The only sound was the synchronized terrifying metallic clack of assault rifles being raised and the heavy thud of combat boots hitting the wet asphalt. A dozen crimson laser sights pierced the darkness, cutting through the heavy raindrops, all converging directly on Officer Todd Mitchell's chest and forehead. Federal agents, drop the weapon. Drop it now.
A voice boomed through a high-powered bullhorn from the lead suburban. Mitchell's brain completely short-circuited. The 9mm pistol in his hand suddenly felt like it weighed 1,000 lb. He looked at Naomi, who hadn't flinched, and then at the wall of heavily armed federal agents advancing on him.
The sheer overwhelming force of the United States government had materialized out of thin air, and it was entirely focused on him. His fingers went numb. The gun slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the muddy shoulder of the highway. "Get on the ground, face down, hands behind your head." The lead agent roared.
Mitchell's knees buckled. He collapsed into the cold mud, his massive frame shaking uncontrollably. Behind him, rookie officer Kevin Bradley was already on his stomach, sobbing quietly into the wet pavement, his hands clasped tightly behind his neck. Special Agent Thomas Caldwell, a veteran FBI commander with a heavily scarred chin and eyes like crushed ice, marched forward.
He kicked Mitchell's discarded weapon into the grass and drove his knee sharply into Mitchell's spine, securing his wrists with heavyduty zip ties. "The plastic bit deep into Mitchell's skin, a sharp reminder of his new reality." "Area secure, Director Reynolds," Caldwell announced, stepping back, but keeping his boot planted firmly on Mitchell's shoulder. Naomi finally moved. She casually brushed a few drops of rain off her charcoal lapel, walked over to the hood of the Volvo, and gathered the classified documents Mitchell had scattered.
She neatly placed them back into the shattered briefcase. She walked over and stood above Mitchell. He looked up at her from the mud, his face smeared with dirt, rain, and sheer terror. "Director!" Mitchell choked out, spitting dirty water from his lips.
"You You said you were an auditor. I am the director of the special audits division," Naomi said softly, crouching down so she was at eye level with the corrupt cop. "And I have a confession to make, Todd. I wasn't on my way to Albany to present this to a grand jury tomorrow.
That was a lie." Mitchell stared at her uncomprehending. "The grand jury already indicted Sheriff Pendleton 3 days ago under seal," Naomi continued, her voice perfectly even. "Attorney General Merrick Garland signed the arrest warrants this morning. We already have everything we need to bury Pendleton, the syndicate, and every dirty deputy in this county." What we didn't have was a legal way to seize the physical cash tonight.
Naomi stood up, looking down the dark, empty highway. Pendleton is incredibly paranoid. He keeps his assets perfectly hidden. We knew the syndicate was moving $50 million in liquid cash out of the county tonight to be laundered.
But Pendleton uses a closedcircuit encrypted dispatch system. To tap it and find the exact location of the cash, we would need a title Title III wiretap warrant, which takes days to secure. We didn't have days. We had hours.
Mitchell's eyes widened as the devastating realization began to set in. So Naomi said, looking back down at him with a predatory gleam in her eye, I needed exigent circumstances. I needed a sudden violent felony committed against a federal officer to trigger the Patriot Act's emergency surveillance provisions that would give my tactical team immediate warrantless access to every encrypted police radio and burner phone in a 50-mi radius. You," Mitchell gasped, his heart dropping into his stomach.
"You baited me. I checked your psychological profile, Todd. I knew if a black woman in a luxury car drove past your speed trap at midnight, your ego and your greed wouldn't let her pass." "And I knew if you saw a locked briefcase, you'd try to take it," Naomi said smoothly. By putting a gun to my chest, you didn't just end your career.
You handed the FBI the legal skeleton key to raid your boss's entire empire without a judge's signature. Agent Caldwell stepped forward, holding up Mitchell's encrypted county radio and a cheap black burner phone he had just pulled from the cop's utility belt. Caldwell plugged a decryption cable from the phone directly into a ruggedized military laptop strapped to his chest rig. "We're in, director," Caldwell said, watching lines of code race across his screen.
"Patriot Act bypass successful. We are reading Sheriff Pendleton's live text threads. He's at the old Miller meat packing plant on Route 9. He's with Richard Dawson, the syndicate lieutenant.
They are loading the cash into refrigerated trucks right now. They leave in 20 minutes. Perfect, Naomi said. She turned to the agents holding rookie officer Bradley, who was still weeping in the mud.
"Stand the kid up." Two agents hauled Bradley to his feet. Naomi walked over to him. The young officer squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the worst. Officer Bradley.
I read your file, too, Naomi said, her tone softening just a fraction. I know Pendleton forced you into this patrol rotation. I know you haven't taken a dime of cartel money yet. You tried to deescalate tonight.
That's going to save your life. But right now, I need you to do exactly as I say. Bradley nodded frantically. Anything, ma'am.
Anything you want. Get on your radio. Call dispatch. Tell them you pulled over a drunk driver.
It got messy. And you and Mitchell are going to be tied up doing paperwork at the county hospital for the next 2 hours. Naomi ordered. If Pendleton thinks his perimeter guard is down, he'll panic and rush the loading process.
People make mistakes when they rush. Bradley reached for his shoulder mic with a trembling zip tied hand. He pressed the button. Dispatch, this is unit 4.
We got a 1055 on Interstate 87. Suspect is combative. Mitchell took a hit to the jaw. We are transporting to County General for evaluation and processing. be off the air for a bit.
Copy that, unit 4, the dispatcher replied blindly. Naomi smiled. Good boy, she turned to Agent Caldwell. Load Mitchell into the back of my Volvo.