Haynes looked to his right. Two DEA agents flanked him, weapons drawn and perfectly steady. He looked behind him for Davies, hoping for some kind of backup, but the young rookie had already thrown his hands into the air and dropped to his knees in the dirt, wisely surrendering to the overwhelming show of force.
Haynes’s entire confidence shattered completely. The illusion of his own authority evaporated in the suffocating desert heat. His hands began to tremble. “Okay. Okay. God, don’t shoot.” Haynes whimpered. With shaking fingers, he unclipped the heavy buckle of his duty belt.
The belt, carrying his pistol, his taser, and his pepper spray, hit the asphalt with a heavy thud. He kicked it away from his feet and raised both hands high above his head. “On your knees. Face away from me. Interlace your fingers behind your head.” Gibson barked, stepping forward.
Haynes dropped to his knees, the rough asphalt biting into his uniform pants. He laced his fingers behind his head, his chest heaving with short, panicked breaths. Around him, the highway had transformed into a controlled storm.
Two agents fanned out to block traffic in both directions, though not a single car had passed in the last several minutes. Another agent crouched by the open door of Sloan’s sedan, quietly photographing the interior for the eventual report. The desert wind kicked up loose dust around their boots, carrying the acrid smell of hot brakes and gun oil.
Somewhere behind the noise, a radio crackled with a dispatcher’s voice confirming that backup units, and an ambulance as a precaution, were still en route. Callahan ignored the kneeling officer entirely. He walked straight toward Sloan, who was still standing calmly against the side of her sedan, hands cuffed tightly behind her back.
“You good, Sloan?” Callahan asked, his tone shifting instantly from commanding to deeply concerned. “I’ve been better, Bobby,” Sloan replied, her voice steady, though a bead of sweat traced a line down her dust-streaked face. “Wrists are a little tight, and I could use about twelve hours of sleep, but I’m still standing.”
Callahan signaled to one of the DEA agents, who rushed forward with a universal handcuff key. A second later, the steel jaws clicked open. Sloan brought her arms forward, wincing slightly as blood rushed back into her hands. She rubbed at her raw wrists, then calmly reached over to the hood of her car, picked up her gold FBI credentials, and slid them back into her jacket pocket.
“Did he draw on you?” Callahan asked quietly, his eyes drifting toward Haynes, who was now being aggressively frisked by Marshal Gibson. “Standard issue pistol, pointed directly at my left temple,” Sloan stated, calm and factual, as though reading from a report. “Disengaged the safety, claimed I was swerving, ordered me out without probable cause, and laughed when I presented my federal ID.”
Callahan’s jaw tightened. A muscle ticked visibly in his cheek, and for a moment he said nothing at all, simply staring at the man kneeling in the dirt. He turned slowly and walked over to where Haynes knelt. “Officer Haynes, is it?” Callahan said, reading the name tag pinned to the terrified man’s chest.