“It’s recording.”
The Black Man nodded slightly.
“Good.”
Calder searched the inner pocket.
His fingers found leather.
He pulled out a black credential wallet.
“Here we go.”
The Black Man said:
“Open it.”
Calder flipped it open.
The gold badge caught the afternoon light.
Four letters sat beneath the seal.
FBI.
Calder froze.
The younger Officer inhaled sharply.
The Black Man remained pressed against the Lamborghini.
Calder read the identification.
Then read it again.
Special Agent in Charge.
Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Atlanta Field Office.
Calder’s hand lowered slowly.
The Black Man said:
“Now you understand why I told you to check it.”
Calder’s voice changed.
Not completely.
But enough.
“This could be fake.”
The Black Man closed his eyes for one second.
Then opened them.
“Call the field office.”
Calder looked around.
The people filming.
Traffic.
His junior Officer staring.
The shattered Lamborghini window.
A federal badge in his hand.
His voice rose again.
“Anybody can buy a badge online.”
The Black Man replied:
“Then verify it.”
Calder reached toward his radio.
Then stopped.
He looked at the younger Officer.
“Put him in the cruiser.”
The younger Officer did not move.
“Sergeant.”
“I said put him in the car.”
The Black Man spoke.
“Officer Miller.”
Miller looked toward him.
The Black Man continued.
“Do not interfere with your Sergeant.”
Calder smiled.
“Finally.”
Then the Black Man added:
“Just make sure your body camera stays on.”
Calder’s smile disappeared.
Miller understood.
He touched his chest camera.
Red light.
Recording.
Calder turned the Black Man around roughly.
For the first time they faced each other directly.
The Black Man’s eyes were calm.
Almost too calm.
That bothered Calder more than resistance would have.
Calder lifted the badge.
“You really think this protects you?”
“No.”
“What?”
The Black Man nodded toward the street behind him.
“It protects the evidence.”
Calder frowned.
Then engines came from the intersection.
Not sirens.
Engines.
Heavy.
Several.
The younger Officer turned first.
A black Chevrolet Suburban entered from the east.
Then another.
Then two more from the opposite direction.
All unmarked.
Dark glass.
Federal-style antennas.
They slowed together.
One blocked the lane behind the police cruiser.
Another stopped in front of the Lamborghini.
The third angled across the service entrance.
The fourth remained twenty yards away.
Doors opened.
Men and women stepped out in plain clothes and tactical vests.
Large yellow letters across the chest.
FBI.
Calder’s face emptied.
The younger Officer whispered:
“Oh, no.”
The Black Man looked at Calder.
“Those are my agents.”
Nobody moved for three seconds.
Then one of the federal agents approached quickly.
Black woman.
Late thirties.
Dark suit pants beneath a tactical vest.
Badge displayed.