Gunnar downshifted and the tach needle in the GT-R’s dash leapt. He steered the car into the passing lane and the tach pulled close to redline and he pulled at the paddle viciously and the transmission smoothly shifted into the next higher gear. The silver sports car howled with excitement and tore around a government issue utility vehicle painted military drab and accelerated up the long, steep grade that wound out of the river bottom.

The original site of Bonners Ferry was a section of floodplain along the river between two high bluffs. An ancient, weather beaten grain elevator presided over the railroad siding that ran through the heart of it. It faded in the Nissan’s rear-view mirror. To the north and east rose mountains, dominating the horizon. They looked down upon the human spectacle from their lofty vantage of timeless perspective with stoic disinterest. Rogers glanced at his link. It had no signal.

The GT-R hugged the yellow centerline at speed, nimbly negotiating long sweeping corners to the top of the climb. It reached the summit and barreled down a long straight, arriving moments later at a crossroads. The highway continued onward to the north. They left that path, changed course, turned east.

Flashing lights caught their attention. A surge of adrenalin coursed through their veins. An Idaho State Police car, a sleek interceptor, was parked in the large expanse of pavement northeast of the junction that served the port of entry from Canada. Although it saw regular use, it was rarely busy, but now a throng of tractor-trailers stood there, motionless. The strobes on the patrol car flashed, bright even against a midday sun. Gunnar slowed the car. Rogers stared past him. Their heads pivoted in unison as their eyes studied the scene.

More than a dozen big rigs lined the lot. Two Kootenai County Sheriff vehicles were parked at its far end. Their lights added to the tenor generated by those of the ISP cruiser. Truck drivers, their jeans and boots conspicuous alongside the police uniforms, gathered in a knot.

At the center of the cluster, a state trooper was engaged in ferocious argument with one of the truckers. The trooper had his finger thrust into the other man’s face. The deputies stood on the fringe of the mob, obviously uneasy and anxious, and they bent their elbows slightly and kept their hands near the grips of the automatic pistols holstered in their gun belts.

“Dude! Man. What the fuck is that?” Gunnar asked.

His eyes were on the mob and not the road ahead. His question hung in the air. Rogers searched for some sort of clue.

“I don’t know,” he answered. He knew Gunnar’s query was rhetorical, but the incongruity of the situation demanded comment. The exchange between the trucker and the deputy was becoming more heated.

“Well, fuck it,” Gunnar said.

He shoved his right foot to the floor and mashed the accelerator beneath the sole of his shoe. The GT-R leapt forward and the whine from the turbochargers grew louder and louder as the tachometer swung in a rapid arc. He triggered the shifter into the next gear.

“No point stickin’ around for this.”

This time Rogers didn’t respond. He had his link in hand and was trying to access the network. He had no connection. His link was top of the line, multiband, satellite and cellular capable, and he subscribed to a premium service. Still it yielded nothing. Rogers checked Gunnar’s link as well. Neither of the devices was connected.

The fingers were moving in his off hand, like they did just before he took over a basketball game. It was a nervous act, the only one he allowed himself, and it didn’t matter that it betrayed him, because it signaled that he was about to assume control. The fingers moved in a wave, as if he were playing consecutive notes on the keys of a piano. Gunnar had the Nissan flying and mileposts shot past them twice a minute. The world outside was a blur.

The road beyond stretched away from them, empty. Every couple of minutes or so Rogers checked the signal on the two links until finally he accepted it as futile.

Gunnar kept them charging forward. He was focused and his lips were drawn in a taut line. His skin was paler than usual. He gripped the Nissan’s steering wheel tightly with both hands and his knuckles were white. Neither spoke, but watched the road ahead, and tried to imagine what crept around the next corner.

The streaking silver sports car tore through a tight S-curve that twisted downhill into a two kilometer straight. At the exit of the corner Gunnar was on the brakes hard, the nose of the GT-R suddenly dangerously close to the rear bumper of another Idaho State Police cruiser that occupied the lane ahead. Gunnar panicked for a moment, gripped with indecision, and Rogers tensed with futile energy. His own foot had tapped an imaginary brake and he was thinking downshift and finally Gunnar triggered the paddle. The redhead was on the gas again and the screaming Nissan swept past the black sedan at full throttle. Rogers glanced over at the officer behind the wheel and gave him a slight nod. His gesture was not returned. The other driver slowed and Gunnar eased the Nissan back into the lane and the two vehicles flew into another set of curves.

