"You stole federal evidence from a multi-agency operation. The FBI has been contacted. You just crossed state lines into federal trafficking and evidence tampering. The Department of Justice Civil Rights Division is already drafting the indictments."
Karma hadn't just knocked on Travis Holt's door. It had driven a battering ram through his entire life. "Put him back in the box," Emma ordered the IA agent. "And call the federal marshals. We're transferring him to federal holding. He doesn't get to stay in my precinct anymore."
As Travis was dragged away, his legs finally giving out, he realized the terrifying truth. He hadn't just picked the wrong target. He had picked the one person capable of burning his corrupt kingdom to ash, and he had handed her the match.
The arrival of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was not a quiet affair. At 2:15 p.m., three black SUVs with dark tinted windows pulled up to the curb of the District 9 precinct, blocking the street entirely. Dozens of agents wearing dark windbreakers with bold yellow lettering stormed the building. They weren't just here for Officer Travis Holt. They were here to execute a federal takeover of the precinct's evidence lockup. Captain Emma Grace stood on the second floor balcony overlooking the bullpen, watching the systematic dismantling of the corrupt empire Travis had thrived in.
Below her, the loud, arrogant officers who had laughed at her just hours before were now sitting at their desks in stunned silence, their weapons confiscated, waiting to be interviewed by the feds. Travis was brought out of his temporary holding cell by two massive U.S. marshals. He was no longer wearing his police uniform. They had stripped him of it, forcing him into a bright orange standard issue county jumpsuit. The irony was suffocating. His wrists were shackled in front of him, and a heavy chain was wrapped around his waist, locking his arms in place.
As the marshals led him through the bullpen, Travis desperately looked around at the faces of his colleagues. He was looking for sympathy. He was looking for the brotherhood he had championed so loudly. He found nothing but averted eyes.
Officer Ray Mitchell, who had joked about Emma's arrest, suddenly found his shoes fascinating. Even the veteran detectives who usually ran the floor refused to look in Travis's direction. He was radioactive. To acknowledge him was to invite the wrath of the Feds and the terrifying new captain standing above them.
"Keep moving, Holt!" one of the marshals grunted, shoving him toward the double doors. They loaded him into an armored transport van. Travis sat on the cold metal bench, the engine rumbling beneath him. And finally, the reality of his situation crushed the last ounce of his defiance. He began to weep. The arrogant, swaggering predator who had terrorized route 114 was gone, replaced by a terrified, broken man who finally understood the sheer magnitude of his actions.
By 4:00 p.m., Travis was sitting in a windowless interview room at the FBI field office downtown. He hadn't been offered coffee. He hadn't been offered a phone call. Across the steel table sat Agent-in-Charge Thomas Kesler, a man with cold, calculating eyes, and Arthur Pendleton from Internal Affairs.
"I want a deal," Travis blurted out, his voice rough from crying.
"I know things. I know how the drugs get moved. I know who takes a cut. I can give you names, dates, ledger locations. Just—just keep me out of general population. You know what they do to cops in federal prison, please."
Agent Kesler slowly opened a thick manila folder and spread several glossy photographs across the table. They were surveillance photos. "You want to give us names, Travis?" Kesler asked dryly.
"Let's see. You want to give us Detective Grace from Narcotics, who has been skimming cash from raids? We arrested him an hour ago. You want to give us Judge Richard Clayton, who signs off on your bogus warrants for a kickback? He just resigned and surrendered his passport."