"Execute," Carter said, one word, quiet and final.
For three seconds, nothing happened. The interrogation room held its breath. The air conditioning hummed. O'Grady's ragged breathing was the loudest thing in the room. And then, from beyond the heavy steel door, the muffled sounds of the busy precinct outside suddenly transformed into chaos.
There were shouts, sharp and disciplined, not panicked. There was the heavy thud of tactical boots against linoleum, moving in formation, moving with purpose. There was the unmistakable authoritative shouting of federal agents taking control of a building that had, until that moment, believed itself untouchable.
"FBI, nobody move! Hands away from your keyboards! Step away from your desks!"
Through the heavy steel door, they could hear the local cops shouting in confusion, chairs scraping, phones ringing unanswered, a sergeant demanding to know what was happening and getting no answer that would satisfy him. The 42nd District was being raided, not by a rival gang or a protest, but by the federal government, in its own house, on a night when it had thought it was merely processing another statistic.
The door to interrogation room four flew open. Four heavily armed agents wearing tactical vests emblazoned with the bright yellow letters FBI flooded the room. They moved with terrifying efficiency, not rushing, not shouting over each other, each man knowing his sector and his target. They immediately flanked O'Grady, Doyle, and Captain Miller, and the small room, which had felt cramped before, now felt like a cage with the walls closing in.
Cynthia stepped around the table and looked down at the broken man in the chair. She did not gloat. She did not smile the way she had smiled when Carter first opened the tablet. She spoke the way a director speaks when she is putting a matter on the record, knowing that every word will be transcribed, reviewed, and remembered.
"Thomas O'Grady," Cynthia said, "you are under arrest for the violation of Title 18, United States Code, Section 242, deprivation of rights under color of law. You are also charged with obstruction of justice, perjury, and the possession of a Schedule II narcotic with the intent to distribute."
O'Grady looked up at her, tears of sheer panic welling in his eyes, his face wet in a way that had nothing to do with the rain outside. The man who had laughed a cruel, barking laugh on Interstate 55, who had called her a mule in a rented suit, who had told her to use her right to remain silent, was now begging with the only currency he had left.