"I suggest you return my credentials, Sergeant, and step aside," she warned, every syllable measured. "You have no idea the kind of storm you are walking into."
Marcus stepped in closer, invading her personal space, his breath reeking of stale coffee and unearned power. "Prove it then. Recite your badge number right now, letter by letter. Or is it printed on the back of a cereal box?"
The woman stared him down for three long, agonizing seconds—three seconds long enough to make the surrounding air feel completely vacuumed of oxygen.
"It's right there in your hand, Sergeant. Read it yourself. And remember this exact moment—because you only have four minutes left before your badge, your gun, and your entire career officially cease to exist."
Just fifteen minutes later, the atmosphere at the central command post shifted with terrifying suddenness.
A heavy, unmarked convoy of sleek black SUVs suddenly screeched around the corner, burning rubber and locking down every exit of the street. Dozens of heavily armed federal tactical operators poured out of the vehicles, immediately swarming the checkpoint and pushing the local police force back with cold efficiency.
At the center of that storm walked Senior Special Agent Elena Vance—the woman from the checkpoint. But she was no longer alone. Flanking her on either side were the City Chief of Police and the Regional Special Agent in Charge of the FBI, both men wearing expressions of thunderous fury.
Marcus’s smug, triumphant smile instantly stiffened, turning into a mask of pure confusion before draining entirely of color. Before he could even open his mouth to protest, two towering federal agents stepped in on either side of him. In a flash of steel, his sidearm was ripped from its holster, his radio was torn from his shoulder, and his silver sheriff's star was violently unpinned from his uniform.