Instead, he found paper. The briefcase was packed with thick manila folders, all bound with heavy, bright red tape. Mitchell frowned in confusion. He grabbed his flashlight and pinned the first folder to the hood of the car to stop the wind from blowing it away.
The rain began to hit the top page, but the paper didn't warp. It was high-grade water-resistant archival parchment. At the top of the page, printed in old unmistakable crimson ink, was the seal of the United States Department of Justice, specifically the Office of the Inspector General, co-signed by the FBI's Anti-Corruption Task Force. Underneath the seal, stamped in heavy block letters, were the words, "Top secret Yankee White, Operation Dead River, authorized by the Office of Attorney General Merrick Garland." Mitchell's brow furrowed.
The sheer weight of the names and the classification level sent a sudden icy prickle down his spine. He wasn't a smart man, but he knew what Yankee White meant. It was a clearance level reserved for individuals who worked directly with the president of the United States. He flipped to the next page.
It was a surveillance photograph. The image was grainy, taken at night with a long range telephoto lens, but the faces were unmistakable. It showed Mitchell's direct boss, County Sheriff Arthur Pendleton, standing on the loading dock of a local meat packing plant. He was shaking hands with a man Mitchell recognized instantly, a known lieutenant for a massive East Coast smuggling syndicate.
Between them on the ground were four large duffel bags. Mitchell's breath hitched. His heart began to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. He flipped the page again, his thick rains sllicked fingers fumbling with the heavy paper.
The next document was a financial flowchart. It detailed millions of dollars flowing from the syndicate through local shell companies and directly into the offshore bank accounts of high-ranking law enforcement officials in upstate New York. And then Mitchell saw the manifest. It was a list of names under the heading collateral assets and enforcers to be apprehended.
There were 30 names on the list. Mitchell read the third name down. Asset 42. Officer Todd Mitchell.
Role. Highway interceptor. Intimidation. Crimes extortion.
Accessory to trafficking first-degree murder. Directive. immediate apprehension and indefinite detention under the RICO Act, Mitchell stopped breathing. The flashlight trembled so violently in his hand that the beam danced wildly across the wet hood of the car. I wasn't just pulling over a random civilian.
This wasn't a drug mule. This woman had been tracking him. She had been tracking all of them. The entire county was under federal investigation, and the evidence to burn them all to the ground was sitting right in front of him.
He looked up from the documents. Naomi Reynolds was still standing exactly where she had been. The rain had soaked through her designer coat, but she looked completely unbothered. She was staring at him with eyes as cold and unforgiving as the bottom of the ocean.
I tried to warn you, Todd, Naomi said softly. It was the first time she had used his first name. I really did. I was on my way to Albany to present this to the federal grand jury in the morning.
Your precinct wasn't supposed to be raided until Tuesday, but you just couldn't help yourself, could you? You had to play the apex predator. Who? Who are you?
Mitchell stammered, stumbling backward. My name is Naomi Reynolds. I am a special auditor for the Department of Justice's internal oversight division, she said, taking a slow step toward him. And you are currently in possession of classified federal evidence regarding an ongoing racketeering investigation.
Panic, roar, and blinding seized Mitchell's brain. His survival instinct kicked in. The same corrupt instinct that had kept him out of prison for a decade. He couldn't let her leave.
If she made it to Albany, his life was over. I was going to spend the rest of his days in a federal penitentiary. Assuming the syndicate didn't kill him first, he dropped the flashlight. His hand dropped to the holster on his right hip.
He unclasped the safety strap and drew his 9 mm service weapon, leveling it directly at Naomi's chest. Todd, what the hell are you doing? Rookie officer Kevin Bradley screamed, finally stepping out from the shadows, his face pale with horror. Put the gun down.
Shut up, Kevin. Grab her documents. Get the briefcase. Mitchell roared, his hands shaking violently as he kept the gun pointed at Naomi.
She doesn't leave here. Nobody knows she's on this road. We put her in the trunk. We dump the car in the lake and we burn these papers.
Naomi looked down the barrel of the gun. She didn't raise her hands. She didn't beg for her life. Instead, a slow, dark smile crept across her face.
She slowly raised her left wrist and tapped the glass of her smartwatch. "Did you honestly think, Officer Mitchell?" Naomi whispered over the sound of the rain. "That the Department of Justice would let me transport the most damning evidence of police corruption in the history of New York State entirely alone." Before Mitchell could even process the question, the night shattered. From the pitch black darkness of the highway ahead of them, a set of blindingly bright headlights snapped on.
Then another, and another, Mitchell spun around, nearly dropping his gun. Coming down the supposedly empty interstate, moving with terrifying speed and total silence, were four massive matte black Chevrolet Suburbans. They hadn't used sirens. They hadn't used lights.
They had been driving completely blacked out, pacing Naomi's car from exactly half a mile away the entire trip. The Suburbans slammed on their brakes, perfectly boxing in the sheriff's cruiser. And Naomi's Volvo, before the massive vehicles even came to a complete stop, the doors flew open. Mitchell froze, his gun still raised.
As the reality of his nightmare finally set in before the massive black vehicles even came to a complete stop, the doors flew open. A dozen men clad in heavy ballistic tactical gear poured out into the driving rain. There was no shouting. There was no hesitation.