empty water bottle with him, Corey began walking back the way he’d come, moving faster now, picking his path with less care. Branches snagged at his uniform, roots threatened to trip him, but he pushed on, guided by the fading glow of daylight that marked the direction of the road.
The silence followed him, pressing in from all sides. No squirrels now, no birds, no insects. Just his own breathing and the soft crunch of his boots on the forest floor. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cooling air.
When the truck finally came into view through the trees, Corey felt a surge of relief. The familiar blue and white of the TransGlobe vehicle seemed like a sign of safety. He quickened his pace, almost jogging the last few yards to the road.
Just as his hand reached his vehicle, a twig snapped behind him.
Corey spun, dropping the plastic bottle, his hand flying to his weapon. “Who’s there?” he demanded, unsnapping the holster.
The movement came too fast—at the very instant he was drawing his gun, a rush of footsteps, the blur of a dark figure lunging toward him from one side. Something was yanked over his head—a plastic bag, thick and suffocating. It pulled tight against his face, sealing against his mouth and nose.
He couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. His hands flew up, abandoning the weapon to claw at the plastic. Strong hands gripped him from behind, dragging him backward.
Corey fought wildly, his training forgotten in the face of primal fear. His elbow shot backward, connecting with something solid. He heard a grunt of pain, felt the grip loosen fractionally.
That was all he needed. Corey twisted violently, tearing partially free from his attacker’s grasp. His fingers found the edge of the plastic, ripping it away from his face. Sweet air rushed into his lungs as he staggered forward, gasping and choking.
The gun. Where was his gun?
A dark shape lunged at him again. Corey caught the briefest glimpse—black clothes, a mask or balaclava hiding the face, average height but very strong. He dodged sideways, his back hitting the truck’s side panel with a metallic thud.
With his back to the truck, his flailing hand searched for a door handle.
In the same moment, his attacker seemed to hesitate, perhaps realizing the element of surprise was lost. Corey saw the figure back away, then turn and sprint into the woods, disappearing between the trees with unnerving speed.
Corey fumbled for his weapon, then realized it was gone—dropped in the struggle or taken by his attacker. His heart pounded against his ribs.
Get in the truck. Lock the doors. Go.
He stumbled around to the driver’s-side door yanked it open and threw himself inside, slamming it shut and hitting the lock button in one frantic motion.
His hands shook so badly he dropped the keys twice before managing to jam them into the ignition.
The engine roared to life, headlights cutting bright swathes through the gathering dusk.
It was only then, with all doors locked and the engine running, that Corey noticed it—a plain white business envelope sitting on the passenger seat. His delivery pouch was secured in the back; this hadn’t been there before. Across the front, written in bold black marker: “UNDELIVERABLE.”
Cold fear washed over him. Someone had been in his truck while he was in the woods. Had left this for him to find—or to be found by somebody else after he’d disappeared.
Corey threw the truck into drive and pulled onto the road, tires spraying gravel. He didn’t care about speed limits or safe driving practices now—he just needed distance between himself and whatever had happened back there.
With one hand on the wheel, he grabbed his phone and dialed 911, eyes constantly checking the mirrors for any sign of pursuit.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I was just attacked,” Corey said, his voice raspy from the plastic bag. “On Route 17, about fifteen miles east of Westminster. Someone tried to suffocate me with a plastic bag. I think... I think it might be connected to those other driver attacks.”
The dispatcher’s voice remained calm. “Are you injured, sir? Do you need medical assistance?”
“No, I got away. I’m driving now.” His eyes flicked to the envelope on the seat beside him. “There’s an envelope in my truck that wasn’t there before. Someone put it there while I was checking on something in the woods.”
“Don’t touch it, sir. It could be evidence. Can you tell me your exact location?”
Corey rattled off the mile marker he’d just passed, pushing the truck faster as the road straightened out. The envelope still sat there, innocent-looking and terrifying. “UNDELIVERABLE” stared back at him in those stark black letters.
Whatever it contained, he had no intention of finding out. Not alone, not now. Not after what had just happened. Corey pressed the accelerator harder as he sped toward safety.