Halverson had picked up her federal credentials again, studying them with growing concern. "Sir, these really do look authentic. The holographic seals, the security threading. This level of documentation isn't something you typically see."
"Did I ask for your opinion?" Rourke snapped.
"No, sir, butโ"
"Then secure the scene and manage that crowd. I'll handle this situation."
The younger officer hesitated, then moved toward the onlookers, his posture radiating discomfort. Several people had their phones pointed directly at him now, capturing his obvious reluctance to participate.
Less than five minutes had passed since the handcuffs clicked shut when the radio on Rourke's shoulder crackled to life. The voice that came through wasn't the usual local dispatch.
"Unit 47, confirm current status of detainee Evelyn Brooks. Over."
Rourke frowned, keying his radio. "Dispatch, Unit 47. Handling a suspicious person with probable forged federal credentials. Situation under control."
"Negative, Unit 47. Please verify: do you currently have Evelyn Brooks in custody? This is a priority verification request. Authentication code Echo 79 Delta."
Inside the Pentagon, Raymond Brooks stood in his dress uniform, staring at the alert on his secure phone. The image showed his wife of thirty-seven years handcuffed beside a patrol car, her dignity intact despite the obvious humiliation. His jaw tightened as he read the GPS coordinates and timestamp.
Back at the gas station, confusion crossed Rourke's face as he tried to make sense of the unusual radio traffic. "Dispatch, please repeat authentication code?"
"Unit 47, this is a federal priority channel override. Confirm status of Evelyn Brooks immediately."
Evelyn watched Rourke's expression shift from confusion to the first flickers of worry. She could almost see him trying to process how quickly this had escalated beyond his control. His hand moved to his radio, then dropped away as if unsure how to respond.
"Sir," Halverson called from near the crowd. "There's something else. The credentials, they're showing active in the federal database. I just ran them."
Rourke's face flushed red. Rather than acknowledge the mounting evidence, he grabbed Evelyn's arm roughly. "Get in the car. We'll sort this out at the station."
"That would be unwise," Evelyn said calmly.
"Shut up," Rourke snarled, yanking open the rear door. "You don't give the orders here."
With firm hands, he pushed her into the backseat, not bothering to ensure she could sit comfortably with her hands cuffed behind her. The door slammed shut with unnecessary force, sealing her in the cage-divided space.
"Unit 47, respond immediately regarding status of Evelyn Brooks," the radio insisted.
Rourke ignored it, jumping into the driver's seat. "Halverson, we're moving out. Now."
The patrol car's tires crunched over gravel as they pulled away from the gas station. Through the reinforced glass partition, Evelyn watched Rourke's shoulders tense, rigid with anger. The handcuffs bit into her wrists, but she kept her breathing steady, her face composed. The radio continued to crackle with unusual traffic that Rourke pointedly ignored.
"Think you're pretty smart, don't you?" Rourke's eyes found hers in the rearview mirror. "All those fancy credentials, those important connections you keep hinting at."
Evelyn said nothing, instead noting the street signs as they passed: Third Street, Marshall Avenue. Each turn, each timestamp locked into her memoryโhabits from decades of intelligence work that had never faded.
"Silent treatment now?" Rourke's voice grew harder. "That attitude's what got you into this mess. But go ahead, keep acting superior. See where that gets you."
The second patrol car's lights flashed behind them, Halverson following at a precise distance. Through the rear window, Evelyn could see him talking into his radio, his expression troubled. She knew he had seen something on his computer terminal that disturbed him, probably the first waves of federal inquiries hitting their system.
Miles away at the Pentagon, Raymond Brooks stood in his dress uniform, phone pressed to his ear. The banquet hall buzzed with pre-event activity behind him, but his focus was laser-sharp.
"Yes, immediately," he said to the military legal counsel. "I want the Inspector General's Office notified, and I need civilian oversight contacted. This isn't just about my wife. This is about abuse of power caught on camera."
The lawyer's response was quick: "Already reaching out to federal liaisons, sir. We're getting pushback from local jurisdiction, butโ"
"Then push harder." Raymond's voice was calm, but carried the weight of decades of command. "They arrested a former intelligence officer with active federal clearance based on nothing but prejudice. Make them understand the gravity of their mistake."
Back in the patrol car, Rourke took a sharp turn that sent Evelyn sliding across the seat. "Oops," he said, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. "These roads can be tricky."
Evelyn steadied herself, noting the street sign: Parkway Drive. Time: 6:47 p.m. She could feel Rourke's growing agitation in every aggressive acceleration, every jerky stop at traffic lights.
"You know what I think?" Rourke's voice had taken on a taunting edge. "I think you're just another con artist who got hold of some good forgeries. Probably thought you could fool everyone with that calm act. That fancy car, those federal IDs."
He was trying to provoke her, she realized. Every word was calculated to make her angry, to give him something he could write up as combative behavior in his report. The tactic was transparent, almost amateur in its obviousness.
At the Bellhaven Police Department, Chief Marion Keats set down her phone with a frown. The call she'd just received had been oddly vague, but carried clear warnings: the suspect being brought in had significant federal connections that needed to be verified before processing.
Her office intercom buzzed. "Chief, we've got multiple inquiries coming in about a detention in progress. Something about federal oversight and military legal counsel."
Before she could respond, the radio on her desk crackled with Rourke's voice: "Station, Unit 47. Coming in with one for booking. Need to process quickly. Suspect involved in potential identity theft and fraud."
Keats heard the strain in his voice, the forced authority covering something else. She'd known Rourke long enough to recognize when he was trying to establish his version of events before questions could be asked.