Leading the charge was Special Agent Robert Higgins, a barrel-chested man who had served alongside Adrien for 6 years. Higgins swept the room with an M4 carbine lowered at the low ready position, his tactical gaze instantly locking onto the two local cops and then onto Adrien, who was still in handcuffs. Higgins's face morphed from professional intensity to absolute murderous fury. "Drop the weapon," Higgins roared at Miller, who was still holding Adrien's unholstered Sig Sauer. "Drop it now, or I will put you down," Miller instantly tossed the firearm onto the floor, and throwing his hands so high into the air, he nearly pulled a muscle.
Jenkins pressed himself against the wall, his hands up, his face drained of all blood. Within seconds, four Secret Service agents had swarmed the two local officers, kicking their legs apart, stripping them of their duty belts and forcing them to their knees. Agent Higgins marched directly up to Adrien. He holstered his sidearm and pulled out his own set of keys. Adrien, you good?"
Higgins asked, his voice tight with barely controlled rage as he unlocked the steel cuffs. Adrien rubbed his wrists, his face a mask of calm professionalism. "I'm fine, Bobby. The response time was solid. Three minutes flat from the holster distress signal."
"We were at the Chicago field office processing the Geneva Summit paperwork when the alarm hit the system," Higgins explained, eyeing the two terrified local cops kneeling on the floor. "We thought you were taking fire, Adrien. What the hell is this?" Adrien turned slowly. He pointed a finger first at Officer Jenkins, then at Officer Miller.
"Unlawful detention, aggravated assault, civil rights violations, and illegal seizure of a federal firearm." He then turned his finger towards the glass-walled office, pointing directly at Caleb Caldwell, "And him: filing a false police report and quite possibly wire fraud." Caldwell's smugness completely evaporated. He looked like a man who had just watched his own obituary print out on a ticker tape. Wire fraud.
He squeaked, his voice cracking. I I was just following security protocols. He He looked suspicious. Adrien walked over to his firearm, which an agent had cleared and placed on a side table. He seamlessly reholstered it, sliding the leather badge case back into his hoodie.
He walked slowly toward the teller counter, stopping inches from the glass. Patricia, the teller, was openly sobbing. Suspicious, Adrien repeated, savoring the word. "I am a 20-year veteran of the United States Secret Service. I possess a Top Secret/SCI clearance.
I guard the President of the United States, but I walk into your bank wearing a hoodie to access my own legally deposited funds, and you bypass your own corporate authorization center to call 911." "It was a large amount of money," Caldwell pleaded, stepping backward. "You can't arrest me for making a mistake." "Actually, Mr. Caldwell, the Secret Service doesn't just protect the president," Adrien said. A dangerous knowing smile finally touching his lips.