A folded jacket.
Everything landed on asphalt.
A handheld radio struck the ground hard enough to damage its antenna.
Danner winced.
“Sarge.”
“What?”
“We should probably slow down.”
“Why?”
“This isn’t matching what dispatch—”
Mercer turned sharply.
“What did dispatch say?”
Danner hesitated.
Marcus focused on him.
Danner looked toward the patrol car.
“The original call was supposed to involve a blue sedan.”
Silence.
Marcus stared at Mercer.
Mercer’s face did not change.
“My SUV is black.”
Danner added quietly:
“And this isn’t a sedan.”
Mercer pointed toward the open vehicle.
“Dealers switch cars.”
Marcus almost laughed.
“That’s your explanation?”
Mercer ignored him.
He pulled out the rear cargo lining.
The fabric tore.
“Sergeant,” Marcus said, “you now know the vehicle does not match the description you claimed justified this stop.”
Mercer turned.
“You nervous?”
“No.”
“You sound nervous.”
“I sound precise.”
Mercer returned to the SUV.
He seemed angrier now.
Not because Marcus had done anything.
Because facts were closing around him.
He pried at a side panel.
Plastic cracked.
Insulation appeared.
Danner stood nearby.