“You know we have two problems,” Frank said with a somewhat bored sounding voice as he sat in the passenger seat and watched I-70 traffic fly past them.
Morning traffic was flying past them at a high rate of speed heading back into St. Louis. The land just west of St. Louis was about as flat as flat could get. So, I-70 was a straight line shot. Almost like the straightaway on a race track. Cars flew past them in a swirling windy haze. Big eighteen-wheel behemoths podded past them with a thundering rattle of steel and sheer mass.
“Just two?” Turner asked with a half-smirk on his lips as he sat behind the steering wheel of the Ford and eyed the traffic in front of him. “Just two we can handle. What two are you talking about?”
“Well, Sherlock, problem number one; How does a supposed dead m
