"Hey, Greg," Fowler muttered, tapping the screen. "His plates come back restricted. Says government fleet on the secondary screen. It didn't pop on the first run."

Donovan, sitting in the back, listened carefully.

O'Keefe glanced over. "What department?"

"Doesn't say. Just gives a fleet management block. Probably some mid-level administrative shit. Department of Transportation, maybe housing."

"Doesn't matter. The coke is real as far as the paperwork goes."

"Yep. We'll impound the car under civil asset forfeiture," O'Keefe said loudly, intending for Donovan to hear. "State fleet or not, if it's used in the commission of a drug crime, the precinct gets to seize it. And that 300 in cash? Drug proceeds."

Donovan shifted his weight against the hard plastic seat, the handcuffs biting into his wrists. Civil asset forfeiture. The very policy he was drafting legislation to abolish.

Hearing it weaponized with such casual cruelty hardened his resolve. Every word they spoke was a nail in their professional coffins.

The cruiser pulled into the heavily fortified rear garage of the Eighth Precinct. The concrete walls were stained with oil and echoed with the sounds of slamming doors and shouting officers. Fowler yanked Donovan out of the car, dragging him by his bicep toward the heavy steel doors of the intake area. O'Keefe followed closely behind, carrying Donovan's locked briefcase.

They paraded him through the bullpen. The precinct was a chaotic mess of peeling green paint, buzzing fluorescent lights, and overworked air-conditioning units. Several officers looked up, but none questioned the sight of two white cops dragging a well-dressed Black man in handcuffs. It was business as usual.

"Got a live one," O'Keefe announced to the desk sergeant, a heavyset man named Sergeant Miller, who barely looked up from his paperwork.

"Charge?" Miller grunted.

"Possession. Found a baggie in his ride. Also carrying an undisclosed amount of cash and a locked briefcase. He won't open it," O'Keefe stated, dumping Donovan's wallet and the briefcase onto the high booking counter.

"Put him in Holding Room B," Miller said, stamping a file. "I'll call the magistrate in an hour to set bail. You run his prints?"

"Not yet," Fowler said.

They pushed Donovan into a small, windowless interrogation room just off the main booking area. The room smelled of ammonia and dried sweat. There was a metal table bolted to the floor and a single chair. They didn't offer him the chair.

They left him standing, handcuffed, and slammed the heavy door shut. Alone, Donovan took a deep breath. He glanced up. A security camera was mounted in the corner, a glowing red light indicating it was recording.

Good.

His agency had subpoenaed the footage from these exact cameras three weeks ago, only to be told they were malfunctioning. Clearly, they worked perfectly when the precinct wanted them to.

Ten minutes later, the door swung open. O'Keefe and Fowler walked in, looking significantly more agitated. O'Keefe slammed Donovan's briefcase onto the metal table.

"We got a problem, Donovan," O'Keefe said, pacing the small room. "Fowler here tried to run your name through the state database to get a full background check. It threw up a red flag. Requires a supervisor override."

"Is that right?" Donovan said calmly.

"Yeah, that's right. Now, I don't like mysteries. I especially don't like mysteries who drive state-funded luxury cars and carry locked briefcases. So, I'm going to ask you one more time. What's the code to this bag?"

"I have a right to an attorney," Donovan said, invoking his Fifth Amendment rights flawlessly. "I am invoking my right to remain silent. I do not consent to any searches of my property. I want my phone to call my legal counsel."

Fowler laughed harshly. "You watch too much TV, man. You're in the Eighth. You get a phone call when we say you get a phone call."

O'Keefe pulled a small, heavy tactical knife from his belt. He flipped it open with a metallic snick.

"I'm not waiting for a warrant for a bag involved in a narcotics arrest."

"If you force that lock," Donovan warned, his tone shifting from passive to commanding, "you will be committing a federal offense. The documents in that case are protected under executive privilege."

