“Status, Hayes!” Henderson barked.
“Friendly fire!” I yelled back over the idling engine of the CAT vehicle. “Local PD intercepted the advance point. Weapon discharged into the vehicle. Suspect is contained!”
Henderson looked down at Mitchell. The operator's face was hidden behind a balaclava, but his eyes were pure ice. He knew exactly what this was. He knew what Mitchell had done.
“Secure him in your vehicle,” Henderson ordered Sloan. “We are moving.”
Without another word, the CAT operators collapsed back into the Suburban. The doors slammed shut, and the heavy vehicle tore off down the highway, rubber burning as it accelerated to catch up with the motorcade.
In less than forty-five seconds, the highway was empty again, save for the flashing lights of Mitchell’s cruiser and the three of us standing in the rain.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hiss of my deflating tire and Mitchell’s ragged breathing.
Miller hauled Mitchell to his feet. The cop’s uniform was soaked with mud and rainwater. His badge, the one he had been so proud of, was caked in dirt. He looked small. Stripped of his gun, his authority, and his misplaced superiority, he was just a terrified man in a wet shirt.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Miller began, his voice shaking with residual adrenaline. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a federal court of law.”
“I’m a cop,” Mitchell whispered. It was a plea now, not a threat. “I’m one of you. Please.”
I walked over to him. I stopped just a few inches from his face.
“You aren't one of us,” I said softly.
I reached into the pocket of his raincoat, pulled out my leather credential case, and slipped it back into my own jacket.
“You saw the badge, Mitchell. You saw the armor. You heard the comms. You had a hundred off-ramps to de-escalate this. But you looked at my skin, and you decided that your bias was more reliable than the evidence right in front of your eyes.”
Mitchell swallowed hard, looking down at his muddy boots.
“You were willing to shoot me to prove you were right,” I continued. “And because of that, you nearly caused the Counter Assault Team to open fire on a local police officer. You endangered the President. You are done wearing that badge.”
Sloan stepped up, her face a mask of absolute authority. “Put him in the back of the SUV. Miller, get on the horn with the local chief of police. Tell him to get out here right now. Tell him the Secret Service has just arrested one of his officers for assaulting a federal agent.”
As Miller walked Mitchell away, the local cop’s shoulders slumped. He looked back at me once, his face a mixture of shame and confusion. He still couldn't compute how the script in his head had gone so spectacularly wrong.
Sloan turned to me. She let out a long, slow breath, the professional armor cracking just a fraction.
“You okay, Derek?”
I looked at my hands. They were shaking. The adrenaline crash was hitting me like a freight train. Ten years in the Service. I had thrown myself in front of crowds. I had cleared rooms with known explosives. I had stared down armed sovereign citizens in Nevada.
But I had never been closer to death than I was tonight, staring down the barrel of a gun held by a man who was sworn to protect and serve.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“He was going to pull the trigger,” she said quietly. “When Miller tackled him, he was already squeezing it. If he hadn't been knocked off balance, that round would have gone into your stomach.”
“I know.”
She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Go sit in the SUV. Turn the heater on. Miller and I will handle the local brass when they show up. You’re off the route for the rest of the night.”
“I can finish the shift, Boss.”
“It wasn't a request, Hayes. Go sit down.”
I nodded and walked toward the counter-surveillance vehicle. The rain was coming down harder now, washing the gravel and the blood-red reflections off the highway.
Fifteen minutes later, the flashing lights of four local police cruisers lit up the highway.
From the warmth of the SUV, I watched the local Police Chief step out of his car. He was a heavy-set man with white hair, looking frantic as he pulled his raincoat over his uniform. He marched up to Sloan, gesturing wildly, pointing at Mitchell who was sitting in the back of our vehicle.
I cracked the window just enough to hear the conversation.
“Agent Sloan, there has to be a misunderstanding!” the Chief was pleading. “Officer Mitchell is one of my veterans. He’s got commendations. He thought your man was an impersonator!”
“Chief,” Sloan’s voice was lethal, “your officer ignored federal credentials, drew his weapon on three separate federal agents, and discharged his firearm during a presidential movement. He is currently facing charges for aggravated assault on a federal officer, obstruction of a protective operation, and reckless endangerment.”
“But he’s a police officer! You can't just arrest a local cop!”