Return to The Deep (From The Deep Book 2) by Michael Bray

roads, especially one with such a mysterious cargo. Normally, such a vehicle would require a police escort. However, due to the covert nature of the operation, it had been deemed both inappropriate and something that would potentially raise too many questions.
    He smiled at the thought, wondering how many children had passed coming in the opposite direction in the back of cars driven by parents perhaps heading to the coast for a holiday, and upon seeing the truck, had decided they wanted to drive one someday too, just the way he had. It was because he was thinking of this that he didn’t immediately notice the rusty white pickup truck ahead swerve into his lane, and put itself on a collision course with the trailer.
    A less experienced driver would have slammed on the brakes, and in doing so, risk the rear trailer fishtailing and tipping, spilling cargo and people riding along with it all over the road. Instead, he gently pumped them, feeling for the signs of locking up and releasing the pressure for a second, in effect, performing as a manual anti-lock brake. His can of coke spilled over into the foot well, followed by the mountain of newspapers on the passenger seat. Neither of those were his concern though. His only thought was of safely bringing the truck to a halt. With a shudder and groan of brakes, the forward momentum of the truck ceased, and it hissed to a pneumatic halt.
    Seconds later, the pickup did the same. Bolton watched as two balaclava-clad men threw open the doors and climbed out, racing for the driver’s side door. At first, Bolton wondered if they had spotted something, some emergency that required his attention. It was only when he saw the handgun that he realised something else was happening.
    "Get out of the truck right now, motherfucker!" the one with gun screamed whilst his colleague fidgeted beside him and threw concerned glances at the traffic who weren’t stopping and getting involved in the situation.
    "What the hell are you doing?" Bolton said, half opening the door.
    "Get the fuck out," Jim screamed, waving the gun for emphasis.
    "Alright, take it easy," Bolton said, clambering down out of the cab.
    He could tell they were just kids, and the one without the gun wasn’t really certain of his actions, which made his next decision easier to make. He lunged for the one with the weapon, sure that if he could disarm him, his friend would give up.
    "Hey, back up, back up-" Jim squealed as Bolton grappled with him, trying to pry the weapon free. Clayton looked on, absolutely numb and unable to react. It was the worst possible scenario. His instinct told him to run, yet, he couldn’t leave his friend, as seemingly off the rails as he was. The entire inner conflict was rendered useless, when the crisp sound of a single gunshot rolled through the air as the driver of the rig fell to the ground.
     
    III
     
    There was no fear. No panic. Jim looked down at the old man lying in the road, blood welling up from the wound in his stomach and he wasn’t really sure what he felt. All he knew was they had come too far to go back.
    "What did you do? What the fuck did you do?" Clayton screeched from somewhere behind him.
    Jim didn’t hear it. He was mesmerised in watching the old man as he lay dying.
    "You said it wasn’t loaded, you said it was just supposed to scare him," Clayton hissed.
    Jim watched as the man took a last gasping breath, and then stopped, eyes staring blankly into the crisp blue sky.
    "Get in the truck," Jim said, his voice cold and commanding.
    Too afraid to do anything but comply, Clayton did as he was told; glad Jim couldn’t see him crying under his balaclava. He clambered up into the passenger side, feeling like he was a stranger living in somebody else's body. Jim climbed into the driver’s side and closed the door, pulling off his balaclava. Unlike Clayton who was still coming to terms with what had happened, Jim was grinning.
    "Let's get this show on the road," he said, slipping