Cecil Dann, FBI special agent in charge, stepped into an interrogation room in the Atlanta Police Department. Jimmie Aussapile was alone in the room, deprived of his baseball cap, his belt, and even his chaw. An empty Styrofoam cup sat in front of the trucker, and he was sitting back in his chair, napping. When the door opened, Jimmie yawned and sat up. “Took your sweet time,” Jimmie said. Dann took the chair across from Jimmie and sat down. “You’re lucky I came at all,” he said. “You and your friends are in a hell of a lot of trouble—suspicion of murder, possibly kidnapping, firing on police officers, high-speed chases, reckless endangerment on the highway. You just bring a shit-storm around with you wherever you go, don’t you, Aussapile?” “How soon they forget,” Jimmie said. “I handed you the Marquis a week ago, remember, Cecil? I’m trying to stop another one, and I need your help.” “It’s not your job to stop them,” Dann said. “Your job is to deliver produce, or batteries, or Tampax.
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