Griggs slid into the driver's seat. "You really stepped in it this time," he sneered through the cage partition. "Captain Holt's going to make sure you regret this."
"No," Angela replied calmly. "He's going to regret showing everyone exactly who he is."
The patrol car's engine rumbled to life. Through the windows, Angela watched her neighborhood grow smaller: the flashing lights, the gathered crowds, Mrs. Carter still standing firm on her porch. But she felt no fear.
Instead, a steady determination filled her chest. This was not over. It was just beginning.
Inside the holding cell, Angela sat perfectly straight on the metal bench, her military training evident in her rigid posture. The harsh fluorescent lights cast unflattering shadows across the concrete walls. Her wrists still bore red marks from the overly tight handcuffs, and her shoulder ached where Griggs had roughly shoved her into the patrol car.
Two female officers had already searched her, confiscating her jewelry, shoelaces, and even the hair tie that kept her neat braids in place. Loose strands fell around her face, but she refused to show any sign of discomfort.
Griggs appeared at the cell bars, smirking. "Comfortable in there, Mrs. Brooks? Hope you like the accommodations. You might be staying a while."
Angela kept her eyes forward, maintaining her composure. Years of combat medical training had taught her that reaction only encouraged aggressors.
"What's wrong? Griggs taunted. "Not so talkative now without your audience of neighbors? He rattled the cell bars with his baton.
"Captain Holt's building quite a case against you. Obstruction, resisting arrest, inciting civil unrest. Could be looking at serious time."
Down the corridor, she heard Captain Holt speaking to someone. "Make sure those phone videos are secured as evidence. We can't have people spreading misleading footage that could compromise our investigation."
Angela's jaw tightened. She knew exactly what would happen to that footage. It would conveniently disappear, just like other evidence of police misconduct in the past.
Meanwhile, Marcus's plane touched down at Reynolds Regional Airport, thirty miles from Brookside Street. He moved with purposeful efficiency through the terminal, already on his phone.
"Listen carefully, Jack," he said to his journalist contact at the Metro Daily. "I'm sending you documents about Vision Heights Development Company. They've been buying up properties in working-class neighborhoods using questionable tactics. I need you to dig into their connection to the police department, specifically Captain Darren Holt."
Marcus climbed into his rental car, Bluetooth connecting automatically. "Yes, I'm sure. My wife just got arrested for interfering with their latest land grab. Time to shine some light on this operation."
His next call was to Commander Sarah Maxwell at the Judge Advocate General's Office. "Sarah, I need everything you can find about police jurisdiction over military family housing. Yes, it's urgent. They entered our property without a warrant."
Back at the station, two detectives led Angela to interrogation room 2B. The younger one, Detective Phillips, tried to play good cop.
"Look, Mrs. Brooks, we can make this easier. Just tell us about the fugitive, and maybe we can work something out."
Angela focused on memorizing details instead of responding: the room number, 2B; the time on the wall clock, 10:47 p.m.; the coffee stain on Phillips's tie. Every detail could matter later.
The older detective, Martinez, slammed his hand on the table. "Your husband's military status won't help you here. This is local jurisdiction."
Angela finally spoke, her voice steady. "I want my lawyer present for any questions."