Sir, he just stepped out of his vehicle to conduct a search. He might not have his shoulder mic turned up. Do you want me to listen to me very carefully? Pendleton interrupted, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. You will patch me through to Mercer's vehicle PA system.
You will then dispatch every available local unit to that gas station, and you will tell them to stand down upon arrival. Before the dispatcher could process the bizarre request, Pendleton turned to his own room. Jenkins, where are my closest state troopers? We have two highway patrol cruisers on Interstate 80, approximately 6 miles away from the gas station. Troop 9 and troop 14.
Send them, Pendleton ordered. Code three lights and sirens. Tell them the VIP package is currently detained by local law enforcement. They are to secure the scene and extract. If the local officer attempts to move his vehicle, they are authorized to box him in.
Nobody moves until I get there. Prep the helicopter. Back at the gas station, the rain continued to pound against the roof of the Dodge Charger. David sat in the back, his shoulders aching from the awkward tight bind of the handcuffs. Through the rain streaked window of the partition, he watched Mercer rummage through the front seat of his explorer.
The officer was carelessly tossing David's personal items, a notebook, some loose change, a charging cable onto the floorboards. Mercer was growing frustrated. He hadn't found any drugs. He hadn't found a weapon. There was no contraband to justify his aggressive escalation.
Realizing he had nothing but a weak obstruction charge, Mercer slammed the passenger door of the Explorer and marched back to his cruiser, wiping the rain from his face. He climbed into the driver's seat, muttering a string of curses. He looked at the leather wallet sitting on his passenger seat. Snatching it up, Mercer flipped it open. His eyes scanned the gold embossed seal of the state first.
It was large, official, and not something typically found on a standard driver's license. Mercer blinked, water dripping from his eyelashes, blurring his vision. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, and looked closer. There was a thick, rigid identification card inside. At the top, printed in bold, undeniable navy blue lettering, were the words, "Ecutive branch, state capital. " Beneath that, a highresolution photograph of the man currently sitting handcuffed in the back of his car.
Beneath the photograph, the name David Caldwell, and finally beneath the name, the title that made officer Thomas Mercer's heart stop completely in his chest. Governor Mercer stared at the card. The world around him seemed to lose all sound. The drumming of the rain faded. The idling hum of the engine vanished.
He was suspended in a vacuum of pure unadulterated terror. He slowly turned his head to look through the metal grate. David was looking right back at him. The governor's eyes were calm, devoid of panic, but filled with a cold, terrifying promise of absolute accountability. I told you to look at the wallet, officer," David said softly, his voice carrying perfectly through the small gaps in the partition.