The few customers in the lobby watched in stunned silence. Some pulled out their phones, hitting record. Spread your legs," Miller ordered, kicking the inside of Adrien's ankle hard enough to bruise. Adrien complied, staring straight ahead at the bank manager, Caldwell, who looked incredibly smug. "Enjoy the moment, Caleb," Adrien thought coldly.
"It's going to be your last day in finance." Miller began a rapid, aggressive pat down of Adrien's clothing. He ran his hands down Adrien's sides, checking his pockets. "You got any needles on you? Any weapons?"
Miller asked rhetorically. Then Miller's hand brushed against the right hip of Adrien's sweatpants underneath the oversized hoodie. He felt the hard, unmistakable shape of a specialized holster. Miller jumped back as if he had been burned. His hand flying to his own weapon, unholstering it in a flash.
"Gun! He's got a gun!" Jenkins, hold him. Chaos erupted. Two bank customers screamed.
Patricia ducked behind her teller station. Jenkins shoved Adrien violently face first against the marble wall, pressing his forearm into the back of Adrien's neck. "Don't move. Do not move!" Jenkins roared, his previous calm vanishing into sheer panic.
Adrien's face was pressed against the cold stone, but his voice remained perfectly steady, cutting through the hysteria like a knife. "It is a Sig Sauer P3200. It is holstered. My hands are cuffed behind my back. I am not a threat."
Miller, breathing heavily, reached under the hoodie and yanked the firearm from Adrien's waist. He stepped back, holding the weapon up. "Got it! Suspect is disarmed." "Listen to me very carefully," Adrien said, his tone no longer polite, shifting into the commanding cadence of a man who gave orders to tactical assault teams.
"In the inside left breast pocket of my hoodie, there is a black leather case. Officer Jenkins, I want you to reach in and pull it out. Do it now." "You don't give the orders here, scammer," Jenkins spat, pressing harder into Adrien's neck. "You're going away for a long time.
Armed robbery, fraud." "I didn't ask for money. I asked for a cashier's check from my own account," Adrien corrected him sharply. "And if you don't look in that pocket in the next ten seconds, the next people coming through those doors are going to be a federal response team." The utter lack of fear in Adrien's voice finally made Jenkins pause.
The suspect wasn't shaking. He wasn't crying. He wasn't acting erratic. He was talking to them like they were subordinates who had just failed an inspection. Jenkins glanced at Miller.
"Check his pocket." Miller holstered his own weapon, approached cautiously, and reached into the left pocket of Adrien's Georgetown hoodie. His fingers closed around a heavy leather wallet. He pulled it out. "Open it," Adrien commanded.
Miller flipped the leather case open. Inside, stamped into the heavy brass, was the unmistakable gold star of the United States Secret Service set above a federal photo identification card that bore Adrien's face. Below his name was his title, Supervisory Special Agent, Presidential Protective Division. Miller froze. All the color instantly drained from his face.