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He was a man against four wooden tombs. He ripped open the second bale to find a man and a teenage boy squeezed together. The man was unconscious, his breathing shallow. The third bale held a mother and two small children, their lethargy a terrifying sign of hypoxia. By the time Miller reached the fourth bale, his knuckles were raw and his lungs burned, but he didn’t stop until two more disoriented men tumbled onto the flatbed.
Eight people. Eight human lives had been packed like cargo into what should have been a farm vehicle. As Miller called for a “10-33” emergency response, a black Chevrolet Tahoe appeared across the highway. Its tinted windows were like dark oil, and two men in tactical vests stepped out, rifles in hand. They were the “cleaners,” assessing whether to salvage the load or silence the witness.
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