The man who filled the safe deposit box one town over was called Vauxhall and he was laying across the roof of his Bronco near the bend in the freeway near Exit 194. He aimed his binoculars through the blur of snow at the car he’d been tasked with tracking from North Dakota and he was utterly perplexed by what he thought he saw through the undulating sheets of white.
“The fuck …” his words trailed off, taken by the wind.
What looked to him like two dozen tiny, heavily armed mimes standing completely still - ominously as silent as shadows moving across ice - arranged in a hatch pattern across a freeway, in a blizzard, passing in and out of whiteout existence, occasionally illuminated only by the headlights of a car that was beginning to reverse cautiously away.
Vauxhall struggled to get to his feet in the wind. He shook his fists toward the freeway and then threw his binoculars at it.
“MINES!” he screamed into the shriek of the blizzard, “MINES!”
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