"You trying to play lawyer?" Martinez sneered, but his confidence had cracked. "No," Immani replied. "I'm ensuring proper documentation of an official law-enforcement action. Would you like to contact your supervisor to confirm procedure?"
The mention of supervision shifted the energy. The deputies' aggression deflated like a punctured tire, replaced by uncertainty. They'd expected fear, resistance, maybe even violence. Anything that would justify escalation.
Instead, they faced something worse. Accountability. "We're done here," the lead deputy announced, trying to salvage authority. "But those bags stay where we found them. Evidence in plain view."
He unlocked Preach's handcuffs with deliberate roughness, shoving a citation into the mechanic's chest. The amount would be carefully calculated, enough to hurt, not enough to justify the court costs of fighting it. Preach rubbed his wrists as the deputies retreated, their boots crunching on scattered tools and debris. The power flickered back on, harsh fluorescent light revealing the chaos they'd left behind.
Tools scattered everywhere. Drawers hanging open. Papers strewn across the floor. The planted bags sat accusingly near Immani's truck, a silent threat.
"You okay, Preach?" Immani asked. He nodded, straightening his shirt with dignity. "Nothing I haven't seen before. But you?"
He looked at her with concern. "They're not done with you." "I know." Immani checked her watch.
"I need to move the rig before sunrise." She spent the next few hours practicing every counter-surveillance technique she'd learned in her previous life. Three careful turns down side streets, watching for taillights. Two complete stops, letting any followers reveal themselves.
One long loop through an industrial park, noting every vehicle that matched her path. They were following her, of course. Not obviously. They'd learned from her exposing their roadside tactics, but she spotted the same unmarked sedan at three different intersections and a patrol car that kept appearing just within sight.
The predawn air was heavy with humidity when she pulled into a 24-hour diner's parking lot. Mina's compact car was already waiting. Its driver hunched over a laptop surrounded by empty coffee cups. "I can help," Mina said as soon as Immani approached.
"We blur faces, distort voices, protect sources. But people need to hear what happened on that road." Immani studied the younger woman's face, looking for any trace of glory-seeking or recklessness. She found only determined compassion. "The locals come first," Immani said firmly.
"Nothing happens if it puts them at risk. Preach, the diner staff, anyone who might face retaliation. They get protection, or we don't move." "Agreed." Mina nodded.
"I've got secure channels, ways to release information that can't be traced back, and numbers for good lawyers." "How soon?" "Give me 24 hours to set up proper safeguards."
Mina started gathering her equipment. "Meet back here tomorrow." "Different location," Immani corrected. "I'll text you."