e asset, trained for both narcotics and tracking, and as he began his sweep, his behavior shifted instantly. Bypassing the usual hiding spots in the wheel wells, Duke lunged toward the center bale on the trailer. He didn’t offer the silent sit of a narcotics alert; instead, he began a frantic, guttural barking, scratching at the wood of the flatbed. It was a “living find” alert—the signal for a human presence.
Kovich began to wail about the dog ruining the hay, but Miller ignored him, his focus entirely on the bale. Up close, the physics were even more wrong. The ratchet straps were buried deep into the hay, suggesting a core far denser than dried vegetation. When Miller pressed his hand against the side, it didn’t give; it felt like a brick wall wrapped in grass. He used his cargo probe, a steel rod meant for piercing upholstery. He pushed, expecting the soft resistance of hay, but instead felt a jarring, metallic clunk.
“Oh, my God,” Miller exhaled, recoiling as a muffled whimper echoed from inside the box.
The discovery shattered Kovich’s remaining composure. The driver bolted toward the cab, reaching behind the seat for a shotgun. Miller, unable to take a clear shot due to passing traffic, gave the only command that mattered: “Duke, Fass!”
The dog was a black and tan missile. He covered the distance in two bounds, launching into the air and clamping his jaws onto Kovich’s trigger arm. The shotgun clattered to the asphalt as the man was driven into the gravel. Seconds later, Miller had the suspect in handcuffs and secured in the back of the cruiser. But the true work was just beginning.
Miller attacked the first bale with the crowbar, his heart hammering against his ribs. The panel popped free to reveal a young woman curled in a fetal position. The compartment was a coffin—a wooden box barely three feet wide. Her lips were blue, her hair matted with sweat and filth. Miller lifted her out, marveling at how light she was, and moved to the next bale.
He was one man fighting against four wooden tombs. He tore open the second bale to find a man and a teenage boy squeezed together; the man was unconscious, his breathing shallow. The third bale held a mother and two small children, their lethargy a terrifying sign of hypoxia. By the time Miller reached the fourth bale, his knuckles were raw and his lungs burned, but he didn’t stop until two more disoriented men tumbled onto the deck.
Eight people. Eight human beings had been packed like sardines into disguised farm equipment. As Miller called for a “10-33” emergency response, a black Chevrolet Tahoe appeared on the opposite side of the highway. It idled, its tinted windows dark as oil. Two men in tactical vests stepped out, clutching rifles. They were the “cleaners,” assessing whether to salvage the load or silence the witness.
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