At the same time, Mitchell burst out of the convenience store, pointing a stubby finger at her. "That's her, Officer! That's the fake trying to scam people in a colonel's uniform!"
Finch gave Mitchell a quick, acknowledging nod. In Finch's mind, the dynamic was already set: the older guy in the tactical hat was the upstanding citizen reporting a crime; the black woman standing quietly by her car was the suspect.
"Ma'am, step away from the vehicle and keep your hands where I can see them," Finch ordered, his voice echoing loudly across the concrete lot.
Alicia's brow furrowed. She closed her car door, but stayed exactly where she was. "Officer, is there a problem?"
"I said step away from the vehicle," Finch barked, closing the distance between them. He stopped about four feet away, puffing his chest out. "We received a call about an individual impersonating a military officer for financial gain."
Alicia's eyes flicked to Mitchell, who was standing on the curb with a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. She turned her attention back to the young officer.
"Officer," Alicia said, her voice radiating the kind of absolute, unwavering authority that only comes from decades of command, "I am Colonel Alicia Reynolds, United States Army. I stopped here for fuel on my way to Fort Belvoir. I have not asked anyone for anything, let alone financial gain. That man inside decided to harass me because he doesn't believe I earned the rank on my chest."
"You're right!" Mitchell yelled from the curb. "Ask for her CAC card, Officer. I bet she doesn't even know what that is."
Finch held up a hand to silence Mitchell, but his eyes never left Alicia. "All right, Colonel. If you're who you say you are, this should be real easy. Hand over your military ID."
Alicia stood her ground. As a citizen and as a high-ranking officer who knew the law intimately, she recognized exactly what was happening. Virginia is not a stop-and-identify state unless an officer has reasonable, articulable suspicion that a crime has been, is being, or is about to be committed. Pumping gas while wearing a uniform was not a crime, and complying with an unlawful demand driven by a civilian's racist and sexist assumptions set a dangerous precedent.
"Officer," Alicia glanced at his name tag, "Finch, under what legal authority are you demanding my identification? What crime am I suspected of committing?"
Finch's jaw tightened. He wasn't used to people, especially suspects, calmly questioning his legal authority. "I'm investigating a report of fraud. Now, you can hand over your ID or I can detain you for obstruction."
"You are investigating a baseless phone call from a man who harassed me," Alicia corrected him, her voice dropping a register, becoming colder, sharper. "I am an active-duty officer en route to a military installation. I have committed no crime. I have broken no laws, and I am not required to present my identification simply because that man's fragile ego couldn't handle my presence."
"Last warning, lady," Finch snapped, his face flushing. He was losing control of the interaction, and he knew it.
Several people at the neighboring pumps had pulled out their phones and started recording. The flashing lights of the cruiser made the whole scene look incredibly dramatic.
"I am leaving," Alicia said calmly. She turned to open her car door.
"Hey!" Finch yelled.
Before Alicia could even touch the handle, Finch lunged forward. He grabbed her left arm, his fingers digging harshly into the fabric of her OCP sleeve, directly over her unit patch. He yanked her backward with excessive force, spinning her away from the car.
"Let go of me right now," Alicia commanded. It wasn't a scream; it was an order. It was the voice she used when a live-fire exercise went wrong, a voice that demanded instant, total compliance.
But Finch was running on adrenaline and bruised pride. "You're under arrest for obstruction and resisting!" he shouted, shoving her roughly against the side of her own car.
Alicia did not fight back. She knew exactly how quickly situations like this could turn lethal for someone who looked like her. She went completely rigid, her face pressed against the cold metal of her sedan, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached.
"You are making a catastrophic mistake, Officer Finch," Alicia said, her voice eerily calm over the sound of the highway.
Finch ignored her. He unhooked the steel handcuffs from his belt. He grabbed her wrists, wrenched them forcefully behind her back, and clamped the cold metal down. The ratchets clicked loudly: click, click, click, locking into place.
"Stolen valor, my ass," Finch muttered under his breath, completely convinced he was the hero of the day.
On the curb, Mitchell was laughing, cheering the officer on. "Got her! Good job, Officer!"
Finch patted Alicia down roughly, reaching into her right cargo pocket. He pulled out her leather wallet. He flipped it open, looking for a fake ID to prove his point. Instead, he pulled out a thick, heavy, white plastic card with a microchip: a Common Access Card. The Department of Defense insignia was printed flawlessly in the corner.
Finch stared at it.
His eyes darted to the name: Reynolds, Alicia M.