But the warehouse is 200 miles away. His truck has a tracker. And the first timer hits zero in 18 minutes.

One Tuesday, he sorts the mail and finds a plain black Blu-Ray case. No label. No postmark. Just a handwritten note taped to the shrink-wrap: "For the Bloodhound. Play me."

Arthur Pogue was once the star of the USPS Postal Inspection Service—the "Bloodhound of Broken Letters." He could trace a shredded will to a mob accountant or find a missing soldier’s Purple Heart in a dead-letter warehouse. But after a catastrophic raid gone wrong (he swore the intel was solid), six innocent people died. They stripped his badge, his pension, and his dignity.

Arthur tears his house apart. No camera. No bomb. But the disc isn't done. Using the Blu-Ray’s interactive menu (a feature he never knew existed), a live satellite feed appears. It shows his mail truck, parked at his next delivery stop—except someone has loaded a mail crate marked "FRAGILE" into the back.

Some deliveries should never be made.