Aaron radioed dispatch. “Unit 12 on scene. K9 alerting on debris—requesting backup, just in case.”
“Copy that, Unit 12. Backup en route.”
Aaron knelt beside the bale Rex had focused on most. Up close, something did seem… off. The hay was packed tighter than expected, almost unnaturally so. And there was a faint odor beneath the usual dry grass scent. Something metallic. Something wrong.
He stood up, pacing once, thinking.
It wouldn’t be the first time smugglers used agricultural cargo to hide contraband. Drugs concealed in produce shipments, weapons tucked into crates—it happened. But hay bales? That was new.
Still, Rex wasn’t wrong.
He never was.
Aaron retrieved a utility knife from his belt. “Alright,” he murmured, more to himself than the dog. “Let’s see what’s got you so worked up.”
Rex stepped back slightly but remained alert, watching every movement.
Aaron approached the bale carefully and pressed the blade into the tightly bound straw. The outer layer resisted at first, then gave way with a dry tearing sound. Loose hay spilled out as he cut deeper, widening the opening.
At first, all he saw was more hay.
Then something shifted.
A color that didn’t belong.
Aaron paused.
He leaned closer, using his gloved hands to pull the hay apart. The smell hit him next—faint but unmistakable. Not chemicals. Not fuel.
Decay.
His stomach tightened.
“…No,” he whispered.
He pulled more hay aside.
And then he saw it.
Fabric.
Dark. Torn. Stained.
Aaron stumbled back slightly, his face draining of color.
“Dispatch,” he said, voice suddenly tight. “We’ve got… something here. Definitely not just debris. I need units now. And medical. Possibly forensic.”
“Unit 12, confirm situation?”
