It was a silent alarm. In the Phoenix field office, 200 miles away, an alarm was currently blaring in the operations center, instantly broadcasting her vehicle's GPS coordinates. And because she was currently assigned to a joint multi-agency task force, the distress signal was simultaneously beamed to the dash consoles of every federal marshal, DEA agent, and state police supervisor within a 50-mile radius. Code 10-13. Federal officer down or in extreme danger.
Respond code three. All units. Sloan pulled the door handle and stepped out into the sweltering heat. Before both of her feet were even on the pavement, Haynes lunged. He grabbed her by the shoulder of her T-shirt, yanking her violently forward.
He slammed her chest-first against the hot metal of the Taurus's roof, kicking her legs apart with his heavy combat boots. "Hands behind your back!" he screamed, holstering his weapon and ripping a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt. Sloan didn't fight him physically. She let him wrench her arms behind her back, feeling the cold steel bite painfully into her wrists as the cuffs ratcheted tight. "Travis, this is a mistake!"
Davies pleaded, rushing forward now. The young rookie looked terrified, staring at the gold shield sitting on the hood of the car. He reached out and picked it up. He tilted it, watching the holographic watermarks shift on the ID card. Travis, this is real.
The watermarks? It's a real Bureau ID. Shut up, Davis. Haynes panted, shoving Sloan hard against the car to ensure the cuffs were tight. He leaned into her ear, his breath hot and reeking of stale coffee.
You're going to prison, you hear me? Impersonating a federal officer. I'm going to ruin your life. Sloan turned her head, resting her cheek against the scorching roof of her car. She looked directly at Haynes, her expression utterly devoid of fear.
The trap had been sprung. Haynes just didn't realize he was the one standing in it. Officer Haynes. Sloan whispered, carrying over the wind. Look down the highway.
Haynes scoffed, but his eyes instinctively darted toward the horizon. About 3 miles down the straight flat stretch of Route 66, the heat haze was shimmering violently. And bursting through that haze like a swarm of angry hornets were the flashing strobe lights of not one, not two, but six black unmarked SUVs screaming toward them at over a hundred miles an hour. The low rumbling growl of high performance engines preceded the vehicles. It started as a vibration in the asphalt, vibrating through the soles of Haynes's combat boots.
He squinted against the glaring Arizona sun, his hand still gripping the back of Sloan's shirt. The heat haze broke. Six unmarked matte black Chevrolet Tahoes and Ford Explorers tore down the two-lane highway moving in a tight synchronized tactical diamond. They weren't just driving fast. They were flying their grills consuming the distance at terrifying speed.