Boyd whispered, shoving them toward the back of his cruiser. "You're in my world now. Let's see how tough you talk from a cage." As they were shoved into the claustrophobic, plastic-seated rear of the police cruiser, Jackson leaned his head back, his face a mask of absolute serenity. Boyd thought he had won.
He had no idea he had just tripped the wire on a massive, unforgiving bomb. The Oak Creek Sheriff's Department was housed in a squat cinder block building that smelled permanently of bleach, stale sweat, and cheap coffee. Sheriff Wade Montgomery, a man whose primary law enforcement strategy involved staying out of Boyd's way and collecting his share of the forfeiture money was half asleep at his desk when the front doors banged open. Boyd marched Jackson and Ty into the booking area, shoving them roughly toward the holding bench. "Look what I dragged in, Sheriff."
Boyd announced proudly, tossing Jackson and Ty's wallets onto the intake counter. "Caught them out on Highway 9, refused a search, acting suspicious, hauling four locked military-grade crates in the back of a brand new truck. We got ourselves a major bust." Sheriff Montgomery sat up, wiping sleep from his eyes, and looked at the two men. Unlike the usual drunks or terrified civilians Boyd dragged in, these two were unnervingly quiet.
They sat perfectly straight on the bench, their faces completely unbothered by the handcuffs biting into their wrists. Montgomery felt a sudden, inexplicable chill run down his spine. "You check the crates yet, Frankie?" The sheriff asked cautiously. "Tried to."
Boyd grunted, pulling a heavy set of bolt cutters from a supply closet. "Locks are thick. I'm going to go crack them right now. Book these two. Strip their belts and shoelaces.
Throw them in cell two." "Deputy." Jackson's voice rang out through the room. It wasn't loud, but it possessed a commanding resonance that made both officers freeze. "I am going to state this for the record, in front of the sheriff.
Those cases contain sensitive, classified equipment belonging to the United States Navy. Tampering with them is a violation of federal law under Title 18, Section 793. If you cut those locks, you are committing a federal felony." Boyd paused, turning slowly. He walked up to Jackson, leaning over him.
"You think you can come into my town and throw fake legal jargon at me? I'm going to cut those locks. I'm going to find your dope. And I'm going to take your truck. Take off your boots."
Jackson and Ty complied in silence. They were processed, stripped of their footwear, belts, and personal effects, and marched down a short, dimly lit hallway. The heavy iron door of cell two slammed shut behind them. The metallic clang echoing through the station. Inside the cell, Ty stretched his neck, popping the joints loudly.
"Well, this is a first. Survived Mogadishu, only to get captured by a redneck with a badge." "He's acting on hubris," Jackson said, stepping up to the bars and leaning casually against them. He thinks he has absolute power. We're going to let him dig his grave as deep as he wants."