It was a maneuver they should never have gotten away with. Gunnar checked his mirror, looking expectantly for the lights and sirens but they never came.

The GT-R crossed the imaginary line separating the state of Montana from Idaho, and a baseless wave of relief washed over them. Rogers twisted in his seat and snatched a last glimpse of the cruiser as it turned sideways across the highway to blockade the route on the Idaho side of the line. He spun back and his eye caught something. It grabbed his attention. He zeroed in on its source.

“Whoa, Gunnar, hold up.”

Rogers motioned to his friend. His hands were expansive with his fingers splayed and he pressed

his palms down toward the dash in a gesture of reduction.

“Stop! Stop the car,” Rogers said.

“What?”

Gunnar asked the question but he was already a flurry of action and his feet danced on the pedals and his hands worked the controls. Rubber screamed in protest as he brought the sports car to a screeching halt. He had missed the entrance to a wide gravel parking lot that lie on the right and he hammered the shifter into reverse and accelerated toward it.

“What is it dude?”

He spun the steering wheel hard to the left and the Nissan’s nose whipped around in a bastardized version of a bootlegger’s reverse. A panorama played out before them as the car hood swung through a full ninety degrees. Gunnar flicked the shifter from reverse to drive and stomped on the gas. The GT-R leapt forward.

“There’s a deputy at the Line,” Rogers said by way of explanation, referencing the roadhouse that stood before them. Its name was the State Line House, but locals simply called it the Line.

The sports car sprang from a cloud of dust and Gunnar was immediately back on the brake. Gravel crunched under the tires and they skidded to a halt. Through the windshield, they spied a white four-wheel drive vehicle with Lincoln County Sheriff insignia painted on either side. A uniformed deputy stood next to it, facing a much larger and much older black man. Their heads were turned and their eyes were on the GT-R.

Their stances belied tension. The deputy stood with his hands on his hips. The black man appeared extremely agitated. The deputy’s head swung back to him as the man spit some sort of invective at the officer.

Rogers unlatched the Nissan’s door and pushed it open. He was well acquainted with both men, particularly the black man, Calvin Jones, the roadhouse’s owner. Lee Harper lived less than a quarter mile from where they stood, and he and Rogers and the rest of them had spent hours at the State Line House throwing darts, shooting pool, and laughing at the dirty jokes the pub owner was always telling them. People of color were rare in these parts, however, unlike many local residents, the boys, while white, were without prejudice, and the barkeep welcomed them warmly whenever they came around.

The roadhouse he ran was a throwback to an earlier time, when a pub served more as a focal point for the local community than a bar. The State Line House was at once a tavern, a fuel depot, a charging station, a restaurant, and a general store; safe harbor for weary traveler and homesteader alike. It consisted of a large central structure placed well back from the highway, set amidst a cluster of smaller dwellings and storage sheds, all of which were connected by a large gravel lot. A massive fuel tank occupied a space alongside the main building.

“Listen, man, no, you’re not!”

The barkeep’s voice shook with fury, his tone one of finality. His heavy fist clenched as he said the words.

“I’m sorry, Calvin, but I’m just following orders. It’s gotta be this way. Now make it easy and we can both get on to dealing with more important things. I promise the county will make it worth your trouble,” the deputy replied. He was doing his best to maintain his composure and pacify the furious tavern owner. He had his arm out, palm down. “It’s the best thing for everyone. Now, please, just hand over the keys.”

“Hey, Cal,” Gunnar called. His parent’s home was also not far from here, and he knew the barkeep well. Gunnar was oblivious to the men’s body language and strode purposefully toward them, calling out while he walked. “What the hell’s goin’ on?”

Gunnar was frightened. Confusion bordered on panic. Rogers could see that his friend was holding back a volcano of emotion, the muscles in his face pulsing and twitching with energy. The officer ignored him.

“Hey!” he snapped. “I’m talking to you!”

The officer turned to face Gunnar. His knees bent and his hips rotated and his torso twisted, but his feet remained firmly planted. He made eye contact with Rogers. His expression did little to mask his dismay.

