The Iron Wheels Stop Turning (Part 1)

The nights in eastern Washington State are vast and dry. Far from the rain and fog of the West Coast, the sky here is so clear that you can see the faint band of light of the Milky Way. On Interstate 90, headlights streak across the darkness like shooting stars, connecting the wilderness with the towns.

Along the highway, about fifty miles from Spokane, there is a truck rest stop called "Bison Rest Stop," a favorite midway gas station and tavern for long-haul drivers.

The neon sign at the rest stop looked quite old, its dim light making it appear like a stubborn, yellowish halo in the boundless night.

The building was a simple, single-story wooden house, surrounded by all sorts of heavy trucks, their engines emitting wisps of white steam in the cool air. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, a wave of sweltering heat, the smell of cheap beer, the greasy aroma of fried chicken, and the rough, hoarse laughter of men rushed out.

The tavern was filled with smoke. The lighting was warm yellow, but not bright enough, leaving everyone's faces hidden in the interplay of light and shadow.

Several men dressed in work pants and worn leather jackets sat in front of the long bar. At a few tables in the corner, people were also engaged in loud conversations.

An ice hockey game was playing on TV, but the sound was drowned out by the cacophony of voices. The atmosphere here was raw and direct, filled with the smell of diesel fuel, sweat, and freedom.

"Hey, if you ask me, that new dispatcher is a son of a bitch! He has no idea what 'proper load planning' means! Last time he made me drive half a truck empty from Seattle to Boise, and we didn't even cover the gas costs!"

A white driver with a full beard and a burly build like a bear slammed his beer mug on the table, spilling brown foam. He wiped it away with the back of his hand without a care. His name was Rick, and he was a veteran driver for Interstate Express, a subsidiary of Northwest Logistics Group (NLG).

"Come on, Rick, at least you have cargo hauling. I've already got three overtime driving records this month, you son of a bitch electronic log!"

Across from him was a relatively thin driver, Joe, wearing a baseball cap, who sullenly took a large gulp of beer. He was also an NLG driver, running the Seattle - Spokane - Billings route.

"Ha! Electronic logs? That's a joke! Just find a safe place, stop for twenty minutes, have a smoke, and that's it, right? Who actually waits patiently for it to reset?" Rick laughed dismissively, revealing his tobacco-stained teeth. "Rules are rules, but people are flexible, buddy! United States is so big, who cares about you on the street?"

Several drivers nearby chuckled in agreement. This is part of the culture of United States long-haul truck drivers—developing their own "survival wisdom" by battling loneliness, deadlines, and stringent regulations across the vast land.

Checking for drunk driving? Often it relies on the police's subjective judgment and roadside sobriety tests, as long as you're not so drunk you're staggering in the driver's seat, or you're just unlucky.

They continued drinking cheap industrial lager, boasting about their experiences on the road, complaining about their companies and oil prices, and planning where to relax after the job was done. Vulgar jokes and industry slang filled the air.

Just then, the creaking wooden door of the tavern was pushed open again.

A cool night breeze swept in, dispersing a small patch of smoke at the doorway. Several figures walked in.

For a fleeting moment, the noise in the tavern subtly subsided. The bartender behind the counter, an old man with a pipe in his mouth, raised his eyelids slightly. Several tables of customers also subconsciously glanced over.

Four Asian men entered. They were young, all looking to be under thirty. They were dressed in ordinary dark fleece jackets, jeans, and work boots, looking much like the truck drivers here. But their demeanor was completely out of place in this environment filled with the smell of sweat, diesel fuel, and a boisterous atmosphere.

They walked with a steady gait, their footsteps almost silent, their eyes calmly scanning the room, without curiosity or restraint, only a kind of... precise scrutiny, as if confirming coordinates.

Their bodies weren't particularly muscular, but the lines beneath their ordinary clothes subtly revealed a lean and restrained strength that came from long-term, rigorous training. Their faces were expressionless, but the silence itself carried an invisible pressure.

They are members of the ABZ Team. Their target for tonight is right here.

The conversation in the pub quickly resumed, but many people still glanced out of the corner of their eyes at the four Asian faces who had suddenly appeared and were clearly not regulars. Long-distance drivers are experienced and have an instinctive wariness of strangers.

The four ABZ members seemed completely unconcerned by the stares directed at them. They didn't go to the bar to order drinks or find an empty table to sit at; instead, they walked straight towards the table where Rick and Joe were. Their steps were slow, but their goal was clear.

As they approached, the laughter and conversation at Rick and Joe's table gradually subsided. Rick put down his glass, narrowed his eyes, and looked at the approaching group with a hint of displeasure and wariness. Joe, on the other hand, instinctively sat up straight and lowered his hands from the table.

