Officer Daniel Reyes had learned not to expect normal days anymore.

In his twelve years on the force, he’d been called to domestic disputes that ended in tears, break-ins that reeked of desperation, and crashes that still echoed in his dreams. But nothing prepared him for the day a hearse outran his cruiser—and the horrors that rode within it.

It began like most uneventful shifts do: the soft static of his radio, the hum of his tires along Highway 7, and the lull of mid-afternoon calm.

Then, the flash of black steel.

A hearse tore past his patrol car, a blur against the arid plains. Daniel blinked, double-checked his speedometer—120 km/h. In a hearse? There were no sirens, no funeral procession, just the low growl of an engine trying to outrun something… or someone.

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He hit the lights.

“Unit 45 to dispatch,” Daniel radioed. “Pursuing black hearse, no markings, traveling eastbound Highway 7 at excessive speed. Suspect refusing to yield. Initiating pursuit.”

The chase wasn’t long, but it was tense. The hearse veered dangerously across the shoulder, skimming the edge of the guardrail, sending a trail of dust like smoke in its wake. A crash felt inevitable.

Then, just as suddenly, it pulled over.

The door creaked open, and out stepped a man in a wrinkled black suit, beads of sweat lining his forehead despite the cool day. His grin was wide—too wide—and completely devoid of warmth.

“Afternoon, officer!” he said, voice brittle and pitched. “Sorry for the speed. I’m terribly late for a funeral. My… uh… family’s waiting.”

Daniel narrowed his gaze. “Who are you transporting?”

The man blinked. “A woman—no, no, a man. Sorry. My niece. Yes, my niece passed. Terrible loss. I’m just… you know, stressed.”

“You said ‘a man’ just now.”

“Did I? Oh, slip of the tongue. Grief, you know? It messes with your head.”

Daniel didn’t reply. He stepped around to the back of the hearse and pointed.

“Open it.”

The man’s hands trembled. “I… Officer, I don’t think—”

“Now.”

With visible reluctance, the man unlatched the rear hatch. The coffin inside gleamed under the desert sun, a polished mahogany box with ornate silver handles. It looked pristine. Too pristine.

“Open the coffin,” Daniel said.

“Sir, please—”

“Now.”

The man’s resolve crumbled. With a grunt and a shaking hand, he lifted the lid.

Daniel didn’t expect to see a body. But he wasn’t prepared for what he did see either.

Rows of black plastic containers, neatly stacked and wrapped like gifts from the underworld, filled the coffin’s hollow interior. The air reeked of chemicals, bitter and acrid, enough to sting the nose.

There were no flowers. No shroud. No deceased.

Just drugs. A lot of them.

Daniel’s hand was already on his radio.

“Dispatch, this is Unit 45. Suspect detained. Requesting immediate backup. Possible narcotics trafficking—major load.”

The man tried to protest, stammering about misunderstandings and family connections. Daniel wasn’t listening anymore. His cuffs clicked cold and tight around the man’s wrists.

“You’re under arrest. Anything you say can and will be used against you—though honestly, I’d recommend silence.”

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Backup arrived within minutes, sirens wailing like ghosts across the plains. Officers cracked open the containers—methamphetamines, pressed pills, synthetic opioids. Enough to poison an entire city.

As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and blood-red, Daniel stood by the coffin, arms crossed. One of the detectives shook his head.

“Transporting narcotics in a hearse,” he muttered. “The perfect cover. No one wants to check a coffin.”

“Until today,” Daniel said quietly.

The driver was soon identified as a courier for a transnational cartel. The funeral disguise had worked before—twice in fact—coffins full of contraband crossing state lines without a second glance. But not this time.

Not with Daniel on patrol.

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Later that night, alone in his apartment, Daniel watched the city lights flicker beyond his window. He poured himself a glass of water and sat heavily in the armchair that faced the dark skyline.

He thought about the driver’s panicked grin.

He thought about the lives that might’ve been lost had that shipment reached its destination.

And then, almost involuntarily, he thought about a different coffin. One he’d stood beside years ago. His sister’s. Taken by the same poison he’d found inside that polished box on the highway.

Daniel exhaled slowly and finally allowed himself to cry—not because he was broken, but because today, for once, he’d stopped someone else’s story from ending the way hers had.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep going.