Agent Pendleton, let's just take a breath," Okconor pleaded quietly. Desperately trying to salvage his department's reputation. If the feds swarm this neighborhood, it's going to be on the evening news. The chief is going to have my head. Can't we handle this internally?
Stanton will be suspended immediately, stripped of his badge. Just give us a chance to discipline our own. You lost the privilege of policing your own the moment he put hands on me. Arthur stated coldly. Besides, Officer Stanton's body camera mysteriously malfunctioned during the stop, didn't it, Stanton?
Stanton swallowed hard, realizing he had subtly turned off his camera right before aggressively pulling Arthur from the vehicle. It must have died. The battery was low. "Fascinating," Arthur said, a humorous smile touching his lips. "It is truly a shame you didn't realize.
The Ferrari Roma, especially one outfitted for federal undercover operations, is equipped with a concealed 360 degree biometric dash camera system. It doesn't record to a memory card," Officer Stanton. It uploads via satellite directly to a secure server in Quantico. Every word you said, every illegal action you took, and the exact moment your foot hit the accelerator is already sitting on the desk of a federal prosecutor. Stanton's knees buckled.
He collapsed back onto the curb, putting his head between his hands, realizing his life as a free man was effectively over. Within 20 minutes, the quiet suburban street was transformed into a federal fortress. Four black Chevrolet Suburbans screeched to a halt, boxing in the local police cruisers. A dozen heavily armed FBI agents wearing tactical vests swarmed the scene, instantly establishing a perimeter. Following closely behind was special agent in charge Jonathan Weaver, a sharp-featured man with silver hair and a reputation for ruthlessness.
When his agents were threatened, Weaver bypassed the local police entirely, walking straight to Arthur. He surveyed the crumpled remains of the Ferrari, the steam now replaced by a puddle of expensive synthetic oil. Well, Weaver muttered, adjusting his glasses. The motorpool is going to be absolutely furious. Fluorescent lights buzzed like angry hornets in the ceiling of the Oakbrook Police Department's primary interrogation room.
The air was stale, smelling of cheap coffee, and mounting desperation. Gregory Stanton sat hunched over a steel table, his uniform stripped of its badge and duty belt, his arrogant swagger entirely evaporated. He looked like a deflated balloon. On the other side of the two-way glass, stood Arthur Pendleton, now wearing a dark FBI windbreaker and sack Jonathan Weaver. Next to them stood Oakbrook Police Chief Edward Gallagher, a politician in a uniform who was sweating profusely through his pressed shirt.
"Chief Gallagher," Weaver said softly, not taking his eyes off Stanton through the glass. "You understand the gravity of the situation. Your officer didn't just total a car. He blew a three-month undercover operation targeting Dominic Russo's moneyaundering syndicate. Millions of dollars and thousands of man-hour were just flushed down the drain because a local cop wanted to play cowboy.