O'Keefe paused, the tip of his knife resting on the leather seam of the briefcase. He looked at Donovan, truly studying him for the first time. He noticed the expensive cut of the suit, the absolute lack of fear in the man's posture, the precise, educated diction. Doubt, a rare emotion for O'Keefe, briefly flickered in his eyes.

"Executive privilege?" O'Keefe repeated, scoffing, though it sounded hollow. "Who the hell do you think you are, the governor?"

"Open it," Fowler urged, growing impatient. "He's bluffing. It's probably full of burner phones or cash."

O'Keefe gritted his teeth, dug the blade under the brass locking mechanism, and twisted hard. With a sharp snap, the lock broke. O'Keefe pulled the zipper back, flipping the lid open. Both officers leaned over to look inside.

There were no drugs. There was no cash. There were no burner phones. Instead, there were three thick, bound folders bearing the gold seal of the state government.

Stacked neatly on top of the folders was a heavy silver shield encased in leather. O'Keefe reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the badge. The engraved black lettering caught the harsh overhead light.

Director, Public Integrity Unit, Office of the Inspector General.

Next to the badge was a laminated state identification card. It bore Donovan's stern face. The title below his name read, "Donovan Ross, Chief Director, Internal Investigations."

The silence in the room became absolute. The rhythmic buzzing of the fluorescent lights suddenly sounded like a roar. O'Keefe slowly looked up from the badge, his face draining of all color. His eyes met Donovan's.

Donovan smiled, a cold, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes.

"As I said, gentlemen," Donovan whispered softly, "you have made a profound mistake."

Fowler stumbled backward, his shoulder blades hitting the cinder-block wall with a dull thud. His chewing gum fell from his open mouth, landing silently on the grimy linoleum floor. O'Keefe remained completely frozen, his thumb hovering over the golden seal of the badge. The heavy tactical knife slipped from his trembling grip, clattering against the metal table.

The sound echoed in the small, windowless interrogation room like a gunshot.

"Director!" O'Keefe choked out, his voice stripped of all its previous gravel and swagger. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically from the leather-encased shield to Donovan's passive face. "Sir, there's been a massive misunderstanding here."

"A misunderstanding?" Donovan repeated slowly, letting the word hang in the stale, ammonia-scented air.

He did not move to stand up. He remained seated, his hands still cuffed behind his back, exuding an aura of absolute control.

"Is that what the Eighth Precinct calls the fabrication of a felony traffic stop? The illegal detention of a state official? The destruction of secured state property? Or perhaps you are referring to the planting of a controlled substance?"

"We didn't," Fowler stammered from the corner, his hand instinctively dropping away from his utility belt as if touching his own weapon would burn him. "We didn't know who you were."

"That is precisely the point, Officer Fowler," Donovan said smoothly. "You did not know who I was. You believed I was a civilian. A civilian with no power, no connections, and no recourse against two armed men wearing badges. You believed I was prey."

O'Keefe's hands shook as he gently, almost reverently, placed the Public Integrity Unit badge back down on the table next to the broken briefcase. He wiped his sweating palms on his uniform trousers. Panic, raw and unadulterated, began to set into his features.

The predatory gleam from the parking lot had entirely vanished, replaced by the terrified realization of a man staring down the barrel of a federal indictment.

"Director Ross, listen to me," O'Keefe pleaded, taking a cautious step forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "We can fix this. I can take these cuffs off right now. We walk you out to your car. We return your property, and we pretend this never happened."

"You just drove through our sector. We did a routine check, and you went on your way."

Donovan tilted his head slightly, studying the desperate man.

"Uncuff me."

O'Keefe let out a breath he had been holding, a nervous, pathetic laugh escaping his lips. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

He scrambled behind Donovan, his fingers fumbling clumsily with the small metal key. The steel teeth clicked open, and Donovan brought his arms forward, rubbing his wrists methodically. He stood up, towering over O'Keefe, and adjusted the cuffs of his tailored navy jacket.