When he’d discovered the truck was gone, he had stifled the urge to catch a cab to the airport and run like hell. He still had a chance, as long as no one looked inside the truck. . . .

He had spent the night before locked inside his hotel room, too scared to even look at his cell phone. He knew it was Khaled, every time. He didn’t need that stress on top of everything else. He opened the door only for room service and then only after checking through the peephole. He was sure he was screwed. There was no way his truck could be impounded without anyone checking the cargo.

When morning finally came without a knock on the door from any cops, Dylan steeled himself. Then he ran to the bathroom and puked out room-service Jack Daniel’s. He went downstairs and found a place in the casino that would give him the cash advance. That was the easiest thing he’d done since the trip started.

Next, an insufferable cab ride with an old driver who smelled like the inside of a coffin, a long wait in the wrong line, followed by a longer wait in this line.

Dylan looked up and saw the CCTV cameras in the corners of the room, wondered who was watching. The longer he waited, the more he became convinced that this was all a ploy to stall for time as they examined the truck.

He played it out in his head, saw it happening right now. One of the pricks would look at him through the lens and say, “That’s him. That’s the sick bastard.”

Would they understand what was inside the truck? Or would they simply assume he was dangerous and had to be killed?

Dylan knew what he would do in their position.

When he reached the front of the line, he was certain that at any moment black-suited thugs from Homeland Security would appear from nowhere and gun him down in a hail of bullets from their automatic weapons. Or torture him first. He heard that happened a lot.

The impound clerk, looking supremely bored behind the glass window, waved him over.

Dylan swallowed. He handed the man his receipt and his proof of registration.

“Where are you from?”

“Orange County,” Dylan said. Khaled had coached him: keep the cover story simple and as close to the truth as possible. “I’m heading back to college.” He looked the part: short hair, jeans and a T-shirt with fraternity letters on it. He wondered if that last bit was too much.

“Says this truck is a rental.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said, still smiling. “I’m taking my stuff back to school.”

A frown from the clerk. “Sort of a big truck for that.”

Dylan shrugged, trying not to panic. “It was all they had at the rental lot.”

The clerk just stared.

Dylan added, as casually as he could, “I’m bringing a hot tub to the frat house.”

The clerk looked incredulous for a moment, then broke into a wide grin. “No shit?” he said. “Damn, you really know how to party, buddy. Wish I’d thought of that when I was in school.”

The clerk stamped his paperwork.

“Take that to the guy out back, he’ll get your truck.”

Dylan took the paper, grateful, but the clerk didn’t let go of it. He leaned close. Dylan did the same.

“I know what’s going on here,” he said, a leer on his face.

Dylan nearly wept. He’d gotten so close. . . .

“You went a little overboard at one of the clubs last night, didn’t you?”

He laughed again, and Dylan laughed loudly with him. “Yeah,” he said, feeling the anxiety flush out of him. “I guess so.”

“Hey, I been there. You get away from those girls with your wallet, you’re lucky. Travel safe.”

“Thanks,” Dylan said, feeling the sweat roll from under his arms. “You too. I mean, uh . . .”

But the clerk had already called up the next person in line.

Dylan walked down a corridor, handed his papers over to another person and, twenty minutes later, was behind the wheel of the truck again.

Twenty minutes after that, he was back on the highway. He could still make the rendezvous. If he hurried.

He couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe Khaled knew something after all. Maybe Dylan really was on a mission from God. Someone certainly seemed to be looking out for him.