Back in the holding room, Isaiah finally spoke, his voice level.
“I’d like to make my phone call now.”
Hargrove laughed.
“Your phone call? What is this, TV? You think one call is going to fix this?”
He leaned over the table, placing both palms flat on the metal surface.
“You’re not going anywhere until we verify every piece of ID you claimed was real. Could take days. Weeks, even.”
“It’s my right,” Isaiah stated simply. “One phone call.”
Mercer shifted uncomfortably, the evidence bag crinkling in his hands.
“Sarge, he’s technically correct. Policy says—”
“Fine.”
Hargrove straightened up with an exaggerated sigh.
“Give the man his phone call. Let him waste it on whatever fake commanding officer he’s cooked up.”
Mercer produced a landline phone from the wall, placing it on the table within Isaiah’s reach. The handcuffs allowed just enough movement to dial.
Isaiah’s fingers moved with practiced precision, entering a number from memory. Each digit was deliberate.
“Office of Naval Operations,” a crisp voice answered.
“This is Commander Isaiah Rollins. Authorization code Sierra 749 Echo,” Isaiah said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority despite his circumstances. “I need to speak with Admiral Morrison’s office immediately.”
There was a pause on the line.
Hargrove rolled his eyes, but something in the quality of the silence made Mercer take a small step back from the table.
“Authorization code confirmed,” the voice returned, all traces of routine professionalism replaced with sharp attention. “One moment, Commander.”
Another voice came on the line, deeper and bearing the unmistakable tone of command.
“Commander Rollins, this is Captain Phillips. Report your situation.”
“I’ve been detained at Reagan National Airport under false charges. My current location is airport holding. Time in custody approximately ninety minutes.”
Isaiah’s report was precise and clinical.
“Sir, I was en route under classified directive.”
The silence that followed seemed to suck all the air from the room. Even Hargrove’s smirk faltered slightly.
Captain Phillips’s voice returned, measured but carrying an undercurrent of controlled fury.
“Were you on schedule for the designated transfer?”
“Yes, sir, until my arrest.”
“Were you in possession of the package at the time of detainment?”
Isaiah’s eyes flicked briefly to the evidence bag containing his medals.
“Negative, sir. Status of the package is currently unknown.”
The line went dead without another word.
The dial tone hummed in the sudden stillness.
Mercer’s face had gone pale, his fingers clutching the evidence bag too tightly. Even Hargrove’s customary arrogance showed hairline cracks around the edges.
Isaiah sat back in his chair as much as the handcuffs would allow. His expression remained unchanged, but something in his posture suggested a man who knew exactly what came next.
The security radio on Hargrove’s belt crackled to life, breaking the tense silence that had followed Isaiah’s phone call. Urgent voices overlapped each other in a cascade of confusion.
“Multiple federal vehicles approaching Gate C. Requesting clearance.”
“Security checkpoint three, stand down. Priority access granted.”
“All units, maintain positions. Repeat, maintain positions.”
Hargrove grabbed his radio, knuckles white against the black plastic.
“This is Sergeant Hargrove. What federal vehicles? Who authorized—”
“Direct order from airport command,” the radio cut him off. “All security personnel clear access routes immediately.”
Through the holding room’s small window, red and blue lights began strobing across the walls. Mercer stood frozen, still clutching the evidence bag containing Isaiah’s medals, his young face drained of color.
Up in her office, Pamela Vance’s phone rang.
Her perfectly manicured nail hovered over the answer button for a fraction of a second before pressing down.
“This is Director Vance.”
“This is Colonel James Mitchell, Pentagon Office of Special Operations,” a clipped voice responded. “We need immediate clarification regarding the detention of Commander Isaiah Rollins.”
Vance’s professional smile remained fixed, though no one was there to see it.
“Of course, Colonel. We’re following standard procedure for—”
“Director Vance,” the voice hardened, “are you aware you’re currently interfering with a classified military operation?”
The smile slipped.
“I… our officers responded to a public complaint. The suspect was—”
“Commander Rollins is a decorated Navy officer conducting official business. We require his immediate release and full access to all evidence collected during his wrongful detention.”
In the holding area, Hargrove paced like a caged animal, barking into his phone.
“Listen, I don’t care what department they’re from. We followed procedure. The suspect was combative, refusing to—”
“Sergeant,” a new voice interrupted, deep and carrying the weight of decades of command. “This is Admiral Thomas Caldwell. I’m going to speak very slowly and clearly. You have exactly five minutes to release Commander Rollins before I personally ensure your career ends today.”
Hargrove’s face flushed red.
“Now wait just a minute. You can’t just—”
“Four minutes and fifty seconds,” Caldwell said. “Commander Rollins was transporting encrypted defense materials vital to ongoing operations. Your actions have compromised national security protocols. Four minutes and thirty seconds.”
Down the hall, Isaiah sat alone in his cell, back straight despite his fatigue. The cut on his lip had stopped bleeding, but his dress blues, pristine just hours ago, were wrinkled and stained from the floor.
His mother’s birthday gift, the small box wrapped in silver paper, sat on the processing desk outside next to his confiscated belongings.
The sound of rapid footsteps echoed through the corridor. Multiple sets moving with purpose.
“This way,” Mercer said, his voice higher than usual with stress. “He’s in holding cell three.”
Heavy boots stopped outside the cell.