His hands were shaking. David lay flat on the cold, dirty lenolium. He allowed Hayes to approach, feeling the heavy, blunt force of the officer's knee slam into the small of his back. The air was driven from David's lungs, but he didn't struggle.
He felt his left arm being yanked violently backward, followed by the cold steel of a handcuff ratcheting down painfully tight around his wrist. The right arm followed. The cuffs pinched deep into his ulna nerve. Dispatch, this is unit 4-Adam.
Hayes barked into his shoulder radio, breathless and high on his own perceived heroism. I need backup and a supervisor at gate K19. I have an armed suspect in custody. Subject is combative and claiming to be federal law enforcement.
Copy 4-Adam. The dispatcher crackled back. Captain Lewis is on route from terminal 2. Keep the scene secure.
Hayes grabbed David by the collar of his hoodie and hauled him roughly to his knees, then to his feet. "Combative," David said quietly, looking down at the shorter officer. "I haven't resisted you once. You're a terrorist or a smuggler for all I know," Hayes sneered, dragging David away from the windows and shoving him down into a hard plastic airport chair in an empty boarding zone. carrying a concealed weapon in a secure terminal.
You're going to federal prison, buddy. David just stared at him, his face a mask of stone. Check the pocket. With a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes for the benefit of the gawking civilians peering over the seats, Hayes finally reached into the left breast pocket of David's hoodie.
He pulled out the black leather wallet. Hayes flipped it open. The gold shield of the Federal Bureau of Investigation gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. Beside it was a pristine holographic government identification card bearing David Coleman's face, his fingerprint and the signature of the FBI director.
For a fraction of a second, the color drained from Mitchell Hayes's face. The reality of what he had just done flickered behind his eyes. But cognitive dissonance is a powerful force, and Hayes's ego refused to process the catastrophe he had just orchestrated. "This is a fake," Hayes said, his voice trembling slightly before hardening into defensive rage.
He tossed the wallet onto the empty seat next to David. "It's a good fake, I'll give you that, but it's a felony. Where'd you buy this? Huh?
The dark web. David let out a slow, measured breath. He glanced past Hayes, looking out the window. The sleek black DOJ Gulfstream was currently taxiing off the main runway, heading directly for the isolated tarmac outside the restricted steel door.
Mitchell," David said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the terrifying weight of absolute certainty. In exactly 3 minutes, that steel door is going to open. The men walking through it are not local cops. They are a highly classified tactical unit, escorting a protected asset under the direct authority of the Department of Justice.
Hayes swallowed hard, glancing nervously at the steel door. "Shut up! You're lying. I am the advance agent for that detail," David continued, his eyes locking onto Hayes with a predatory calm.
"And when they open that door and see me in handcuffs, they aren't going to ask you for your side of the story. They are going to assume the detail is compromised. They will draw their weapons on you and they will not hesitate. Captain Lewis is on his way, Hayes stammered, stepping back, trying to project an authority he was rapidly losing.
You're going downtown. I don't care what kind of story you spin. I don't care about your captain, David said, leaning forward as much as the handcuffs would allow. I care about you not getting shot by my team.
Take the cuffs off. put my badge back in my pocket and walk away. This is your absolute last chance to survive this night with your career and your life intact. Outside the glass, the massive engines of the Gulf Stream began to wind down. A set of heavy mobile stairs was being wheeled up to the aircraft door.
Hayes looked at the plane, then at the gold badge sitting on the plastic chair, and finally at the unwavering icy stare of the black man he had just publicly humiliated. The officer's radio chirped 4-Adam, Captain Lewis is pulling up to the terminal entrance. Be there in 2 minutes, Hayes puffed out his chest, making the worst decision of his life. We'll see what the captain has to say about your little fairy tale, agent.
David leaned back in the plastic chair, the heavy cuffs grinding against his bone. Okay, Mitchell, we'll see. Behind Hayes, the heavy deadbolt on the steel authorized personnelonly door clicked loudly, echoing like a gunshot through the silent terminal. The heavy steel deadbolt of the authorized personnelon door echoed with a definitive metallic clack that seemed to freeze the air in terminal 3.
Officer Mitchell Hayes instinctively reached for his holstered service weapon, his thumb snapping the retention hood down. He turned his body toward the door, adopting a wide, aggressive stance. Chicago Aviation Police, stand down and state your business. he barked, his voice cracking slightly under the strain of his own adrenaline. The door didn't just open.
It was violently swung outward on its reinforced hinges, hitting the rubber wall stop with a deafening crash through the threshold stepped a nightmare for any local beat cop. It wasn't a ramp worker or a lost pilot. It was Commander Jack Harrison of the FBI's hostage rescue team, followed instantly by three massive, heavily armored tactical operators. They moved with the terrifying synchronized fluidity of apex predators.
They were draped in flat dark earth plate carriers, Kevlar helmets outfitted with quad tube nightvision mounts and heavily modified MK18 assault rifles pulled tight into their shoulders. The terminal, previously filled with the quiet murmurss of delayed passengers, plunged into absolute terrified silence. Harrison's eyes, cold and assessing over the top of his ballistic collar, swept the room in a fraction of a second. He processed the terrified civilians cowering behind the seats.