"I'm moving them," Dominic said.
A boot struck his ankle before he had finished. His stance widened abruptly. The movement did not knock him down, but it sent a bright stab of pain up his leg. He heard Nyla inhale sharply from the other side of the hood.
"You do not need to kick him," she said.
"I didn't ask for your opinion."
Maddox began a search. He slapped the sides of Dominic's torso, pressed hard at his waistband, then pulled at his pockets. He moved with the impatience of someone rummaging through another person's drawers rather than checking for weapons. Dominic described the position of his wallet when Maddox's hand reached his back pocket.
"What's this?" Maddox demanded, feeling the rectangular shape.
"My identification wallet. The one you requested."
Maddox extracted it and tossed it onto the hood without opening it. The dark leather landed near the front edge, where the sunlight made the stitching shine.
"Don't move."
"I haven't moved."
Maddox turned toward Nyla. "Your turn."
She kept her hands on the hood. "Officer, are you conducting a weapons frisk?"
"I'm conducting whatever I need to conduct."
"Then tell me what leads you to believe I'm armed and dangerous. I have made no threatening movement. I do not consent to a search."
Maddox stepped close enough that the brim of his cap nearly touched her cheek. "People get nervous when they got something to hide."
"I'm not nervous," she said. "I'm objecting. They are not the same thing."
The reply embarrassed him. His voice dropped to a whisper intended only for her. "You need to understand something about this town. Out here, the Constitution is whatever I say it is."
For years Maddox had used variations of that sentence as a joke in the break room. He had never heard anyone laugh as readily as the younger officers did when they wanted his approval. Spoken inches from Nyla's face, it no longer sounded like a joke.