Deadline

Strange what runs through my mind when the pressure is on. I should be thinking about how many more miles I have left to go and, more importantly, how much time do I have left to get there before my world comes crashing to an end. Instead, I’m thinking about the origin of the word Deadline and how its meaning has changed over the years. I imagine many words can be traced back to their beginnings, but Deadline is particularly special to me right now.

When the word was first coined, it referred to a line drawn around the perimeter of a prison. If a prisoner crossed that line without permission, he or she would be immediately shot. Today, the word deadline is used for less dramatic situations. A school term paper has to be turned in by a deadline or the student will fail. Projects at work have to be completed by a particular deadline or a worker will be terminated. I only wish the consequences related to missing my deadline were so insignificant.

I took a job transporting a package from New York City to New Orleans. If this sounds like the movie The Transporter, my profession has some similarities. I never know what I’m delivering, and as long as it’s not narcotics or other contraband, I couldn’t care less. What makes me different from the guy in the movie is I’m not jumping cars over collapsed bridges or forcing bad guys and police off the road with my vehicle. I couldn’t afford the repair bills.

The drive from NYC to the Big Easy, adding in stops for gas, food, and the occasional brief rest stop, should take slightly less than twenty-three hours. That’s the estimate I gave my customer and told him the cost was two thousand dollars, plus expenses. He offered me an additional twenty thousand if I got the package there within twenty hours. There was a catch. Miss the deadline and I get nothing.

Normally, I would walk away from jobs like this, but he piqued my curiosity. I asked him why not fly the package if time was that critical. His simple but illogical answer was he didn’t trust planes. He could track my progress by having me report in at various checkpoints along my route. Tracking, checkpoints, big bonus, I was really beginning to feel like Jason Statham, minus the British accent. I had to take the job.

Sunday - 5 a.m.

The clock started its countdown. I had met my client on Hudson Street in lower Manhattan fifteen minutes earlier. He handed me a small box about the size of a watch case that I immediately locked in a strongbox bolted to the car. He signed my standard transport contract; we shook hands, and I headed through the Holland Tunnel to the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. Traffic was light, and I cleared the Northwest side of the Newark Airport quicker than I thought possible. A couple more route changes and I was on I-78, heading southwest. This route should be the fastest because it allowed me to connect with I-81 and bypass Philadelphia, Wilmington, Baltimore, and D.C.

8:30 a.m.

I crossed the Virginia state line in record time. My radar detector saved me a couple of tickets and monitoring the truckers on my CB saved me a couple more. It was time for fuel and a pit stop so I pulled into a Love’s truck stop off the next exit. This is also where my first checkpoint with my customer was arranged. I hit a couple of keys on the electronic gadget my client had given me as I was fueling. It pinged, and all was good. Two guys fueling their SUV at the pump across from mine nodded and said, “Have a good day.” I replied, “You too,” and went inside.

8:50 a.m.

Refueled and refreshed, the car and I were ready for the next leg. I looked across the parking lot before pulling out and spotted the two guys in the SUV looking my way. Coincidence, maybe, but I’ll be watching for them in my rearview. That’s enough drama for now, my next stop, Knoxville, TN. The scenery along I-81 is impressive, with mountain ranges and forests. If I weren’t working, it would have been tempting to stop at some of the scenic overlooks, but time was critical and I had five hours until my next stop. I checked for the SUV, but it was nowhere in sight. It was just me, an almost empty road, and miles and miles.

1:30 p.m.

The gas gauge was hovering around Empty when I pulled into a Pilot truck stop off exit 398. I-81 had merged with I-40 and traffic was heavier now. People were mulling around and I almost missed the mystery SUV as it pulled in and parked beside one almost identical to it. I pinged my client to let him know where I was, then spent some time covertly watching my watchers. Who had a fleet of similar vehicles and had enough money to pay four guys to follow a package around the country? The simple answer, the government or the syndicate was my best guess. I didn’t like either option. I wasted enough time watching these guys; it was time to hit the road.

1:55 p.m.

They must have thought I was having lunch in the restaurant because it wasn’t until I was exiting the on-ramp when I saw the new crew leap to their vehicle and head for the freeway. My car may not be the fastest on the road, but with all the upgrades I’ve put in it, there’s no way in hell an SUV could catch me. I knew if it was the government, with all their tracking gadgets available, my great escape would be useless. If they were syndicate, I might have a chance. Guess I’ll find out when I reach Birmingham, AL.

5:00 p.m. CST

Traffic was surprisingly heavy after I switched to I-20. Fortunately, changing time zones gave me the buffer I needed to make up for some of the time I lost. This should be my last fuel stop before reaching New Orleans. I reversed my routine and went to the head before fueling this time, so should I need to leave in a hurry, my personal needs would be taken care of. The car filled and ready to go; I was placing the nozzle back when I heard a female voice call out.

“Hey, mister. Where you heading?”

Approaching me was an attractive but unkempt girl in her early twenties, if that. Judging from her lack of modesty, I assumed she was what the truckers call a “lot lizard.”

“I’m heading to the Big Easy. Have a good one!”

“That’s where I’m from. How about you giving me a ride there? I’ll chip in for gas.”

I was about to say no when I heard a male voice boom across the parking lot.

“Alice, get your sorry ass over here. I told you before, the trucks is where the money is not the cars. Now you’re goin to get another whoopin, bitch.”

“Please, mister, please.”

Looking at the terror in her eyes, I couldn’t say no.

“Get in!”

The oaf ran across the parking lot trying to catch us, but he was no match for my car. Just to keep things interesting, the SUV pulled in as we pulled out.

