"Memphis.Today.We're escorting a shipment."
She pushes off the doorframe."How long?"
"There and back?Two days, probably."
She moves to the coffee maker and starts it up."How much time do I have?"
I check my watch."Hour and a half, maybe less.I’ll pick up the cargo first, then you'll work while we're loading."
Her eyebrow hitches as she pours coffee into two mugs."You want me to forge federal documents while you go load drugs into a truck?"
"That’s what I said."
She hands me a mug."Just wanted to clarify the working conditions."
I crack eggs into a pan, probably with less finesse than she would've managed.
"Eat fast when it's ready," I say."Clock's ticking."
She leans against the counter, sipping her coffee."No worries.You know I work better under pressure anyway."
She'd better, because we're about to escort enough illegal narcotics to put us away for life, and the only thing standing between us and federal prison is her forged paperwork.
Adena
The second Jagger’s out the door, I pull up the template files I've been refining since I agreed to this job: DEA Form 222—the official order form for Schedule II controlled substances; transport manifests; chain of custody documentation.
The problem isn't creating convincing forgeries.I can do that in my sleep.
The problem is I don't know what checkpoint we're hitting, what technology they're using, or what will trigger extra scrutiny.
I start with the basics—company name, addresses, DEA registration numbers.Everything has to cross-reference correctly.One inconsistent detail and the whole thing falls apart.
My fingers move across the keyboard, muscle memory taking over.I've done this before—different circumstances, different reasons, but the skillset is the same.
The pharmaceutical company has to be real but obscure enough that no one will call to verify.Small enough to be believable, big enough to handle this volume.
I find one—a legitimate distributor in Baton Rouge that handles medical supplies for rural clinics.Perfect.They're real, they're licensed, and they're small enough that their paperwork won't be instantly recognizable.
I forge their letterhead, their signature blocks, their routing numbers.
The security paper feeds through my portable printer—expensive stuff, with the right weight, the right texture, watermarks that show under UV light.
Twenty-eight minutes.
The transport manifest is next.This is where most forgers screw up—they focus on making it look official and forget to make it boring.Real manifests are tedious, detailed, full of tracking numbers and regulatory codes that mean nothing to most people but everything to inspectors who know what they're looking for.
I fill in serial numbers, lot codes, expiration dates, cross-referencing them against actual pharmaceutical databases to make sure nothing flags as suspicious.
The embosser is last—pressing the official seal into the paper with just enough force that it's visible but not overdone.
Fifteen minutes.
I hold the first document up to the light.The watermark shows perfectly.The embossing is clean.The signatures look authentic because I traced them from actual DEA personnel files I pulled before I left Hightower.
It's good work.
Better than good.
