Registration, insurance card, owner’s manual, all scattered like trash.
The center console was rifled through.
Phone charger, sunglasses, and a pack of gum were thrown onto the floor.
He pulled the custom floor mats out and threw them onto the asphalt.
Then he pulled out a pocket knife.
“Got to check for hidden compartments,” he said to no one in particular. “People with dirty money love to hide things in the seats.”
He plunged the blade into the driver’s seat and dragged it downward.
The custom Italian leather split open.
He stabbed again.
And again.
Four long gashes in the seat Benjamin’s father had never gotten to sit in.
Benjamin closed his eyes.
Breathed.
He had faced cartel enforcers in interrogation rooms.
He had talked down armed hostage takers in bank lobbies.
He had sat across from serial killers without flinching.
But watching this stranger destroy his father’s dream was different.
Hollister emerged from the car empty-handed, sweating and frustrated.
He had searched everything and found nothing.
Because there was nothing to find.
But he was not done.
He walked around the Ferrari slowly, examining it with exaggerated suspicion.
His frustration was building.
He had expected to find something.
Cash.
Weapons.
Something that would justify what he was about to do.
He found nothing but the smell of new leather and the ghost of an old man’s dream.
Hollister stopped at the passenger side.
He pulled out his keys.
Slowly, deliberately, he dragged them along the entire length of the car.
From headlight to taillight.
A deep, jagged scratch cut through the Rosso Corsa paint down to bare metal.
The sound was like a scream.
He walked back to the driver’s side and kicked the door twice with his boot.
The aluminum panel crumpled inward.
He swung his heavy Maglite flashlight at the side mirror.
It exploded into fragments that scattered across the asphalt like broken teeth.
He climbed onto the hood and stomped.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Boot prints dented into the sculpted metal.
“Looks like you’ve got some prior damage here,” Hollister said with a grin. “Shame about that. Maybe next time, don’t drive something you can’t afford.”
Through all of it, Benjamin did not move.
Did not shout.
Did not resist.
But a single tear tracked down his cheek.
Hollister grabbed his radio.
“Dispatch, I have a combative suspect resisting a lawful traffic stop. Requesting immediate backup.”
“Officer,” Benjamin’s voice cut through the air, “I have not resisted. I have not moved. I have complied with every instruction. Your body camera is recording everything.”
Hollister’s grin widened.
“Body cam? Yeah, funny thing about that. Had a malfunction. Battery died about ten minutes ago.”
He shrugged.
“Technology, right? Can’t trust it.”
He walked toward Benjamin, grabbed him by the collar, and threw him to the ground.
Benjamin went limp.
A trained response.
Do not resist.
Do not give them an excuse.
“Stop resisting,” Hollister shouted for the benefit of any potential witnesses.
But Benjamin was not resisting.
He was lying face down on hot asphalt with his hands behind his back.
Linda Morrison stepped out of her Camry, phone still recording.
Her hands were shaking, but her voice was strong.
“I’m filming this. This man did nothing wrong. I saw everything.”
Hollister glanced at her.
For half a second, something flickered in his eyes.
Then it was gone.
He slapped handcuffs onto Benjamin’s wrists.
“You’re under arrest. Resisting arrest. Obstruction of justice. Felony evasion.”
“I did not evade,” Benjamin said, his cheek pressed into the asphalt. Tiny rocks bit into his skin. “I did not obstruct. I did not resist.”
Hollister hauled him up and shoved him toward the patrol car.
As Benjamin passed the Ferrari, he looked at what remained of his father’s dream.
The scratch running the entire length of the car.
The crumpled door.
The shattered mirror.
The boot prints on the hood.
The slashed seats visible through the open door.
Then Hollister did something that would define the rest of his life.
He put Benjamin in the back of the patrol car and slammed the door.
He walked back to his own cruiser, climbed in, started the engine, put it in reverse, and floored the accelerator.
The patrol car rocketed backward and slammed into the front of the Ferrari with a sickening crunch.
The hood crumpled like paper.
The grille exploded into a thousand pieces.
Both headlights shattered.
The radiator ruptured, spilling green fluid across the asphalt.
Two hundred thousand dollars of love and grief destroyed in three seconds.
Through the cruiser’s rear window, Benjamin watched in silence.
Hollister picked up his radio.
His voice was casual.
Bored, even.
“Dispatch, minor vehicle contact during the arrest. Suspect’s vehicle rolled forward into my cruiser. No injuries. Send a tow truck.”
Linda Morrison stood frozen on the shoulder, her phone capturing every second.
The Ferrari, Benjamin’s father’s dream, his life savings, his promise kept, sat crumpled and smoking on the side of the road.
Total damage: one hundred twenty-seven thousand dollars.
Insurance assessment: total loss.
Salvage value: eight thousand two hundred dollars.
Benjamin Walker said nothing.
He did not need to.
He was already building his case.
The Millbrook County Sheriff’s Station smelled like burnt coffee and desperation.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow across the booking area where Benjamin Walker stood in handcuffs, waiting to be processed.
Photographed.
Fingerprinted.
Cataloged like every other suspect who had passed through those doors.
The booking officer was a heavyset woman in her fifties who looked like she had seen everything and been impressed by nothing.
She typed without looking up.
“Full name?”
“Benjamin James Walker.”
“Date of birth?”
“March 15th, 1987.”
“Address?”
“347 Maple Street, Decatur, Georgia.”
“Occupation?”