With a swift, violent motion, Hayes dug his thumb under the flap and ripped the envelope open. The thick parchment inside tore as he aggressively yanked it out. He held the shredded pieces of the federal warrant in his hand. Realizing it wasn't just one page, but a thick stack of sworn affidavits. To save face, he crumpled the torn pages in his massive fist, tossing the ruined, shredded mass onto the wet asphalt at Joe's feet.
Joe stared at the ruined warrant in the mud. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. A chilling calm washed over her. "You just made the biggest mistake of your life," she said softly.
Hayes unclipped his handcuffs. "Turn around, Josephine. You're under arrest for obstructing a police investigation and resisting arrest. Let's see how smart you sound in a cage. As the cold steel locked around her wrists, Joe let him.
She knew something Hayes didn't. The moment that envelope was breached without logging it into the federal database, an automatic silent alarm was triggered in the DOJ's regional operations center. The clock had just started ticking. The Oak Haven 12th precinct smelled like despair. A foul cocktail of bleach, old sweat, and decades of unchecked corruption.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like dying insects as Officer Hayes dragged Joe through the back entrance. He paraded her past a bullpen of half a dozen officers, holding her by the bicep like a prized trophy. Got us a roadside scholar tonight? Hayes announced loudly to his colleagues who chuckled from their desks. Tried to hit me with some fake federal paperwork to get out of a DUI.
Joe remained entirely silent. She was stripped of her belt and shoelaces. Her pockets emptied onto the booking counter. Among her belongings was a sleek black unmarked satellite phone, not standard civilian tech. The desk sergeant eyed it curiously, but tossed it into a plastic bin with her car keys.
Hayes shoved her into holding cell 3, a filthy 6x8 cage with a concrete bench. As the heavy iron door slammed shut, echoing through the station, Joe sat down. She didn't pace. She didn't ask for a phone call. She simply stared at the large analog clock on the far wall.
It was 2:45 a.m. According to her protocol, if her secure transponder, which was sewn into the lining of her jacket, currently sitting in the evidence bin, remained stationary at a local police precinct for more than 20 minutes without a verified safe word check-in. A level one extraction would be initiated. Out in the bullpen, Hayes was riding the high of his ego. He walked over to the desk of Captain Brendan Walsh.
Walsh was a 30-year veteran of the force, a man whose moral compass had rusted in place decades ago. He was sipping lukewarm coffee, reviewing arrest reports. "What do we have, Donovan? " Walsh asked without looking up. "Routine stop, Cap. " "Woman was swerving, refused orders, got mouthy. " Tried to pass off some fake legal paperwork to scare me off. Hayes tossed a wet, muddy plastic evidence bag onto Walsh's desk.