The four ABZ members stopped at the table. The one in the lead had an ordinary face but sharp eyes. He took out a photo from his pocket, glanced at it in the dim light, and then fixed his gaze on Joe.

"Joe Wilson?" he asked in clear but slightly accented English, his voice not loud, but clearly audible in the relatively quiet corner.

Joe paused for a moment, then nodded, his tone hesitant and wary. "Yes, I'm Joe. And you are?"

He didn't ask "What's the matter?" because the other person's attitude clearly indicated that they weren't there to chat or ask for directions.

"We're here to discuss a deal, Joe." The leader of the ABZ members (tentatively referred to as A) put away the photos, his tone as calm as if he were stating the weather. "We hope you can take a sick day for the next few days. You won't need to drive."

"Sick leave?" Joe frowned, puzzled. "Why? I'm perfectly fine. And my shift schedule..."

"We won't let you lose out." A interrupted him, his tone still calm. "Take a few days off, and we'll pay you double. Based on your current hourly rate and regular attendance. How about it, brother? You get double pay without doing any work. It's a great deal."

Double pay? Joe quickly did the math in his head. His weekly wage on this route was roughly $1,800 to $2,000 (before tax), so double would be $3,600 to $4,000. For a few days, that would be a decent windfall. But...

He glanced at the expressionless Asians in front of him, then at Rick and his companions, whose faces were already stern and whose eyes were unfriendly. An instinctive wariness and the stubbornness of a driver rose within him.

Running a freight truck isn't just about money; it's also about rhythm and reputation. Taking unexcused leave, especially during peak season, will negatively impact the dispatcher's evaluation of him, and even affect future scheduling and income stability. Besides, there's no such thing as a free lunch.

"Thank you, but no need." Joe shook her head, trying to make her tone firm yet polite. "I don't need it. I have my work commitments."

A's expression remained unchanged, showing neither disappointment nor anger. He seemed to have anticipated this answer. He took a small step forward, a natural movement that instantly closed the distance between him and Joe. Then, he reached out and, seemingly casually, even with a hint of "buddy-buddy" humor, patted Joe on the shoulder.

"Joe," A lowered his voice, leaning forward slightly, almost whispering in Joe's ear, a faint, almost mocking smile on his face, "You're a smart man. I'd like to be your friend too."

His voice was very soft; only Joe and Rick, who was closest to him, could barely hear it.

"Look, now there's an opportunity to get double pay without working, isn't that great?" A continued, his tone persuasive, but Joe felt a chill creep up his spine. He sensed that A's hand, which had been patting his shoulder, hadn't immediately moved away. Instead, it had discreetly pressed his fingertips against a spot below his ribs, under his armpit.

There, through the not-so-thick fleece jacket, I could feel a hard, cold texture with a distinct cylindrical shape.

muzzle.

Joe's body stiffened instantly! His blood seemed to freeze in that moment. He abruptly turned his head, his gaze towards AA still calm, even retaining that faint, ambiguous smile, but those eyes held no warmth, only an undeniable, icy warning.

Joe's throat bobbed, as if he wanted to say something, but no sound came out. Cold sweat instantly seeped from his forehead. He had no doubt that if he dared to say "no" again, or make any rash move, that cold metal might spew flames at any moment.

"Okay... I agree." Joe squeezed out a few words from his dry throat, his voice trembling. He grabbed the half-full glass of beer in front of him, tilted his head back, and gulped it down in one go. The icy liquid slid down his throat, but it couldn't suppress the chill in his heart. He slammed the glass back onto the table with a loud "bang."

A's hand immediately left his ribcage, the cold touch vanished as if it had never been there. A's face broke into a more pronounced smile, this time appearing a bit more "genuine".

"A wise choice, Joe. Good working with you. The money will be deposited into your account. Take a good 'rest'." After saying this, A nodded to Joe, then turned his gaze to the others at the table, especially Rick, who was staring intently at him. He nodded slightly as a greeting, then turned around with the other three members and, just as they had arrived, silently walked towards the tavern door, pushed open the door, and disappeared into the night outside.

The entire process, from entering to leaving, took less than three minutes.

The tavern was silent for a few seconds, then erupted into a cacophony of voices. People looked at Joe, pale and shaken, then at the doorway, their expressions filled with doubt and speculation.

"Damn it! Joe, who are they? What's going on? What did you promise?" Rick grabbed Joe's arm and asked urgently.

Joe just shook his head listlessly, took another swig of his nearly empty beer, his lips still trembling slightly. "N-nothing... it's just... a side job. I... I need to take a few days off... yes, sick leave."

He dared not tell the truth. The phantom pain in his ribs and those cold eyes extinguished any thought of resistance or betrayal.

Rick, seeing his expression, spat and cursed, "Damn it! So secretive! It must be those damn Asia gangsters! Joe, watch out!"

