I Had 72 Hours to Drive an $8 Million Racehorse From Kentucky to Saratoga. On Day Two, His Owner Called and Told Me Not to Arrive

I called the trainer.

Her name was Ruth Okafor. Fifty-four years old, Nigerian-born, raised in Maryland, one of the best trainers on the East Coast. She had been with Brass Monkey since he was a yearling.

She answered on the first ring.

“Ruth. The owner just offered me fifty thousand dollars to deliver the horse after the race.”

Silence.

Then she said a word I won’t put in a family story.

“He insured the horse,” she said. “Two months ago. Twelve million. Not for death. For *loss of use*. If Brass Monkey can’t race the Travers for any reason during transport, the policy pays out.”

“So he gets twelve million if the horse doesn’t run.”

“And he’s about to lose everything to the SEC,” Ruth said. “Lane. Is anyone following you?”

I looked in the side mirror.

The black SUV was parked three rows behind me, engine running.

“Yes.”

“Don’t stop again,” she said. “I’ll call the stewards at Saratoga. And the insurance company. Get my horse to New York.”

“I’m required to rest. Federal hours. I’ve got eleven hours of driving left before I have to stop for ten.”

“Then drive eleven hours.”

I pulled out of the truck stop.

The SUV pulled out behind me.

I’m not a hero. I’m a man who drives a truck. But I’ve been driving horses since I was nineteen, and I have one rule. The horse in my trailer is my horse until I hand the lead rope to somebody else.

Brass Monkey didn’t know any of this. He was eating hay and listening to George Strait.

Somewhere in Pennsylvania, around midnight, the SUV pulled up beside me on an empty stretch of I-80.

The window came down.

A man in the passenger seat held up a sign, like a chauffeur at the airport.

It said: *PULL OVER. LAST OFFER.*