The Dead End at Mile Marker 88

The car didn’t explode. It didn’t screech or sputter or do anything cinematic. It just… stopped. One second the heater was rattling like a majestic, dying lung, and the next, there was silence. Absolute, heavy silence.

John gripped the steering wheel. The leather was peeling at the top, little black flecks that always got stuck under his fingernails. He didn't let go. He stared through the windshield at the wall of grey and brown. Trees. Just endless, wet, rotting trees. Birch, maybe? Or Poplar. He wasn't good with trees. He was good at driving fast and not asking why the Minister of Transport needed a briefcase delivered to a gravel patch in the middle of nowhere.

"Did we… are we here?" Benjamin asked. His voice was muffled. He was still wearing that stupid oversized parka he’d bought at a thrift store in Thunder Bay. It smelled like mothballs and stale paprika.

"GPS says yes," John said. He tapped the screen of his phone. Cracks spiderwebbed across the glass, a souvenir from when they’d dropped it during the scramble in Winnipeg. "Coordinate match. Mile Marker 88."

Benjamin shifted, the nylon of his coat swishing loudly. *Swish-swish.* "Okay. So why did the car stop? You didn't turn the key."

"I know I didn't turn the key, Bas."

"So it's a ghost. Or an EMP. Do they have EMPs out here?" Benjamin leaned forward, peering into the gloom. "Maybe it's the Minister's guys. Remote kill switch."

John finally let go of the wheel. His hands were cramping. "This is a '98 Corolla, Benjamin. It doesn't have a remote kill switch. It barely has brakes." He exhaled, and a puff of white fog hung in the air between them. It was getting cold fast. The kind of damp cold that seeps into your socks and makes your bones ache.

Outside, a single crow landed on the hood. It didn't caw. It just tapped its beak against the metal. *Tap. Tap. Tap.* Like it was checking for ripeness.

"That’s ominous," Benjamin muttered. He reached into the backseat and dragged the briefcase onto his lap. It was handcuffed to his left wrist. The cuffs were pink and fuzzy—the only ones they could find at the sex shop in Sault Ste. Marie after the original pair broke. "Do you think they’re gonna shoot us?"

"No. We’re the couriers. You don't shoot the pizza guy."

"You do if the pizza is poisoned. Or if the pizza knows too much about the Prime Minister's offshore accounts."

John rubbed his face. He was tired. Not just sleep-deprived, but deep-down, soul-level exhausted. They had been on the road for four days. Four days of gas station burritos, sleeping in rest stops, and looking over their shoulders every time a black SUV passed them. And for what? He looked at the briefcase.

"It’s almost over," John said, but the words felt weird in his mouth. Like gravel.

The Last Bag of Chips

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The forest didn't move. The sky was a flat sheet of slate, threatening snow but only delivering a fine, misty drizzle that coated the windows.

Benjamin rustled a bag of salt and vinegar chips. He offered it to John.

"No," John said. "I feel sick."

"Stress response," Benjamin said, crunching loudly. "Your cortisol is spiking. Vinegar helps. It burns the fear away."

"That’s not science."

"It's field medicine." Benjamin shrugged. He looked out the window, chewing. "You know, I’m gonna miss this car. It smells like us. Like fear and onions."

John looked around the interior. The floor was littered with empty cans of energy drinks, wrappers, and a singular, unexplained rubber duck they’d found in the glove box. It was disgusting. It was perfect.

"I'm not," John said. "I want a shower. I want to sleep in a bed that doesn't vibrate."

"Liar," Benjamin grinned, a crumb on his chin. "You love this. You love being 'The Driver.' You think you’re in a movie. You think you're Ryan Gosling, but, like, Canadian and with worse skin."

John huffed, a half-laugh escaping his chest. "Shut up. I just want to get paid. Five grand, Bas. We can actually fix the roof. Mom won't have to work doubles at the diner for like… three months."

The mention of home brought the silence back. The real world. The world where they weren't international spies, just two broke kids from the wrong side of the tracks who got hired by a desperate man in a suit behind a bowling alley.

"Do you think it's worth it?" Benjamin asked, his voice quieter. He touched the briefcase. "Whatever is in here?"

"It has to be."

"It’s light, John. Like, suspiciously light. I bet it’s just a single sheet of paper with the word 'SORRY' printed on it."

"Or a sandwich," John suggested. "A really expensive sandwich."

"If I die for a sandwich, I’m gonna haunt you."

John looked at Benjamin. His best friend. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in tufts where he’d slept against the window. He looked young. Too young for handcuffs. A wave of sadness hit John, sharp and sudden. It wasn't fear. It was the crushing realization that the adventure was the only thing holding them together this week. Once this was done, they went back to being nobodies. The adrenaline would fade, and they’d just be two kids in a parking lot.

"We made it, though," John said softly. "We didn't crash. We didn't get caught."

