St.ep down now?" Mitchell's voice cracked slightly, betraying his adrenaline. Dion knew his rights, both as a citizen and as a federal agent. Under Terry versus Ohio, they had no reasonable suspicion. Under Rodriguez versus United St.ates, they couldn't prolong the stop without cause.
But he also knew that arguing constitutional law with a hotheaded cop on a dark, rainy highway was a good way to get shot. He needed to play this out. He needed them to dig their own grave. Slowly, deliberately, Dion stepped down from the cab.
He kept his hands visible, resting them lightly on his belt buckle. "Turn around," Banks ordered. "Hands on the truck." Dion complied, turning his back to them and placing his palms flat against the cold, wet metal of the door. He felt Mitchell approach from behind.
Rough hands grabbed his arms, pulling them apart before Mitchell began a highly aggressive, invasive pat-down. He kicked Dion's boots apart hard enough to sting and ran his hands up Dion's legs around his waist, checking for weapons. He found nothing but a standard pocketknife clipped to Dion's right pocket. Mitchell pulled it out and tossed it onto the wet gravel.
"What's in the trailer?" Mitchell asked, stepping back. Agricultural supplies. Fertilizer? Dion answered, staring at his own reflection in the wet metal.
Mitchell scoffed. Fertilizer. The number one cover for moving weight or making bombs. It's a legitimate haul.
The manifest is in the binder you're holding. I don't care what a piece of paper says, Mitchell said, stepping around to face Dion. I want to see for myself. Open it up.
No. The word left Dion's mouth sharp and definitive. Mitchell blinked, taken aback. Excuse me, I said.
No, Dion repeated, turning to face the officers, dropping his hands from the truck. You don't have a warrant. You don't have probable cause. You have a hunch based on absolutely nothing.
The trailer is sealed with a commercial taamper evident lock. I break that seal, I lose my job. So, no, you are not searching my trailer. Banks stepped forward, his hand unholstering his taser.
Listen here, you arrogant son of a [ __ ]. You're in our town now. We say open the trailer. You open the trailer or you're going to find yourself in the back of a cruiser with a resisting arrest charge.
Arrest me for what? Dion challenged, his eyes locking onto Banks's. The sheer intensity in Dion's gaze made the older officer hesitate for a fraction of a second. Failure to bow.
I know the law, officers. You're fishing, and the pond is empty. The rain picked up, haammering against the pavement in heavy sheets. The standoff stretched for several agonizing seconds.
Mitchell was seething. He was used to out-of-towners cowering, stuttering, and begging to be let go. Dion's unwavering calm was infuriating him. It felt like defiance.
"Fine," Mitchell spat, rain dripping from his nose. "We won't search the trailer yet. We'll get a K-9 unit out here. Dog alerts.
That gives us probable cause to rip this entire rig apart." Mitchell unclipped the radio from his shoulder. Dispatch, this is unit 4. I need the K9 unit at Henderson's on Highway 9. Suspicious commercial vehicle.
Dion listened to the radio crackle. Unit 4 K9 is currently on a call on the north side of the county. ETA is at least 4five milesnutes, Mitchell cursed under his breath. He looked at Dion, a nasty grin spreading across his face.
Looks like you're going to be waiting in the rain for a while, Dave. I'm not waiting in the rain, Dion said flatly. I'm getting back in my cab. When your dog gets here, wake me up.
Dion turned to grab the handle of his door. Hey, I didn't say you could move. Mitchell lunged forward, grabbing Dion by the shoulder of his flannel shirt, attempting to spin him around. It was a mistake.
Mitchell was strong, but Dion possessed the honed explosive power of a man trained in close quarters combat by the bureau's elite tactical instructors. As Mitchell's hand claamped onto his shoulder, Dion reacted purely on muscle memory. He didn't strike the officer. That would be assault, but he shifted his weight, dropping his center of gravity, and executed a flawless, rigid pivot.
The momentum broke Mitchell's grip instantly, sending the younger officer stumbling forward, his boots slipping on the wet gravel. He caught himself against the side of the truck, his face red with embarrassment and rage. "Assaulting an officer," Banks yelled, raising his taser and pointing the laser directly at Dion's chest. Dion stood perfectly still, raising both hands slowly to shoulder height.
