Faulner pulled the cruiser over sharply, gravel crunching under the tires. Before she could blink, he was at the back door, yanking it open. His hands were rough as he grabbed her ankle, finding the hidden device. "Well, what do we have here?" He examined the small black unit, then crushed it between his fingers.
"You just don't learn, do you?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Try another smartass move like that, and you'll be leaving here in much worse shape than you arrived." Understood? The threat hung in the air like smoke.
Trina met his gaze steadily, but stayed silent. Faulner's eyes were dead. The eyes of someone who enjoyed causing pain. Back on the road, Trina watched through the window as they passed the rest stop again. Her heart sank as she spotted a black transport truck pulling out.
The very one she'd been monitoring for weeks. She knew what was inside. Young girls, stolen lives, headed for God knows where. All her careful surveillance blown in an instant. At the station, they roughly marched her through a side entrance.
The building was oddly quiet for mid-afternoon with only a few deputies visible. They stopped at booking. Name? Barked the desk sergeant, not looking up. Kesha Lorn, Trina replied evenly, using her well-established alias.
She'd been operating under this identity for months with perfect documentation to back it up. Faulner's eyes narrowed slightly. He stepped closer, studying her face. "Funny, you don't look like a Kesha to me." "That's what my mama named me," Trina shot back, letting a hint of defiance color her tone.
Play the role," she reminded herself. "Just another angry civilian being harassed." "We'll see about that," Faulner murmured. He nodded to Rusk. "Put her in holding alone."
The holding cell was small and reeked of bleach. A single narrow window near the ceiling let in a shaft of dusty light. Rusk shoved her inside hard enough that she stumbled, catching herself against the metal bench. Enjoy your stay, princess," he sneered, slamming the door with unnecessary force. Miles away, in an unmarked van serving as FBI mobile command, Agent Monroe paced the cramped space, running his hands through his gray hair in frustration.
Multiple screens showed static where there should have been tracking data. "What do you mean we've lost both signals?" he demanded. "The truck and Agent Daniels, both gone." Yes, sir. A young tech replied, Agent Daniels's primary comm went dark at 1422.
Backup unit activated briefly at 1445, but was also lost. The transport truck's tracker showed it heading east on I-7. Then nothing. Jesus Christ, Monroe muttered. Months of careful work, dozens of potential victims, all slipping away.
And now one of his best agents was in the wind. A junior agent burst into the van, tablet in hand. Sir, you need to see this. It's going viral. The shaky phone footage showed Trina being roughly handled by the deputies, their racist comments clearly audible.