MR. SH. AK. CT.
"She's frightened," Nyla said. "Not just of losing her job. Her son is fourteen. Somebody mentioned his football practice schedule."
Dominic's jaw tightened. "Protective team knows?"
"Yes. They moved him to his aunt's house this morning."
They passed the grain elevator and entered a stretch of road shaded by sycamores. Dominic noticed the billboard advertising Hargrove's law practice, then a police cruiser half concealed beyond it. He recognized the shape of the windshield and the glint of a light bar.
"Local patrol," he said.
Nyla looked up. "Are they watching us?"
"One of them is."
Dominic checked his speed. Thirty-five. The posted limit. He had signaled properly and had not touched his phone. Still, the cruiser emerged from the turnout behind them.
"Could be nothing," Nyla said.
"Could be."
The cruiser accelerated. In the mirror, Dominic saw a uniformed driver leaning forward, impatiently close to the rear bumper. He did not change speed. He had spent too many years watching frightened people make mistakes after officers pressured them to believe a safe driver should respond to intimidation with surprise.
Blue lights flashed.
Nyla took one slow breath. "You have got to be kidding me."
"We're not late yet," Dominic said. He activated the right turn signal and looked for a safe shoulder. "Record the time. Let operations know we've been stopped. No names over the open channel."
Nyla sent a short text with their location. The reply came almost immediately: RECEIVED. OBSERVING. DO YOU REQUIRE SUPPORT?
She typed: NOT YET.
Dominic pulled over near the church. He turned off the engine, lowered both front windows enough to be heard, and placed his hands in sight.