THE WATCH ON ROUTE NINE
Chapter I: The Traffic Stop and the Silver Watch
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the flat farmland along rural Route 9. Parked on the gravel shoulder was a classic black 1968 Ford Mustang, its hood still warm from the open highway. Directly behind it, the emergency roof lights of a county sheriff cruiser flashed silently against the tall roadside grass.
Standing beside the driver's door was Senior Deputy Vance, a broad-shouldered officer with a smug grin, twirling a classic silver mechanical watch in his thick fingers.
"I like this watch," Deputy Vance said casually, holding the gleaming timepiece up to catch the sunlight.
Standing opposite him, balancing steadily on a carbon-fiber prosthetic leg, was Frank Vance. Frank was an older veteran dressed in a dark canvas field jacket over a faded flannel shirt and denim jeans. His face was weathered, his jaw clenched in quiet, stoic restraint as he pointed a single finger back toward his property.
Deputy Vance simply chuckled, pocketing the silver watch into his utility pouch.