"Yet," Benjamin pointed out. "We didn't get caught *yet*."

Suddenly, headlights cut through the trees. Bright, blue-white LED beams that sliced through the gloom like knives. They blinded John, reflecting off the rearview mirror.

"Showtime," Benjamin whispered. He wiped his vinegar-dusted hands on his parka. "Do I look tough?"

"You look like a marshmallow with anxiety," John said. "Just… let me do the talking."

The Handover

The vehicle that pulled up wasn't a black SUV. It was a minivan. A silver, sensible, family minivan with a 'Baby on Board' sticker in the window. It parked next to them, the engine purring with an efficiency that mocked their dead Corolla.

The window rolled down. A woman sat there. She looked like a librarian, or maybe a sinister dentist. Glasses on a chain, grey hair pulled back in a tight bun, a scarf that looked like it cost more than John’s entire life.

"code?" she asked. Her voice was flat. Bored.

John swallowed. His throat clicked. "Uh. 'The Sparrow flies at… noon?'"

Benjamin elbowed him. "Midnight. The Sparrow flies at midnight, you idiot."

The woman sighed. She actually checked her watch. "Close enough. Give it here."

"I… I can't," Benjamin stammered, lifting his arm. "It's, uh, attached."

The woman didn't blink. She opened her door and stepped out. She was wearing heels in the mud. She walked over to Benjamin’s side of the car, pulled a small key from her pocket, and unlocked the handcuffs with a practiced ease. She didn't even look at Benjamin’s face. She took the briefcase.

"Is that it?" John asked. He felt deflated. Where was the drama? The ominous warning?

The woman paused. She looked at the briefcase, then at the two teenagers shivering in their rusted car. For a second, her expression softened. Just a fraction.

"You boys have a way home?" she asked.

"Car's dead," John said.

She reached into her coat and tossed a burner phone onto John's lap. "Call a tow. Don't use your real names. And forget you ever saw me."

She turned to leave.

"Wait!" Benjamin yelled. "What is it? What did we bring? Is it codes? Is it a weapon?"

The woman stopped. She looked at the briefcase, then back at them. A small, dry smile touched her lips. "It's the Minister's divorce papers. His wife was refusing to sign unless he delivered them in person. He didn't want the confrontation."

Silence. The crow on the hood tapped again. *Tap.*

"Divorce papers?" Benjamin squeaked.

"Signed in blue ink," the woman said. "National security is a messy business, boys. Sometimes it's bombs, sometimes it's alimony."

She got back in the minivan. She backed out, spraying gravel, and disappeared down the road.

The Aftermath

John and Benjamin sat in the silence. The forest seemed less scary now. Just stupid. Just a bunch of wet wood watching two idiots.

Benjamin started laughing. It started as a wheeze, then turned into a full-blown cackle. He slapped his knee. "Divorce papers! We almost died in Kenora for *divorce papers*!"

John felt a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. He didn't want to smile. He wanted to be angry. But the absurdity of it was too much. The tension in his chest, that tight knot he’d been carrying for four days, suddenly unspooled.

"I hate the government," John said, chuckling. "I actually hate them."

"Five grand for alimony running," Benjamin wiped a tear from his eye. "Man, wait until I tell… wait, I can't tell anyone."

"Nope."

"We’re secret agents of matrimonial law."

John leaned his head back against the headrest. He felt light. They were alive. They were stranded in the woods with a dead car and no food, but they were alive. And strangely, he felt proud. They had done the job. They hadn't cracked.

He looked at Benjamin, who was now rummaging for crumbs in the bottom of the chip bag. The sadness was still there, buzzing in the background—the end of the road, the return to normal life—but it was mixed with something brighter. A golden, warm feeling. Survival.

"Hey," John said. "We should keep the handcuffs. As a trophy."

Benjamin held up his wrist, rubbing the red mark where the metal had dug in. "Deal. But next time, I drive."

"There is no next time, Bas."

"Yeah. Sure. That’s what they always say in the movies right before the sequel."

John picked up the burner phone the woman had thrown. It was an old flip phone. "I'm calling the tow truck. Let's get out of here. I want a burger."

He flipped the phone open. The screen lit up. But he didn't dial.

There was a text message already on the screen. Unread. Received two minutes ago.

John frowned. "That’s weird."

"What?" Benjamin asked, licking vinegar dust off his thumb.

"There's a text. From… 'Unknown'."

"Probably a promo for a plan. Or the woman telling us not to talk."

John read the message. The blood drained from his face. The warmth he had felt seconds ago vanished, replaced by a cold sharper than the autumn air.

He read it again, hoping the words would change. They didn't.

**Text:** *THE DECOY WORKED. INTERCEPT TEAM EN ROUTE TO YOUR LOCATION. ETA 2 MINUTES. RUN.*

John looked down at the screen, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. "Benjamin," he whispered, his voice cracking. "That wasn't the extraction team."