He stared at the badge, then looked up at Adrien, then back at the badge. His brain clouded by prejudice and adrenaline, refused to compute the information. "This," Miller stammered, his voice cracking. "This is fake. It has to be fake."
Adrien slowly turned his head as far as Jenkins forearm would allow, locking eyes with the young officer. "Officer Miller." Adrien said softly, the quiet intensity of his voice carrying more danger than a scream. "If you think that badge is fake, I invite you to call the field office in Chicago. The number is on the back of the ID.
But before you do, you should know that my biometrics are linked to that firearm you just unholstered." "The moment it was removed from my person without my thumbprint on the retention mechanism, a silent distress signal was sent to the local field office. You have about three minutes before this bank is swarming with federal agents. Now take these cuffs off me." Officer Jenkins froze.
The heavy oppressive weight he had been applying to the back of Adrien's neck instantly vanished. He took a stumbling step backward, his eyes wide and locked onto the gold star glinting in the harsh fluorescent light of the bank. The silence in the Heritage Trust lobby was absolute, broken only by the ragged breathing of Officer Miller, who was still holding the Secret Service credentials as if they were a live grenade. "Take the cuffs off," Adrien repeated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. He didn't yell.
He didn't need to. The sheer gravity of his command sent a physical shudder through both local cops. "I... I..." Miller stuttered, fumbling for his cuff keys.
His hands were shaking so violently he dropped the small silver key onto the marble floor. It landed with a sharp clink. "Miller, what are you doing?" Caleb Caldwell hissed from his safe distance near the teller counter, oblivious to the reality of the situation. "Get him out of here.
He's obviously lying." Adrien slowly stood up straight, turning to face Caldwell, while Miller scrambled on the floor for the key. "Mr. Caldwell," Adrien said, his eyes drilling into the branch manager. "You are about to have the worst Tuesday of your adult life." Before Caldwell could fire back an arrogant retort, the front glass windows of the bank vibrated violently.
The deep guttural roar of high-performance engines shattered the quiet of the Oakbrook suburb. Through the large plate glass windows, Caldwell, Patricia, and the stunned customers watched as three black Chevrolet Suburbans jumped the curb, coming to a screeching, aggressive halt directly in front of the bank's main entrance. They weren't local police cruisers. They had no light bars on the roof, just flashing red and blue strobes embedded in the grills. The doors flew open in perfect terrifying synchronization.
Heavily armed men and women wearing dark tactical vests with USSS and POLICE emblazoned in bright yellow lettering poured out. They moved with the terrifying lethal precision of operators who guarded the highest office in the land. "Federal agents! Nobody move!" A voice boomed as the heavy bank doors were thrown open.