He stared at her. The air between them was very still. Somewhere on the opposite shoulder, a phone camera was still raised. ""What's on that drive?"" "You destroyed the module," she said. "The drive is encrypted, and it's now additional evidence." "Vidence of what?"
She looked at him directly. The expression on her face was one that Calhoun would later describe to his union attorney as like she was reading from something I couldn't see. He meant it as an insult. He was more accurate than he knew. Evidence of what happened here today, she said.
All of it. Calhoun leaned in closer to Nadia. Not touching, but near enough that it was a decision, not an accident. His voice dropped. You think you are the first person to site Florida statutes at me on the side of a road.
I've been doing this job for 19 years. I've heard every line. Nadia looked at him. I'm sure you have. Then you know how this ends.
I do, she said. Yes. Something in her certainty stopped him. Not long, 3 seconds, maybe four. Then he turned.
Sharp was working on the driver's door panel when he found the secondary port, a small recessed channel behind the trim that ran a hairline wire toward the dashboard. He called Calhoun over. Calhoun crouched. He pulled the trim back farther with his bare hand, snapping the retaining clip. He followed the wire with one finger.
His jaw set. She said this was a federal device. Sharp said nothing. Calhoun stood. He looked at Nadia.
He walked toward her until he was close enough that she would have had to step back to maintain standard conversational distance. She did not step back. Last chance. He said, "Tell me what's on the drive. Tell me who sent you.
Tell me who runs this vehicle." "The vehicle is registered in my name," Nadia said, which your officer confirmed 26 minutes ago. He grabbed the front of her blazer. Not a strike, a grip, both hands, fabric bunched at the lapels, the kind of contact that stops just short of the legal threshold he'd spent 19 years calibrating. He held it for one second.