"You can see them, Officer," Dez replied, not moving an inch. "I live here.
This is my car. I'm doing a tune-up."
Harlan stopped 10 feet away. He looked at the house, too big, too expensive.
He looked at the car, classic, restored. Then he looked at Dez, sweaty, dirty, wearing tactical boots.
The math didn't add up in Harlan's head. In Harlan's world, guys like Dez didn't buy houses on Maple Ridge.
They broke into them.
"You live here?" Harlan scoffed, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"Sure you do, buddy, and I'm the king of England. ID, now."
"It's inside on the kitchen counter," Dez said calmly. "I can go get it, or—"
"Don't you move." Harlan's hand tightened on his holster.
"You got proof of ownership for this vehicle?"
Dez sighed, a long, weary exhale through his nose. He had been back in the States for six months.
He had hoped the badge-heavy attitude was just a story people told on the news.
"Officer, my name is Darius Kane. If you run the plates on the truck or this car, they'll come back to me.
If you check the deed to this house, it'll come back to me. I'm not going to give you a hard time, but you need to lower your voice."
"Don't tell me what to do," Harlan snapped. He closed the distance, entering Dez's personal space.
This was a tactic. Harlan loved the intimidation press.
He wanted Dez to flinch. He wanted Dez to step back or shove him.
He needed a reason.
But Dez didn't flinch. He stood like a statue cast in iron, his eyes dark and unblinking, locked onto Harlan's.
It wasn't a glare of anger. It was the look a lion gives a yapping Chihuahua, a mix of pity and boredom.
"Turn around," Harlan ordered. "Hands behind your back.
I'm detaining you for investigation of burglary and failure to comply."
"Failure to comply?" Dez raised an eyebrow.
"I'm answering your questions."
"You're resisting," Harlan shouted, playing to the imaginary audience, or perhaps the neighbors he knew were watching. "Turn around now."
Dez weighed his options. He could disarm Harlan in less than two seconds.
He could break the officer's wrist, sweep his leg, and have him pinned before the spit from Harlan's shout hit the pavement. But that would ruin his life.
Dez had spent 20 years fighting for a country that was currently trying to put him in handcuffs on his own driveway. He had to play the long game.
"All right," Dez said softly. "You're making a mistake, Officer.
A big one."
"Shut up," Harlan said, grabbing Dez's wrist and spinning him around. He shoved Dez against the pristine quarter panel of the Charger.
That was the first mistake. You don't slam a man like Darius Kane, and you certainly don't scratch his car.
The sound of Dez's chest hitting the metal was a dull thud, followed by the sharp clink of handcuffs being pulled from a belt.
Across the street, Loretta Voss was peering through her blinds, phone still in hand, whispering to the 911 operator. "He's caught him.
The officer caught the burglar."
Harlan was rough. He wasn't just applying the cuffs.