At that same moment in the roll call room down the hall Travis Callahan sat slumped in a chair with his uniform collar open and his thermos half full of bourbon. He had convinced himself this was just another arrest gone sideways. That his superiors would smooth it out once they realized who she was. Still something in him shook. His hands trembled as he unscrewed the lid and took a long swallow.
The cheap whiskey burning its way down. The room smelled of sweat, dust, and denial. His body cam sat on the desk in front of him, screen cracked. The little red light dark. The SD card he'd yanked out lay beside it, still warm from the removal.
He told himself it didn't matter. Cameras failed all the time. Everyone looked the other way, especially for a man with 22 years on the job and a medal from the Appalachi school rescue. But even as he repeated that lie, he couldn't shake the sound of her voice. "You just assaulted a federal prosecutor."
Across town. Jaylen Brooks sat in his office surrounded by stacks of case files and a half-drunk cup of coffee. The live stream had already gone viral. His phone hadn't stopped buzzing since midnight. Every civil rights attorney, every journalist he knew was calling him.
But all he cared about was finding Ava. He dialed the precinct again. His 17th attempt that night. The desk sergeant answered. The same dry tone as before.
"She's not available for contact. She's a federal official." Jaylen snapped. "You can't hold her without notifying her office." "Sir, I'm just following orders."
The sergeant said. Then hung up. Jaylen slammed his fist against the desk, his chest heaving. He knew what this meant. Someone up top was stalling, probably under Chief Maria Delgado's direction.
It was a strategy he'd seen too many times before. Isolate, intimidate, erase inside the cell. Ava pressed her palms together, trying to steady her breathing. Every second mattered. Somewhere out there, someone had her briefcase.
The one with her DOJ credentials, the corruption logs, the names, the bank trails, and the evidence tying Atlanta PD to stolen forfeiture funds. She thought about the hearing she he supposed to attend that morning. The room full of federal officials now wondering why the lead prosecutor had vanished. She smiled bitterly. Let them wonder.
She whispered. She wasn't beaten. She was waiting. Meanwhile, at police headquarters, Chief Delgado sat in her office with the blinds drawn. The phone on her desk buzzed every few seconds with updates, media calls, internal affairs alerts, protest notifications.