The operator stopped in front of Zeke and snapped a crisp salute. "Colonel Washington, secure." Zeke returned the salute, a sharp, precise motion that shed the tired old man persona instantly. "Secure, Lieutenant.
Though my dinner was interrupted." "Apologies, sir. General Sterling has the DOJ on the line.
He wants to know if you require immediate extraction or if you want to play this out." Zeke looked at Dalton. The bully sergeant was trembling. The arrogance was gone, replaced by the primal fear of a small animal realizing it had walked into a lion's den.
"I'm not going anywhere," Zeke said, his eyes locking onto Dalton's mirrored sunglasses. "We're going to wait right here.
The sheriff is on his way, isn't he, sergeant?" Dalton nodded mutely. "Good," Zeke said. "I'd hate for him to miss the show."
The operator nodded and spoke into his headset. "Asset is secure. Holding position.
Ground unit ETA 2 minutes." The helicopter pulled up and away, circling overhead like a vulture. Its spotlight never leaving the two deputies. Inside the diner, the patrons were pressed against the glass.
Beverly was filming on her phone, her hand shaking. She had seen Royce Dalton terrorize drifters, teenagers, and single mothers for years.
She had never seen him look small. "You're a colonel?" Dalton stammered, his voice barely audible. "Retired," Zeke corrected, "but the clearance doesn't retire.
You see, sergeant, you made an assumption. You saw a black man in a truck and assumed drug dealer.
You didn't bother to run the plates properly. If you had, you would have seen a level five block on the registration. That means do not detain under penalty of federal law." "The system was down," Dalton lied, desperation creeping in.
"The system works fine," Zeke said. "Your judgment is what's broken."
Suddenly, sirens wailed from the north. Three SUVs tore into the parking lot, drifting sideways and blocking the exit. But these weren't sheriff's deputies. These were black Tahoes with government plates.
Doors flew open.
Men in suits, sharp, tailored, and very serious, spilled out. Leading them was a woman with a stride that could crack pavement. She held a briefcase in one hand and a badge on a lanyard in the other. She walked straight past Dalton, brushing his shoulder hard enough to spin him around, and stopped in front of Zeke.
"Mr. Washington," she said, offering a hand.
"I'm Special Agent Nora Jenkins, FBI Civil Rights Division. General Sterling briefed me. Are you injured?" "Just my pride, Agent, and my wrist is a little sore."
Jenkins turned slowly to face Dalton. Her expression was one of pure, unadulterated disgust. "Sergeant Dalton?" "Yeah."
Dalton tried to puff his chest out, trying to find some scrap of his authority.
"Who are you?" "I'm the person who is going to ruin your life," Jenkins said calmly. "I need your badge, your gun, and your keys. Now."
"You can't do that," Dalton shouted, pointing a finger at her. "This is Oak Haven. I answer to Sheriff Maddox.
You feds think you can just waltz in here?" "Rick!" The shout came from a new vehicle screeching into the lot. A white sheriff's cruiser emblazoned with sheriff in gold letters.
The door swung open and a man the size of a vending machine climbed out. Sheriff Vance "Bull" Maddox had arrived. He adjusted his Stetson hat, hitched up his gun belt, and marched toward the group.