Arthur didn't even flinch. He turned his back on Tyler, pressing the phone tighter against his ear. His eyes locked onto a small, discreet dash-mounted camera fitted on the interior windshield of the patrol car behind Tyler—a high-resolution dashcam with wide-angle recording capabilities, blinking with a steady, quiet red light.
"They took three thousand dollars," Arthur said calmly into the phone, ignoring Tyler’s mocking laughter. "Corner of 4th and Elm. Officer Tyler Miller. Badge number 409. He didn't write a ticket. He just straight-up robbed me in broad daylight."
"Yeah, yeah, keep crying," Tyler shouted, turning around to count the cash one last time. "They took 3,000!"
Suddenly, Tyler’s smug expression froze. The laughter died in his throat.
His eyes widened in a sudden flash of stark, primal terror. The bills in his hand felt heavy suddenly, like bricks of lead. A terrifying thought pierced his drug-addled, power-drunk brain: Wait... three thousand? How did he know the exact amount before I even counted it out loud to him?
Tyler’s breath hitched. He dropped his gaze from the money to Arthur’s face. The old man wasn’t sweating anymore. He wasn't shaking. He was standing completely upright, staring at Tyler with the calm, terrifying patience of a predator watching a trapped rabbit.
"What... what are you talking about?" Tyler stammered, stepping back a half-step.
Before Arthur could answer, a high-pitched, steady whirring sound ripped through the midday air.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
The heavy rotor wash of a low-flying helicopter battered the street overhead, instantly blowing trash, dust, and cones across the intersection. Simultaneously, three unmarked matte-black tactical SUVs came screaming around the corner from both directions, tires smoking as they slammed to a halt, completely boxing in the local patrol cruisers.
Doors flew open in unison. Within seconds, a dozen federal tactical operators in full tactical gear, carrying automatic rifles and wearing reinforced ceramic vests, swarmed the area. They didn't shout warnings to civilians; they moved with absolute, surgical precision, immediately subduing Tyler’s junior partners and slamming them against the hoods of their own cars.
Tyler stood paralyzed in the middle of the street, the stolen cash still clutched in his sweaty palm.
From the lead SUV stepped a man in a sharp civilian suit, accompanied by two internal affairs captains and a federal prosecutor. But it was the person stepping out of the passenger seat that made Tyler’s blood run completely cold.