Between Milwaukee and Chicago is a ninety minute stretch of boredom. A lone officer spends the early hours of a fall wednesday parked next to the highway. His radar gun haphazardly scans the road.
When 3am came around, his radar gave off a digital squeal and flashed "215 mph." Nothing was there, and everything went back to dull. Random fluke. What else could it be? He forgot about it and returned to a boredom induced coma.
One week later. Same time, same radar, same problem. He swaps the radar and writes it off as a new fangled failure.
Two weeks later. Same time, new radar, same problem. It's beyond him. No-one else is having this problem.
Three weeks later. Same time, two squad cars, new idea. Something must be setting this radar off. Since no cars come by between 2:45 am and 3:15 am, let's spread tire spikes across the highway and see what happens.
3 am comes and goes. Nothing happens. 3:04 am, 3:05 am, nothing. But at 3:06 am, two explosions rip across dullsville and sparks fly on the highway like a Rammstein encore in Berlin. The officers stumble out and run onto the road to find a Lamborghini Diablo with shredded tires perpendicularly spread across the road.
The windows were blacked out, all lights, blinkers, license plates, and anything else reflective had been stripped or painted black. Inside the car were two men wearing night vision goggles, black body spandex hooded suits, and .50 caliber hand guns.
And inside the trunk, they found sixty pounds of cocaine stashed between the trunk lining and car frame.
