You are going to unlock Mr. Washington.
You are going to return his property, and then you are going to stand at attention until I tell you to breathe. Do you copy?" Dalton's hand shook. He looked at Carver, whose face had gone sheet white.
"Key," Dalton croaked. "Lane.
Give me the key." "Sarge." "The key now!" Dalton screamed, his voice cracking.
Carver fumbled for his keys, dropping them on the asphalt. He scrambled to pick them up. Dalton grabbed Zeke's arm, much gentler this time, and spun him around. He jammed the key into the cuffs.
The metal clicked open. Zeke rubbed his wrists, grimacing as the circulation returned. "Phone," Zeke said, holding out his hand. Dalton placed the phone in Zeke's palm like it was made of nitroglycerin.
Zeke put the phone to his ear.
"I'm loose, General." "Good," Sterling said. "Don't hang up, Zeke. I'm patching in the governor of Alabama.
Apparently, he needs to have a chat with the sheriff of Oak Haven about who he's hiring." Zeke looked at Dalton. The sergeant was no longer the apex predator.
He was a deflated balloon, staring at the ground, realizing that the gardener he had just harassed had the governor on speed dial. "Sergeant Dalton," Zeke said, his voice dangerously low. "The general says you can breathe now." But the nightmare for Royce Dalton was just beginning, because in the distance, over the hum of the highway a new sound was emerging.
The deep, rhythmic thumping of rotors. Black helicopters.
The sound wasn't just a noise. It was a physical pressure. The rhythmic thup thup thup of rotor blades beat against the chest, vibrating the glass of the diner windows until the neon open sign rattled against the pane. Sergeant Royce Dalton looked up, his mouth slightly open, the color draining from his face until he looked like wet dough.
"What is that?" Officer Carver shouted over the roar, clutching his hat to his head as the wind picked up, swirling grit and dead leaves into a mini cyclone around the patrol car.
Zeke didn't look up. He adjusted his cuffs, smoothing the flannel over his wrists where the metal had dug in. He looked at Dalton with a calm that was far more terrifying than any threat. "That, sergeant, is what happens when you detain a man whose schedule is classified top secret."
A spotlight, blindingly white and brighter than the sun, cut through the darkness from above. It pinned Dalton and Carver against their cruiser like insects under a magnifying glass.
"This is a federal airspace restriction," a voice boomed from a loudspeaker overhead, drowning out the highway traffic. "All personnel on the ground will holster their weapons and step away from the civilian. Repeat, step away from the asset." Dalton's hand twitched toward his belt.
Pure muscle memory. "Don't," Zeke said, his voice cutting through the din.
"If you touch that gun, you won't live to see your pension." Dalton froze. He slowly raised his hands, palms open, and stepped back. Carver was already cowering near the trunk, looking like he wanted to crawl inside the wheel well.
From the darkness above, a sleek matte black MH-6 Little Bird helicopter descended. It didn't land.
It didn't need to. It hovered 6 ft off the asphalt of the parking lot, kicking up a storm of dust that coated Dalton's freshly polished boots. Two men sat on the external benches of the chopper. They weren't wearing police uniforms.
They wore tactical gray with quad-lens night vision goggles flipped up on their helmets, and suppressed carbines resting easily across their chests.
They didn't look like cops. They looked like reapers. One of the operators hopped off the skid, his boots hitting the pavement with a heavy thud. He didn't raise his weapon.
He just walked through the wind toward Zeke, ignoring Dalton entirely.