Because people who look like you, driving cars like this, usually have a very good reason to be passing through my town. I am conducting business in the area, Aaron replied smoothly. I assure you, Sheriff, my driving was exemplary. And this vehicle meets all federal and state regulations. Federal regulations don't mean spit in my county, Briggs sneered, leaning closer to the window, invading Aaron's personal space.
I decide what's legal here, and right now, I smell something funny. You smell that, Kyle? Briggs called out to his deputy over the roof of the SUV. I don't smell anything, Sheriff, Harrison called back, his voice wavering. Smells like marijuana to me.
Briggs lied. His eyes locking back onto Aaron. The smell of marijuana was Briggs's golden ticket. It was the unprovable claim that gave him instant probable cause to tear a vehicle apart and seize whatever cash he found inside. Step out of the vehicle, Aaron.
Keep your hands where I can see them. For the first time, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of Aaron Fletcher's mouth. It wasn't a smile of amusement. It was the cold, calculated smile of a grandmaster who had just watched his opponent step into a checkmate trap. Sheriff Briggs, Aaron said softly, his voice carrying a weight that made the hairs on the back of Briggs's neck stand up.
I strongly advise you to reconsider this course of action. You have made a traffic stop without probable cause. You are now fabricating reasonable suspicion to initiate an illegal search. If you walk back to your cruiser right now, this ends as a minor footnote. Briggs's face flushed a deep, violent crimson.
Nobody spoke to him like that. Not in Faulkner County. Not ever. You listen to me, you arrogant son of a [ __ ]. Briggs snarled, drawing his weapon halfway from its holster.
Get out of the car before I pull you through this window. Aaron Fletcher calmly shifted the SUV into park. He unbuckled his seatbelt with deliberate slowness. As you wish, Sheriff. The heavy door of the Suburban clicked open, and Aaron stepped out onto the gravel.
He was taller than Briggs had anticipated, standing a formidable 6'2". He straightened his suit jacket, completely ignoring the fact that Briggs was hovering inches away, his hand gripping the butt of his sidearm. "Turn around and face the vehicle. " Briggs ordered, pulling a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from his belt. "I am not under arrest, Sheriff. " Aaron stated firmly, not moving an inch. "And I will not be cuffed.
You asked me to step out. I have complied. If you wish to search my vehicle based on your fabricated olfactory evidence, proceed. But know that you will be held accountable for every action you take from this second forward. " Briggs hesitated for a fraction of a second. There was something deeply unnerving about this man.
A normal person, especially a minority, stopped by a notorious sheriff on a deserted road, would be panicking. They would be pleading, angry, or terrified. Aaron Fletcher was none of these things. He was observing Briggs the way a scientist observes a volatile chemical reaction in a controlled laboratory. "Watch him, Kyle. " Briggs barked, stepping away from Aaron and moving toward the rear of the SUV.
"If he twitches, tase him. " Harrison swallowed hard, raising his taser, though his hands were shaking. "Yes, sir. " Briggs walked to the back of the Suburban. He reached for the handle of the rear tailgate. He expected to find duffel bags full of cartel cash. He expected to find illicit narcotics.
He expected to find the justification he needed to seize the hundred thousand dollar vehicle and ruin the life of the man in the suit. "Last chance, Aaron. " Briggs called out over his shoulder, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Anything in here I should know about? " "Oh, there is quite a lot in there you should know about, Sheriff. " Aaron replied, his voice echoing slightly over the quiet hum of the highway. But, I think it is best you see it for yourself. Briggs yanked the handle.
The heavy hydraulic liftgate hissed as it swung upward, revealing the cavernous rear compartment of the customized SUV. The blinding Georgia sunlight flooded the interior. And for a moment, Sheriff Thomas Briggs's brain simply stopped processing information. There were no duffel bags. There were no drugs.
Instead, the back of the vehicle had been completely gutted and retrofitted. It was a state-of-the-art mobile command center. Four massive high-definition monitors lined the reinforced walls. And on those monitors was a live multi-angle video feed of the traffic stop. There was a camera on the dashboard, a camera hidden in the driver's side mirror, and one on the rear bumper.
Audio waveforms danced on a laptop screen, indicating that every single word Briggs had just spoken, every lie, every threat, every fabricated claim of smelling marijuana, had been recorded in crystal-clear, high-fidelity audio. But, the screens weren't what made the blood freeze in Briggs's veins. Seated in the back of the SUV, surrounded by the glowing electronics, were three men. They were not wearing suits. They were wearing heavy olive drab tactical armor, Kevlar vests, helmets, and drop-leg holsters.
Across the chest of each tactical vest, bold yellow letters spelled out a single, terrifying acronym. FBI. The man sitting in the center, a rugged, imposing agent named Frank Sullivan, slowly pulled off his headset. He looked down the pale, wide-eyed sheriff with a look of absolute disgust. Sullivan reached beside him and picked up a thick, bound manila folder.
He held it out toward the stunned sheriff. "Sheriff Thomas Briggs. " Sullivan said, his voice hard as iron. "I'm Special Agent Frank Sullivan, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Public Corruption Unit. " Briggs staggered backward, his boots crunching loudly on the gravel. His jaw opened, but no sound came out. The swagger, the arrogance, the absolute power he had wielded just 3 minutes ago evaporated into the stifling summer air, replaced by a cold, suffocating terror.
He turned his head slowly, looking back at the man in the navy suit. Aaron Fletcher was still standing, perfectly still, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. "Who? What is this? " Briggs stammered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched wheeze. His hand fell away from his gun, his knees suddenly feeling like they were made of wet sand.
Aaron Fletcher walked slowly toward the back of the vehicle, his polished leather shoes crunching methodically against the rocks. He stopped beside the open tailgate, looking down at the trembling sheriff. "You asked for my license and registration, Sheriff. " "Briggs. " Aaron said, reaching into his inner breast pocket once more. This time, he didn't pull out a leather wallet. He pulled out a flat, heavy credential case.