Page 9 of The Highwaymen

I strained my ears, trying to make out their words, but the pounding of my own heart nearly drowned out all other sounds. My mouth was dry as bone, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. I tried to swallow, but my throat constricted painfully.

In my mind's eye, I could picture the scene unfolding behind me with dreadful clarity. The agent rummaging through the cargo, his keen eyes scanning for any hint of contraband. Stu standing nearby, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp and watchful. The glint of sunlight off the agent's mirrored shades, the slight bulge of the gun at his hip.

Everyfiber of my being was coiled tight with tension, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. My leg bounced restlessly against the mudflap on the floor.

After what felt like an eternity, I heard the sound of the truck's rear door slamming shut. The crunch of gravel under boots signaled Stu's return, and a moment later he was swinging himself back up into the driver's seat, a triumphant grin on his face.

“We are cleared to go,” he announced, his voice brimming with satisfaction.

I let out a breath, my shoulders sagging with relief. “Jesus Christ, Stu. You had me sweating bullets over here.”

Stu chuckled, low and easy. “Relax. I've done this dance a hundred times before. Ain't nothing gonna trip me up now.”

He turned the key in the ignition and the truck roared to life, the vibrations thrumming through my bones. As we pulled away from the checkpoint, I caught a glimpse of the border patrol agent in the side mirror, watching us go with an inscrutable expression.

The road stretched out before us, an endless line of sun-baked asphalt cutting through the heart of the desert. As the miles rolled by and the border checkpoint faded in the rearview, I found my curiosity getting the better of me. Stu was an enigma, a puzzle I couldn't quite piece together. The easy confidence, the unflappable calm… I wished I had that sort of bone deep cool.

“So,” I began, trying to keep my tone casual, “you've done this kind of thing before?”

Stu glanced over at me, his eyes glinting with amusement. “You mean delivering auto parts? Sure, lots of times.”

I shook my head. “No, I mean... the other thing. The killing.”

A slow smile spread across Stu's face, his features sharpening into something predatory. “Ah. That.” He turned his gaze back to the road,his fingers tapping an idle rhythm on the steering wheel. “First time was a long time ago. I was nineteen. Just a kid, really.”

I leaned forward, my heart quickening with a mix of fear and morbid fascination. “What happened?”

Stu's eyes took on a faraway look, as if he were gazing into the distant past. “Well, far back as I can remember, I was always curious about it. What it felt like. My daddy worked out on a ranch. I remember watching him put down bulls. Mean sons of bitches, big as fucking barns and just bashed in their fucking heads with this hammer. Made this perfect sound.” Stu's voice took on a dreamy, almost reverent tone as he spoke. “It was like...like a watermelon splitting open, but deeper. Meatier. The crunch of bone giving way, then this wet, pulpy sound as the brains turned to mush. And the beast would just drop, all that meanness and fury snuffed out in an instant by a little of steel and force. I couldn't take my eyes off it. The way their legs would kick and shudder, the light fading from their eyes. It was almost peaceful, in a way. Like watching a storm roll in, all that raw power and then…stillness.”

The way Stu talked about it was the way a junkie might talk about their first high - a formative moment, the genesis of an all-consuming obsession, one I understood all too well.

“So, when did you...” I trailed off, not quite sure how to phrase the question. “When did you try it for yourself?”

Stu's grin widened, his teeth flashing white in the desert sun. “Not long after. Started small, worked my way up. Took out the neighbor's nasty little chihuahua first. Yappy little shit had it coming. Then a few strays, a coyote or two. But it wasn't enough. I needed something bigger. Something…”

“More challenging,” I finished.

Stu nodded. “Exactly. So one night, I picked up this drifter outside a truck stop. Strong looking young man. But not too strong. Just big enough to put up a good fight.”

My breath caught in my throat. “And did he?”

Stu's laughter was low and dark. “Oh, he tried. But in the end, they all go down the same. That perfect fucking sound, like a ripe melon bursting open. God, the rush of it. Better than any high.”

I understood that feeling all too well - the intoxicating surge of power, the knowledge that you held a life in your hands and could snuff it out on a whim. It was like mainlining pure adrenaline straight to the heart.

“After that first one, I thought I could stop,” Stu continued, his voice rough with remembered pleasure. “But it's like a hunger that never goes away, always gnawing at your guts. You gotta feed it, or it'll eat you alive.”

I nodded slowly, my mouth dry. “I know what you mean. It's like... once you get a taste, everything else seems so fucking bland. Pointless.”

Stu glanced over at me, his gaze sharp and assessing. “What about you? How’d you get started?”

I leaned back in my seat, the cracked vinyl upholstery creaking beneath me as I considered Stu's question. My first kill. The memory rose, vivid and inescapable.

“It was a few years back,” I began. “I'd just hit the road, trying to make my way across the country. Figured I could turn a few tricks to get by, you know? Thought it'd be easy money.”

I paused, my throat tightening as the images flashed through my mind - the dimly lit interior of a truck cab, the stale stench of cigarettes and sweat, the rough hands pawing at my flesh.

“I was young and stupid,” I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. “Didn't know how to pick my Johns right. Got in withthis trucker outside of Detroit. Mean looking bastard, all muscle and tattoos. Should've known better, but I was desperate.”

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