Not yet courage.
Derek faced Harlan again.
“You think that chair gives you permission to do whatever you want?”
Harlan’s voice dropped.
“No.”
“Then stop using it like a shield.”
Harlan stared at him.
“I have done nothing except attempt to clean a hazard from a legal crosswalk.”
Derek jabbed a finger toward his chest.
“I’m done explaining.”
“So am I.”
That was the moment.
Derek grabbed the left armrest of Harlan’s wheelchair.
Caleb inhaled sharply.
“Derek, don’t—”
Too late.
Derek pulled hard.
The chair weighed more than three hundred pounds with batteries and equipment, but the sudden sideways force lifted one wheel partially from the ground.
Harlan’s torso slammed into the side support.
Pain shot through his lower back.
The chair rocked violently.
The grocery bag fell.
Basil scattered onto the road.
Someone screamed.
Lila shouted:
“Hey!”
The wheelchair slammed back onto all four wheels.
Harlan gripped the armrest.
For two seconds, he said nothing.
The pain was deep and bright around the old injury site.
He breathed through it.
Derek still had one hand on the chair.
“Now are you going to move?”
Harlan raised his eyes.
The retired man was gone.
The face looking back at Derek now belonged to the federal investigator who had once run multiagency task forces against terrorist networks and organized criminal organizations.
There was no shouting.
That made it worse.
“Take your hand off my chair.”
Derek blinked.
“What?”
“Now.”
Something in Harlan’s voice made Caleb straighten.
Derek felt it too.
Then pride overrode instinct.
He grabbed Harlan’s shirt near the collar.
“You don’t order me around.”
Harlan did not move.
“Officer Langford.”
Derek froze slightly.
Harlan had read his name tag.
“You have now used physical force against a disabled citizen who has committed no offense.”
Derek tightened his fist in the shirt.
“You resisted a lawful order.”
“No.”
“You assaulted an officer.”
Several people in the crowd reacted aloud.
Lila shouted:
“He didn’t touch you!”
Derek turned his head.
“Back up!”
Lila held up the phone.
“I’m recording you.”
For the first time, Derek looked genuinely concerned.
Only for a second.
Then he returned to Harlan.
“Identification.”
“My identification is in the inside left pocket of my shirt jacket.”
“Get it.”
“You are pinning my right arm against the chair.”
Derek released the shirt.
“Then use the other one.”
Harlan did not move.
Derek’s face twisted.
“You refusing?”
“No.”
“I am informing you where the identification is.”
Harlan leaned forward slightly.
“I also recommend that you read it before doing anything else.”
Derek scoffed.
“Don’t advise me.”
He reached into Harlan’s inner pocket.
His hand closed around a leather credential wallet.
He pulled it out.
“Let’s see who we’ve got.”
He flipped it open.
Then stopped.
The sunlight reflected from a gold federal badge.
Beside it was a retired credential card bearing Harlan’s photograph.
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.
HARLAN E. WHITAKER.
RETIRED SPECIAL AGENT.
FORMER SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE.
COUNTERTERRORISM / ORGANIZED CRIME TASK FORCE.
Derek stared.
The change in him was almost physical.
His shoulders lowered.
His mouth opened slightly.
The color drained from his face.
Caleb stepped closer.