He sat down next to Ty on the cold metal bench. They're escalating to the command deck, Jackson told Ty quietly. Ty leaned back against the concrete wall and finally let out a genuine, relaxed chuckle. The command deck. Oh, man.
Vice Admiral Cole is going to rain hellfire on this county. Outside, the sun slowly began to set over the Texas desert. Deputy Boyd sat at his desk, stubbornly refusing to believe the reality of his situation, convinced he was still the king of his small, dusty world. He had no idea that a thousand miles away in California, alarms were sounding, helicopters were being fueled, and a three-star admiral was putting on his uniform with a look of absolute, unyielding rage. The storm wasn't coming.
It was already here. Night fell over Oak Creek, wrapping the small desert town in a suffocating blanket of dry heat and heavy silence. Inside the sheriff's department, the flickering fluorescent lights cast long, distorted shadows across the linoleum floor. The bravado that Deputy Frankie Boyd had displayed earlier was beginning to curdle into a restless, agitated energy. He sat at his battered desk, nursing a lukewarm cup of black coffee.
His eyes continually darting toward the heavy iron door of the holding area. In cell two, Jackson Hayes and Tyrone Miller were doing the exact opposite of what typical prisoners did. They were not pacing. They were not yelling. They were not begging for a lawyer or demanding a phone call.
They were sleeping. Jackson lay flat on his back on the unyielding steel bench, his breathing slow, deep, and perfectly rhythmic. Ty was seated cross-legged in the corner of the cell, his eyes closed, his posture perfectly upright in a meditative trance. To a seasoned combat veteran, a concrete cell in rural Texas was a luxury suite compared to a muddy trench in the Horn of Africa. They were conserving energy, waiting for the inevitable wheels of the federal government to crush the small-town corruption that held them captive.
In the glass-walled office overlooking the bullpen, Sheriff Wade Montgomery was sweating through his uniform shirt. The air conditioning was running at full blast, but a cold terror had taken root in his stomach and was refusing to let go. Montgomery had spent the last 3 hours reviewing the dashcam footage from Boyd's cruiser. He watched the flawless mechanical precision of Jackson's driving. He watched the terrifying calm compliance of the two men.
He listened to the phone call again and again, playing the recording back until the clipped hyper-professional voice from Naval Special Warfare Command was burned into his memory. "Escalating to JAG and command deck immediately. The cavalry is mobilizing." Montgomery paused the video, his hands trembling slightly. He looked out through the glass at Boyd, who was casually tossing a tennis ball against the filing cabinet.
"Frankie." Montgomery croaked, stepping out of his office. His voice sounded paper thin. "Come here. Look at this."
Boyd sighed, catching the ball and swaggering over. "What is it, Wade? You're acting like you've seen a ghost. They're just drug runners. Fancy drug runners with military surplus gear, but drug runners all the same.
Look at their hands." Montgomery pointed to the frozen frame on the monitor. The image showed Jackson handing over his license, his wrists exposed. Look at the calluses. Look at the scars.