The man on the side of the road looked like a ghost in denim tall, wiry, face half-shadowed by his hood. His thumb pointed up.

Mark and Lacey slowed their rusty pickup.

“You see that smile?” Lacey whispered. “That’s a serial killer smile.”

Mark grinned. “Perfect. Let’s mess with him.”

The man climbed in without a word. His duffel hit the floor with a heavy thud.

“Name?” Mark asked, eyes in the rearview.

“Just passing through,” the man muttered.

Lacey leaned over. “You got any… interesting hobbies?”

Silence. Then: “I help people. People in danger.”

Mark laughed. “Like a superhero?”

The hitchhiker’s jaw clenched. “More like… a problem solver.”

They drove in tense silence. Twenty minutes in, the man noticed the turn.

“You missed the exit.”

Mark locked the doors. Lacey pulled something from the glovebox. Duct tape.

“You know,” she said sweetly, “it’s really dumb to get in a stranger’s car.”

The hitchhiker stared at the tape. Then at them. He exhaled, disappointed.

“I knew it.”

He reached into his duffel. They flinched.

But he didn’t pull out a weapon. Just a badge.

Federal.

The air shifted.

“You’ve been leaving bodies off I-90 for six months,” he said. “And you finally picked up the wrong one.”