6:00 p.m.

We had been on the road for half an hour before she felt comfortable enough to have a conversation.

“I heard the man back there call you Alice. Is that your name?”

“No, that’s the one he gave me. My name is Kerry, what’s yours?”

“I’m Jack. It’s nice to meet you, Kerry. Is there anywhere in N.O. you want me to take you?”

“Wherever you’re going is fine by me. I have some friends I can call once I’m back. I’ll need to borrow your phone, though. That ass wouldn’t let me near one. So, what about you, Jack? Where in NOLA are you heading to?”

“Harrah’s Casino on Canal St. Are you familiar with it?”

“Sort of. I’ve been by it, but never inside. I don’t have enough money to gamble it away. Say, did you know those two guys pointing at you while we were leaving?”

“I wish I did. Guess I’ll find out when we get there. You look tired. Lay back, we’ve got about four hours to go. I’ll wake you when we get closer.”

Kerry reclined her seat and was out like a light in less than a minute.

The clouds moved in as the sun set, and within half an hour, it started sprinkling. The further south I went, the harder the rain came down until I was forced to slow down before I hit something. My reserve of time was slowly leaking away. Between the pounding of the rain and the steady slap, slap of the windshield wipers, fatigue was catching up with me. I had just passed Meridian, MS, and was looking for a truck stop when I heard a phone vibrate. Kerry woke with a start and immediately reached under her shirt with both hands. Her left hand held a flip phone, and her right had a two-shot derringer.

While training the gun on me, she answered the phone.

“I told you not to call. You ruined my surprise and now I’ll have to do it the hard way. I’m hanging up and I’ll call you when I have it.”

“I guess what they say is true. Nice guys finish last.”

“Too bad for you, I guess. Now, where is the package?”

“You’re sitting on it.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I have a compartment built into your seat. If you unclip your seatbelt and slide forward, you can see where it is.”

Waving the tiny gun towards my head, she commanded, “No funny business, you hear me, Jack?” Then she reached down and unclipped her belt.

Rain-slick roads make it easy to slide a car in a circle. I quickly gave a slight tug on the handbrake and jerked the wheel to the left. The car did a graceful pirouette, sending Kerry or Alice, or whatever her real name is head first into the dash, knocking her out cold. The gun sailed into the back seat. Fortunately, there was a rest area up ahead, so I pulled in.

The rain soaking my passenger’s clothes and bouncing off the gash on her forehead brought her back to partial consciousness. She had no idea how she ended up on a park bench in the middle of a rainstorm and I didn’t have the time to discuss it with her. She was alive, so as far as I was concerned, any obligation I may have had with her was done. I was losing precious time. The rain and trying to help the mystery lady had cost me a little over an hour. No more time to waste.

7:20 p.m.

I had been back on the road for about twenty minutes when the flip phone chimed its cheerful tune. I still had her phone! This should be fun.

“I thought she told you she’d call when she had it. Don’t you follow instructions?”

“Is this the Driver? What have you done with Kerry? If you’ve hurt her, you’re a dead man.”

“Hi, nice to meet you too, Mr. Bad Guy. Kerry is alive and soaked. I suggest you check all the rest areas along I-59, and bring her some dry clothes. Bye now!” I closed the phone and tossed it out the window.

The call got me thinking if the phone got left behind, what about the gun? I needed to stop once more for gas, so that's when I’ll look for it. At 8:40 I pulled into a small convenience store for snacks and gas. While the tank was filling, I searched my car for the derringer. A glint of metal wedged between the backseat cushions caught my eye. Sure enough, there was the gun. My brain swirled with conflicting views. Considering how dangerous this trip has been so far I should keep it for protection, one part of my brain said. Wipe it down good and toss it out on the interstate. Who knows, this gun could be linked to a murder. I may live to regret it, but I tossed the bullets out first and the gun five miles further down the road.

10:15 p.m.

The sky had cleared over the Big Easy as I pulled onto the city streets. I had forty-five minutes left before reaching my delivery deadline. Make the transfer on time and I’m twenty grand richer. One tick over the line, and everything was for nothing. I have been to New Orleans several times and one thing that never changes is the congestion. The French Quarter is packed with partyers and the streets leading to Bourbon and Canal Street are always full of cars. Tonight was no exception.

I did my best to find back streets along with the main roads to take me to Harrah’s, but every road was blocked. It made no sense until it did. Each traffic jam involved a dark SUV that changed directions each time I did. I had no time to play cat and mouse with these people, it was time to change tactics. I pulled into a parking garage, found a spot, removed the package, and headed for the casino on foot.

10:53 p.m.

Seven minutes until the deadline, with approximately a mile to the casino, and the footrace was on. No sooner had I exited the garage when a passenger from each vehicle leaped out and began chasing me. I’m a driver, not a marathoner, but when running for a pile of cash, I’m pretty damn fast. My pursuers and I bobbed and weaved between partygoers hurdled over drunks lying on the sidewalks, and full-out sprinted to the casino.

The electronic gadget my customer gave me began beeping as the seconds relentlessly counted down toward zero. There he was, my customer, standing in front of the main entrance, staring at his watch. With two seconds to spare, I stopped, panting and sucking in as much oxygen as possible. I handed him the package. The two men that were chasing me faded into the crowd. His watch pinged, and it was over.

My client hit a few keys on his phone, told me my money had just been deposited, turned, and walked inside. I never found out what was in the package or who was chasing me, and I guess I didn’t need to know. After all, I was just the transporter that did his job and met the deadline.