Kittredge pulled a heavy brass key ring from his belt.
“I need to check the perimeter.”
“Nobody moves,” he ordered, masking his panic with fractured authority.
He marched toward the corridor, swiping his badge against the card reader beside the heavy door.
The reader blinked red.
He swiped it again, harder, the plastic scraping against the scanner.
Red again.
“Ruth,” Kittredge barked, his composure fracturing completely.
“Override the interior doors.”
“Drop the lockdown now.”
Ruth didn’t touch her keyboard.
“I can’t.”
“The system is locked from the outside.”
“Whoever flagged Mr. Monroe’s appointment owns the network right now.”
Kittredge drew his baton.
He didn’t pull his firearm, but the metallic snap of the expanding baton echoing down the hall was enough to make Priya gasp.
He jammed the steel tip into the seam of the electronic strike plate.
He was a desperate man trapped in a glass box, and the water was rising.
“If you damage that door, Sergeant, you add destruction of federal evidence to your indictment,” Monroe called out.
Monroe hadn’t moved from the center of the room.
“The April narcotics cash didn’t make it to the state lockup, did it?”
Kittredge stopped prying at the door.
His chest heaved under his uniform shirt.
“Corley found the discrepancy in the ledger,” Monroe continued, his voice calm, factual, relentless.
“He flagged it, he tried to pull the physical logs from Miss Ellison, and then he died.”
“And now I’m here for the same logs.”
“You knew if I walked out of here with those records, the audit would trace the missing cash directly to your shift.”
Doyle backed away from the counter, his eyes darting between Kittredge and the door.
“Ray,” Doyle said, his voice cracking.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Shut up, Garrett!” Kittredge roared, spinning around with the baton still in hand.
“You’re already going to prison for assaulting a fed.”
“Don’t pretend you have a moral high ground now.”
Kittredge looked at the reinforced glass of the front doors, calculating the odds of shooting his way out.
He looked at Ruth, weighing whether taking a hostage would buy him out of a federal trap.
But the heavy thud of tires mounting the curb outside shattered his calculations.
Three black SUVs skidded to a halt on the concrete plaza just beyond the lobby windows.
They didn’t park in the marked spaces.
They angled aggressively, forming a barricade across the entrance.
Before the engines even cut off, doors swung open.
Men and women in tactical vests with bright yellow FBI lettering across their backs poured out.
Leading them was a tall woman in a dark trench coat, her badge clipped visibly to her belt.
Agent Vance.
Monroe watched her approach the glass.
She didn’t knock.
She held up a small electronic device, pressing it against the electronic reader on the exterior wall.
The heavy magnetic lock on the front doors disengaged with a loud, hollow thunk.
The doors swung open, letting the cold autumn air rush into the stifling lobby.
Ten armed agents flooded the room in a matter of seconds.
“Secure him,” Vance ordered, pointing a gloved finger at Kittredge.
Kittredge dropped the baton before the first agent even reached him.
It clattered loudly against the linoleum.
He raised his hands, the fight completely drained from his posture.
Two agents shoved him against the wall, kicking his legs apart and slapping heavy steel cuffs over his wrists.
Doyle didn’t wait to be asked.
He unbuckled his duty belt, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud.
He put his hands behind his head and knelt on the ground, staring blankly at the wall.
“I didn’t know,” Doyle whispered to no one in particular.
“I just thought he was a smartmouth civilian.”
An agent cuffed him anyway.
Vance walked past the kneeling officers without a second glance.
She stopped in front of Monroe, evaluating his bruised cheek and the split lip.
“I told you to stay out of trouble, Isaiah.”
“I just asked a question,” Monroe replied smoothly.
“Turns out, it was the exact right question.”
Vance turned toward the front desk, where Ruth was still standing perfectly still.
“Miss Ellison?” Vance asked.
“Yes,” Ruth managed to say.
“I’m Special Agent Vance.”
“I believe you have a request folder prepared for us.”
Ruth nodded, finally reaching under the counter.
She pulled out a thick, manila envelope bound in red string.
She placed it gently on the counter.
Monroe walked over and picked up his leather folio from where Doyle had left it.
He opened it, revealing the silver federal badge pinned to the inside cover.
He didn’t show it to Doyle, who was already being hauled to his feet.
He simply closed it and tucked it back under his arm.
“Thank you, Miss Ellison,” Monroe said.
“You kept these safe.”
“I just did my job,” Ruth replied, her voice steadying.
Monroe offered a small, bloodstained smile.
“So did we.”
He picked up the manila envelope, turned, and walked out through the open doors into the cool afternoon air.
The lockdown was over, but the reckoning in Cedar Falls had just begun.