Joe just nodded haphazardly, his mind a jumble of thoughts.

At the same time, in the parking lot of a family-run motel in the suburbs of Pocatello, Idaho.

The driver, Rick (another Rick, with the same name), had just parked his Volvo truck, jumped out of the cab, stretched, and was about to go back to his room to wash up and go to sleep. He was in his forties, of medium build, with a shrewd, mercenary look in his eyes.

Two Asian men (another group of ABZ members) emerged from the shadows and blocked his path. The process was almost identical: verify his identity, offer a "paid sick leave" deal, and double the pay.

Rick's eyes darted around. He was more cunning and daring than Joe in the pub. He sized up the two Asian men in front of him, who didn't seem particularly fierce, and started calculating. The fact that they were in such a hurry to "ask for leave" meant they had something to do and didn't want to make a scene. This meant... he could raise the price.

"Double?" Rick rubbed his hands together, a troubled look on his face. "Buddy, it's not that I don't want to help. You know, in our line of work, taking leave has a huge impact. Not only do we lose pay for those few days, but we might also miss out on the good jobs that follow. It's also hard to explain to the dispatcher... Double, I'm afraid that's a bit difficult."

ABZ member (B) frowned. Their mission was to achieve their goal efficiently and they didn't want to get bogged down in details. He glanced at his companion, then said to Rick, "How much do you want?"

Rick's heart leaped with joy; it really worked! He held up three fingers. "Three times. And, half as a deposit first. Cash."

B paused for two seconds, seemingly weighing his options. Finally, he nodded. "Okay. But you must promise that for at least five days, you won't appear on any NLG's scheduling list, nor will you accept any related work. The money will be delivered to you tomorrow."

"Deal!" Rick grinned, revealing teeth stained black with tobacco. He was already planning to take the money, then sneak off to the next state to pick up odd jobs, making money from both sides—a perfectly satisfying plan. As for promises? Ha, what's the point of keeping promises to these yellow-skinned Monkey?

The two parties briefly agreed on the method and location for the deposit payment (a secluded parking lot) and then parted ways.

Watching the ABZ members' departing Back View, Rick's smile turned into undisguised mockery and contempt. He spat under his breath, "Pah! Damn yellow-skinned Monkey, trying to control me? I've taken your money, I'll go about my business tomorrow! Who will know?"

He hummed an off-key tune as he strolled back to his motel room, feeling incredibly lucky today.

The next morning, just as dawn was breaking.

Rick drove off to NLG's transit point in Pocatello. He was in a good mood, planning to collect the "deposit" after handing over the car, and then find a place to have a good drink that evening.

His car was traveling on a relatively quiet side road leading to the state highway. The morning fog had not yet dissipated, and visibility was poor.

At an intersection without traffic lights, Rick slowed down, looked left and right, and seeing no cars, prepared to go straight through.

However, just as the front of his car had emerged halfway out of the intersection—

"Boom!!!!"

On the left, a heavy military truck (or a modified civilian heavy truck) with no markings, painted in camouflage, and seemingly emerging from the morning mist, crashed into us at extremely high speed without slowing down!

The impact happened in an instant! The enormous kinetic energy sent Rick's pickup truck swerving and rolling like a toy! The ear-piercing sounds of twisting metal and shattering glass tore through the morning's tranquility! The pickup truck rolled several times before finally crashing upside down into the roadside ditch, its roof severely deformed, billowing black smoke and white vapor.

The camouflage truck that caused the accident only swayed slightly after the impact before regaining its balance. It didn't stop or even slow down to check; its engine roared as it quickly turned onto another side road and disappeared into the fog and woods.

The scene was deathly silent. Only the twisted wreckage of the vehicles and the pungent smell of gasoline and engine oil gradually spreading.

About ten seconds later, a faint groan and the sound of metal scraping came from the side of the severely deformed pickup truck's cab. A bloodstained hand reached out from the broken window and struggled to grab the edge of the deformed door.

It was Rick. He was still alive! The airbag saved his life, but the violent impact and subsequent rollover left him with multiple fractures, internal organ damage, a blood-soaked face, and blurred consciousness. Driven by his survival instinct, he crawled out of the crushed and deformed driver's cab bit by bit, each movement bringing excruciating pain.

His upper body had just squeezed out of the car window, but his lower body was still stuck inside. He lay on his back on the cold, damp road, gasping for breath, each breath frothing with blood. His vision was blurred as he looked up at the gray sky, filled with fear and confusion. Who was it? Why?

Just then, a pair of black military boots, speckled with mud, came to a steady stop next to his head.

Rick struggled, slowly turning his eyes upwards.

Against the morning light, he saw an Asian man in a black jacket with a stern face looking down at him.