Graves, Montana didn’t usually offer much in the way of excitement. He drove his cruiser down the stretch of Highway 83, eyes scanning the horizon more out of habit than necessity. Radio playing some quiet music, his one hand on a cup of cold now coffee.

Then, a small sedan drove by, past the speed limit by barely ten miles an hour. Normally, He would’ve let it slide, but today, out of boredom he decided to grab the bait.

He flipped on the lights, not bothering with sirens, and the car stopped onto the shoulder of the road. His boots hit the asphalt with a soft crunch as he stepped out, adjusting his belt, feeling the familiar weight of his sidearm against his hip. He passed the tailgate, letting his fingers brush the red brake light.

Routine, precaution, evidence, prints.

Just in case it turned badly.

He squared his shoulders, eyes darkening in the sun’s glare.

“Afternoon,” he said sternly “Do you know how fast you were going?”