“Chicago.”
“What for?”
Zeke let a beat pass.
“That relevant to something?”
Dalton smiled.
The smile had no humor in it.
“Just making conversation.”
“Then I’m visiting family.”
Dalton slid off his stool.
His gun belt creaked.
He walked toward the booth.
Carver followed.
Beverly came out carrying Zeke’s pie and slowed when she saw them.
She placed the plate down.
“Cherry pie,” she said quietly.
“Thank you.”
Dalton looked at the pie.
Then at Zeke.
“That your black F-150 outside?”
“Yes.”
“DC plates?”
“Yes.”
“Expensive truck.”
Zeke looked through the window at his Ford.
“It’s nine years old.”
“Still nice.”
“It runs most days.”
Dalton put both hands on the edge of the table.
“You work in Washington?”
“Sometimes.”
“Doing what?”
“Consulting.”
“What kind?”
“Landscape architecture.”
That was the civilian cover attached to the travel file he was using.
Harmless.
Boring.
Exactly what it was designed to be.
Dalton laughed.
“A gardener.”
“Something like that.”
Carver smiled because Dalton did.
Dalton’s eyes narrowed.
“Funny.”
“What is?”
“We’ve had people moving drugs through here.”
Zeke said nothing.
“Using interstate routes, state roads, rental cars, private trucks. Out-of-state plates.”
“Lots of vehicles have out-of-state plates.”
Dalton’s jaw shifted.
“Did I say they didn’t?”
“No.”
“You carrying narcotics?”
“No.”
“Weapons?”
Zeke’s answer came without hesitation.
“No firearm.”
Dalton noticed the wording.
“No firearm?”
“I have a multi-tool in my pocket.”
Carver’s eyes immediately dropped toward Zeke’s jacket.
Dalton smiled again.
“Why don’t you stand up?”
“Am I being detained?”
“I’m asking you to stand.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
The room became quieter.
Beverly moved one step closer to the kitchen.
Dalton straightened.
“Stand up.”
Zeke looked at him.
In Afghanistan, there had been moments when a room changed before the first shot.
This was not Afghanistan.
That mattered.
The men in front of him wore American badges.
That mattered more.
He slowly rose.
At six-foot-two, Zeke was almost Dalton’s height.
His posture changed the sergeant’s expression.
Sitting down, Zeke had looked older.
Standing, he looked trained.
Not muscular in a gym-built way.
Dense.
Balanced.
Still.
Dalton sensed it.
So did Carver.
The younger deputy’s right hand immediately hovered near his holster.
Zeke saw the movement.
“I’m going to reach for my wallet.”
“Slowly,” Carver snapped.
Zeke looked at him.
The fear in the young man’s eyes was worse than Dalton’s arrogance.
“My hands are visible.”
“Just do it slowly.”
“I intend to.”
He reached toward his back pocket.
Carver moved his hand closer to his weapon.
Zeke stopped.
“I’m not reaching until you tell me you understand what I’m doing.”
Carver looked startled.
Dalton said:
“Get the wallet.”