I didn't touch him. He grabbed me. I pivoted. Lower the weapon, officer.
Mitchell pushed himself off the truck, his hand dropping to his Glock. He didn't draw it, but he unsnapped the retention strap. You're done, pal. Put your hands behind your back.
You're under arrest. For what? Dion demanded, his voice echoing in the empty lot. Interfering with an investigation, resisting.
I don't care. I'll think of something on the drive to the station. Mitchell snarled. He reached onto his belt and pulled out a pair of steel handcuffs.
Turn around. Dion calculated the odds. He could disarm both men in less than 3 seconds. He could have them face down in the mud before they even realized what hit them.
But doing so would blow his cover, ruin a multi-million dollar federal sting, and create an absolute jurisdictional nightmare. He needed the cargo to reach Atlanta tomorrow. He had one trump card. It was early, but they had forced his hand.
Before you put those cuffs on me, Dion said, his voice dropping the trucker accent entirely, adopting the crisp authoritative cadence of a federal agent. You need to let me get my secondary ID from the cab. You already gave us your ID, Bank said, keeping the taser trained on him. That's my commercial license, Dion said, locking eyes with Mitchell.
My real ID is in a locked steel box beneath the sleeper bunk. Let me get it. It will clear all of this up. Mitchell hesitated.
He looked at Dion's posture. It wasn't the posture of a scared criminal. It was the posture of someone who held all the cards, but Mitchell's ego wouldn't let him back down. You think we're stupid?
Mitchell laughed harshly. You want to reach under the bed into a locked box? What's in there, Dave? A45.
You want to blow my head off? There is a firearm in the box, Dion admitted calmly. But there is also a credential wallet. I will step back.
You can go into the cab, pull the box out, and I will give you the combination. You can open it yourself. Mitchell and Banks exchanged a look. This was bizarre.
A trucker admitting he had a gun, inviting them into his cab, remaining completely unflapable. "All right," Mitchell said, a predatory glint returning to his eye. "We're searching the cab. Brad, keep him covered.
He twitches. Light him up." Mitchell climbed up the steps and into the Peterbilt. Dion watched from the rain. Banks's taser laser dot dancing lightly on his chest.
Inside the cab, Dion could hear Mitchell tearing things apart, the sound of Velcro ripping, compartments being slaammed, clothes being tossed onto the floor. It wasn't a search for a lock box. It was a punitive destruction of property. Mitchell was trashing the cab out of spite.
"Under the bunk," Dion called out loudly over the rain. "St.op tearing my clothes up and lift the mattress." A moment later, Mitchell emerged, standing in the doorway of the cab. In his hands was a heavy matte black biometric and combination lock box. He looked down at Dion, victorious.
"Found it," Mitchell said, stepping down from the cab and placing the heavy box on the hood of the cruiser out of the rain. "Give me the code." "9427," Dion recited. Mitchell punched the numbers into the keypad. A green light flashed and the heavy latch clicked open.
Mitchell threw the lid back. Inside, resting on a bed of custom cut foa.m., was a sleek government-issued SIG Sauer P320. Beside it sat a thick leather wallet, a heavy gold badge embedded in the front, and a laaminated ID card bearing Dion's true naame, his photograph, and the undeniable seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Mitchell stared at the contents.
The rain continued to fall, but the world suddenly went deathly quiet for the young officer. He blinked, the water from his hair dripping onto the leather of the badge. He read the words aloud, his voice barely a whisper, completely stripped of its former arrogance. Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Special Agent Dion Henderson. Mitchell slowly lifted his head, his eyes meeting Dion's. The towering truck driver was no longer looking at him like a harassed civilian. Dion's eyes were cold, calculating, and filled with the absolute crushing authority of the United St.ates federal government.
"That's right, Mitchell," Dion said softly, stepping forward until his chest almost touched the taser Banks was still holding. Dion reached out and gently pushed Banks's trembling hand downward, pointing the taser at the gravel. "Now," Dion said, his voice slicing through the rain like a razor. "Let's talk about who's really in trouble here." Rain drummed a relentless beat against the roof of the county cruiser.