Calvin moved fast, faster than most men half his age or size could be expected to. He was on the officer in a flash. His right hand shoved an electric cattle prod into the officer’s belly while the other fist crashed into the side of the deputy’s head. The deputy toppled into the side of his patrol vehicle. Calvin pressed after him.

The officer’s hand flashed. Rogers saw it move with practiced precision. The action was instinctive, a reflex ingrained by training. He kicked at his attacker’s shins, trying to hold the snorting bull of a man at bay and gain himself precious milliseconds. Gunnar froze in his tracks. Words still hung on his lips. Rogers watched it unfold. The barman closed with the deputy, fists flying.

A report cracked the air. For an instant, all stood still. Rogers felt like he could have stepped right out of the scene, frozen as it was, and walked away, left it behind. He held back time for a moment and then it came roaring back in a flood and the deputy was thrashing his way out from beneath the bulk of the dead man. His eyes bulged, his chest heaving. The fingers of his right hand were clutching the pistol in a tight grip, as if holding on to it for life. He pushed himself to his feet, using the bumper of the patrol vehicle as a crutch, then caught sight of the two witnesses. His face was a raging sea of emotion and there was a look in his eyes that forced them to each take a step back toward the GT-R.

“You saw it,” he stammered. “He came at me. There was nothing I could do.”

They stared at him. Gunnar took another step back toward his car.

“Get home. Now!” the deputy yelled at them. He gestured unconsciously with the gun. “Go straight to your houses and stay there. You see anybody else you tell them do the same.”

Gunnar hesitated. His lips quivered. He nearly spoke.

“Get out of here!” the man screamed. The automatic pistol in his hand twitched involuntarily.

The intensity of his command motivated them and they turned toward the car like robots, shocked and uncertain. Still, at the car, they hesitated, but only for a moment. Then they pulled at the handles and opened the doors and climbed inside. Gunnar put the car in reverse, and as they backed away, they glanced repeatedly at the motionless hulk.

Gunnar eased the Nissan onto the highway and accelerated east. Neither spoke. Each was lost in the of his own mind. The GT-R rocketed down the highway, its precise engineering seemingly the last vestige of order in an increasingly chaotic world.

Gunnar broke the silence.

“This is all fucked up. You know that, man. That cop just shot Calvin. Over nothing.”

“Yeah,” Rogers replied. It was not true, that it was over nothing. The bar owner had attacked the officer, although the reason why he had done so was not at all clear. But Rogers was not going to argue that point with Gunnar.

“What are we gonna do?” Gunnar asked.

His voice was on the edge of panic. He stole a quick glance at the passenger seat. Rogers’ face was blank as stone. Gunnar turned back to the road.

“Maybe try and catch up with Lee and them?” he offered.

“Maybe,” Rogers returned. He wondered where his friends might be. “They said they were going up the Yaak.”

He shook his head and looked at Gunnar, reluctant to concede that he had no concrete answers. It was clear Gunnar needed something solid to cling to, but Rogers had to admit that, this time, he had nothing.

“I really could not say.”

“Well, fuck it then, man. Let’s stop in at my house. We can talk to my folks, and…”

The words poured out then stopped. A look of dread spread across Gunnar’s face. Somehow, it turned an even paler shade of white.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed.

Rogers understood immediately. Gunnar’s parents were not at home. They were in Spokane. Beneath his furrowed brow, Gunnar’s eyes went misty with concern.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, Dude-Man,” Rogers soothed. "Nothing your Pops can’t handle.”

He drew a deep breath through his nose and slowly let it out his mouth. With conscious effort, he induced a state of calm in his tense body. Scenarios played out in the theater of his mind before he settled on a reasonable conclusion.

“Whatever is going on, I’m sure they’ll just ride it out at the base till things get figured out.”

Gunnar nodded. He physically ingested Rogers’ comment, chewing on it, persuading himself with each successive bob of his head. The muscles of his jaw worked and then relaxed, and he was visibly relieved.

“Yeah, dude, man, you’re probably right,” he said.

Gunnar squeezed the steering wheel in his hands and the freckles on his knuckles disappeared under the strain. He picked up his link, checked for a signal. The display showed no connection. He set it back down.

“Fuck me, dude,” he said without looking at Rogers. “This shit is nuts. Cops all over the place, actin’ crazy. National Guard at the grocery store. Whole damn net’s down. I don’t know what’s goin’ on, man, but I don’t like it.”