Free Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two by Joe Nobody

and heading straight for his front wheels. He slammed on the brakes and stopped just as the wayward helmet came to rest directly in his path.
    The old farmer looked around as if he was waiting for someone to come and retrieve the missing property, but there wasn’t anyone in the area. Shrugging, he finally took the truck out of gear and opened the cab door.
    As he walked to the front and picked up the helmet, Dusty was sliding into the back of the bed, scrambling under a tarp and behind crates stacked with cabbage.
    Seeing no one was going to claim the valuable piece of safety gear, the farmer again shrugged and carried his new prize back to the cab.
    A few minutes later, they were rolling across the parking area.
    The police manning the freshly formed roadblock didn’t perform a thorough check of the vegetable truck, the newly arriving officers still chatting about the odd assignment and speculating on its true purpose. Dusty held his breath as he heard the quick conversation with the driver, who didn’t speak English. In a few moments, they were waved through and on their way south.
     

     
    Southeastern Texas rolled by as the old truck sped south. Dusty, noting the momentum and breeze, maneuvered to create a slight portal under the tarp which allowed him a nice vantage of the fleeting terrain. Flat, grassy and mundane, he’d spent little time in this part of his home state. “It’s better than the accommodations at the local jail… or a coffin,” he mused.
    The journey seemed to pass quickly, his chauffeur making steady time toward the border city and presumably home. Dusty tucked the Glock into his boot, finding the weapon’s presence gave him a sense of comfort.
    A few miles outside Laredo, the driver let off the gas, a clear signal he was going to make a stop. Given his morning coffee and the long ride, Dusty hoped it was some place that had a restroom.
    Soon enough , the turn signal began its rhythmic clicking, and then they were pulling into the nearly full parking lot of what was a combination convenience store and gas station. Dusty noted the congestion, but the fueling bays were mostly empty, the majority of the traffic centered just outside the retail unit. His limo evidently did need some gas, the appearance of a pump startling Dusty when he suddenly found himself staring at the dispensing handle right beside his peephole. Dusty hurriedly ducked back underneath the tarp and listened as the driver unhinged the hose. The distinctive odor of fuel soon filled the air.
    The sound of footsteps indicated the driver was going inside. Dusty peeked out again and watched as the farmer entered the station. He quickly scampered out of the bed, his stiff body sluggish from riding in such cramped quarters for so long.
    Trying to a ct as if he’d just hitchhiked in from the road, Dusty ambled into the convenience store and was surprised to find a long line of Latino men, most of whom were holding paper checks. His driver was one of them.
    After using the restroom, he milled around, pretending to shop for snacks and drinks. In reality, he was watching the proceedings, fascinated by what appeared to be a significant banking operation. Why were all these guys cashing checks at a gas station?
    He finally selected a cold bottle of water and a nutrition bar for substance. There was a separate line for those who weren’t in need of financial services.
    Dusty was waiting on the driver outside.
    “S eño r,” he greeted, holding up a $20 bill, “could I catch a ride in the back of your truck to Laredo?”
    The old farmer thought about it, looking Dusty up and down twice. Finally nodding, he pocketed the money and pointed toward the cab.
    The two men were soon on the road again. Dusty waited a bit before asking, “Was that a bank back there? I saw a lot of men coming out and counting their money.”
    Misreading the curiosity, the older man said, “ They cash my checks there, señor. This time of day there is always a line.