He didn't wait for a traffic infraction. He just threw the gearshift into drive. The gravel crunched loudly as his cruiser lurched onto the pavement. "Dispatch, this is unit four alpha," Bryce mumbled into his radio, not bothering to swallow his mouthful of ice. "I'm pursuing a suspicious vehicle, Black Range Rover heading north on Main.
Possible drug trafficking suspicion." The dispatcher, old Mrs. Higgins, crackled back. She didn't ask for probable cause. In Pine Creek, Bryce's gut was probable cause. Bryce flipped the lights, no siren, just the silent strobe light threat of authority.
He sped up, riding the bumper of the Range Rover, aggressively trying to spook them. "Run," he thought. "Give me a reason." The Range Rover didn't run. It didn't swerve.
The driver signaled right calmly, methodically, and pulled over onto the dusty shoulder near the old Baptist Church. Bryce smirked. "Gotcha." He checked his dashcam. It was on, but Bryce knew the tricks.
He angled his cruiser slightly so the camera would catch the suspect's door, but the audio could be temperamental if he needed it to be. He unbuckled his seatbelt and adjusted his belt. He rested his hand on the grip of his Glock 17, not drawing it, just letting it know he was there. He walked up to the passenger side window. He preferred the passenger side; it threw people off, made them turn their backs to him.
He rapped his knuckles hard on the glass. Bang! Bang! Bang! The window slid down silently.
Inside, the air conditioning was blasting. The interior smelled like new leather and nothing else. The woman in the passenger seat turned to look at him. She was striking, sharp features, hair pulled back in a tight, professional bun, wearing a navy blue blazer. She looked at him over the rim of her sunglasses.
Her eyes weren't fearful, they were annoyed. "Is there a problem, officer?" she asked. Her voice was crisp, articulate, no accent. Bryce hated that tone. It sounded like education.
It sounded like she thought she was better than him. "License and registration," Bryce barked, ignoring her question. He leaned in, letting his sweaty face invade their cool sanctuary. He looked past her to the driver. The driver was a mountain of a man.
He wore a fitted gray t-shirt that showed off arms the size of tree trunks. He, too, was calm, unnervingly calm. "I asked you a question, ma'am," Bryce said, his voice dropping an octave. "Do you know why I pulled you over?" "We were doing 35," the driver said.
His voice was deep, a bass rumble. "Signal was on. Plates are valid." "I pulled you over because you have an obstructed view," Bryce lied. It was his go-to.
"That air freshener hanging from the mirror." There was no air freshener. The driver glanced at the rearview mirror, then back at Bryce. "There's nothing on the mirror, officer." "Don't get smart with me, boy," Bryce snapped.
The slur slipped out easily, a casual flex of power. "I said license and registration, now." The woman sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. "Kendrick, just give it to him. Let's get this over with."