One. She's a fake, Haynes screamed, his voice breaking into a high-pitched squeal. She swerved. She resisted. Two.
The unmistakable terrifying sound of a dozen tactical rifles chambering rounds echoed in unison. The metallic clack-clack cut through the noise like a guillotine blade dropping. Haynes looked to his left. A US Marshal, a massive bearded man named Wyatt Gibson, had his red dot sight aimed squarely at the center of Haynes's forehead. Haynes looked to his right.
Two DEA agents were flanking him, their weapons drawn and steady. He looked behind him, hoping to find Davis, but the rookie had already thrown his own hands in the air and dropped to his knees in the dirt, wisely surrendering to the overwhelming force. Haynes's ego shattered. The illusion of his absolute power evaporated in the suffocating desert heat. His hands began to tremble violently.
Okay. Okay, God, don't shoot, Haynes whimpered. With shaking fingers, he unclipped the heavy plastic buckle of his duty belt. The belt holding his Glock, his Taser, and his pepper spray hit the asphalt with a heavy thud. He kicked it away from his feet and raised his hands high above his head.
On your knees. Face away from me. Interlace your fingers behind your head. Gibson barked, stepping forward. Haynes dropped to his knees, the rough asphalt biting through his uniform pants.
He laced his fingers behind his head, his chest heaving with panicked shallow breaths. Callahan ignored the kneeling cop entirely. He walked straight to Sloane, who was still standing calmly against the side of her Taurus, her hands cuffed tightly behind her back. You good, Sloane? Callahan asked, his tone shifting instantly from commanding to deeply concerned.
I've been better, Bobby. Sloane replied, her voice steady, though a bead of sweat rolled down her dust-streaked face. Wrists are a little tight. Callahan signaled to one of the DEA agents, who rushed forward with a universal handcuff key. A second later, the steel jaws clicked open.
Sloane brought her arms forward, wincing slightly as blood rushed back into her hands. She rubbed her raw wrists, then calmly reached over to the hood of her car, picked up her gold FBI credentials, and slid them back into her jacket pocket. Did he draw on you? Callahan asked quietly, his eyes drifting over to Haines, who was now being aggressively frisked by Marshal Gibson. Glock 19.
Pointed directly at my left temple. Sloane stated factually. Disengaged the safety, claimed I was swerving, ordered me out without probable cause, and laughed when I presented my federal ID. Callahan's jaw tightened. A muscle ticked in his cheek.