"I do not consent to a search."
Morrison smiled.
"Nobody asked."
Two officers moved toward the Audi.
Marcus watched them open the passenger door.
The briefcase sat plainly visible.
His heartbeat slowed rather than quickened.
The secondary transmitter had a tamper alert.
If they opened the case, the FBI team would know.
If they removed it, the FBI team would know.
If they destroyed it, the FBI team would know.
Everything was accounted for.
Everything except human behavior.
That was always the unpredictable part.
One officer lifted the briefcase.
Morrison walked over.
"What's in that?"
Receipts.
A legal pad.
He threw everything back.
"No weapon."
Another officer checked under the seats.
"Nothing."
"No drugs?"
"Nothing."
Morrison's irritation returned.
Marcus understood why.
Morrison had expected the search to justify the stop after the fact.
That was how bad policing became corruption.
First came the decision.
Then came the search for a reason.
"What's your occupation?" Morrison demanded.
Marcus looked at him.
"I'd rather speak to an attorney."
Morrison laughed.
"Everybody's a lawyer now."
"No," Marcus said quietly. "Some people just know the Constitution."
Harris looked at him sharply.
Marcus regretted the line immediately.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it revealed too much calm.
Morrison noticed.
Men like Morrison often mistook fear for respect.
A calm person confused them.
"You think you're smarter than me?" Morrison asked.
Marcus said nothing.
"Put him in the car."
They pushed him toward a patrol vehicle.
The woman near the pharmacy was still filming.
Marcus caught her eyes.
She looked terrified.
He gave the smallest nod he could.
Keep recording.
She seemed to understand.
At 7:14 p.m., the rear door of a Deerfield police cruiser opened outside the station.
Marcus stepped out with his hands still cuffed behind him.
His left shoulder burned.
His cheek felt swollen.
One wrist was bleeding where the metal cuff had pinched skin.
But physically, he was functional.
He had experienced worse.
What troubled him was Harris.
The younger officer had barely spoken during the drive.
At two stoplights, Marcus saw Harris glance at him through the rearview mirror.
Finally Marcus said, "You can still tell the truth."
Harris's hands tightened around the steering wheel.
"Don't talk."
Marcus waited.
A few blocks later, Harris said quietly, "You don't know what you're talking about."
Marcus looked through the side window.
"I think you do."
Harris did not answer again.
At the station, Marcus was processed without being permitted a phone call.
Morrison personally emptied his pockets.
Wallet.
Keys.
Rental receipt.
Phone.
Cash.
Nothing identifying him as FBI.
Marcus had deliberately left his federal credentials secured elsewhere before beginning the operation.
Morrison looked disappointed.
"Thought you were important."
Marcus met his eyes.
"Did I say I was?"
Morrison shoved the wallet into an evidence bag.
"You act like it."
Marcus nearly smiled.
"No."
Morrison looked at Reeves.
Reeves nodded.
The latch clicked.
Marcus breathed carefully.
Inside were ordinary-looking paperwork, a laptop, charging cables, a notebook, and several folders.
Nothing identified Marcus as federal law enforcement.
Nothing revealed the surveillance equipment.
The transmitting system was built into the lining.
Morrison flipped through papers.
Rental agreement.
Hotel invoice.
That was the strange thing about power.
People who truly possessed it rarely needed strangers to recognize it.
They placed Marcus in Interrogation Room 2.
Gray walls.
Metal table.
Two chairs.
One dead camera mounted near the ceiling.
Or apparently dead.
The indicator light was dark.
An officer chained one cuff to a metal ring beneath the tabletop.
"Bathroom?" Marcus asked.
"When somebody has time."
The door closed.
Marcus was alone.
He tested his breathing.
Four seconds in.
Four seconds out.
His shoulder pulsed.
Blood had dried along the side of his face.
His reflection in the narrow observation window looked like a man who had lost a fight.
That image did not bother him.
What bothered him was what was happening outside.
He could not see the FBI operations room.
But he knew the protocol.
Supervisor Rebecca Keller would be there.
So would Assistant Special Agent in Charge Emilio Vargas.
Federal prosecutors would already be receiving summaries.
Preservation orders would be drafted.
The local station's computer systems would become evidence.
And if the live transmission remained intact, nobody in Deerfield had any idea how much had already been captured.