Interstate 79, on a stretch north of Pittsburgh.
The blizzard had been raging for three full hours.
Gale-force winds whipped sheets of snow, striking the asphalt like countless white knives.
Visibility had dropped to less than ten meters. Traffic on the interstate had long since thinned, leaving only the occasional semi-truck, its engine a dull roar in the storm.
2:00 AM.
A dark gray Ford F-150 pickup sped across the icy surface.
Its speed was well beyond the safe limit for such weather. A white tail of snowy mist billowed up from its tires.
The driver was a man in his forties, his face covered in stubble, his eyes bloodshot.
His hands gripped the steering wheel in a death lock, his foot planted on the gas pedal, even as the truck began to sway violently in the crosswinds.
He had to hurry.
Just past the next bend and another five kilometers, and he'd be out of Allegheny County.
Once he crossed the line, this truckload of goods would turn into greenbacks.
