Lollipops For A Dead Mayor

The sudden scream of police sirens slashed through the gridlocked interstate, freezing the blood in my veins. I clutched the medical transport cooler to my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Before I could even process the flashing red and blue lights, two SWAT officers materialized from the maze of idling cars. Their tactical rifles were lowered, but their eyes—cold, hard, and calculating—were locked dead on me.

"We received a tip. You're suspected of transporting a Schedule I narcotic," one of them barked, his voice cutting through the hum of exhaust fumes.