“Special operations?”
Julian said nothing.
Harlan read farther.
“Bronze Star.”
Another line.
“Purple Heart.”
He looked up.
“You expect me to believe this?”
Julian turned slightly.
“I expect you to verify it if you have a lawful reason.”
Harlan stepped closer.
“My father served in Vietnam.”
Julian waited.
“He knew actual soldiers.”
“I’m sure he did.”
Harlan held up the discharge record.
“You don’t look like one.”
The words landed harder than the original “boy.”
Evan heard them too.
His eyes dropped.
Julian turned fully.
“What does one look like?”
Harlan ignored the question and lifted the contractor documents.
“These fake too?”
“They aren’t fake.”
“Playing government agent?”
“No.”
“Stolen valor?”
“No.”
Julian nodded toward Harlan’s radio and phone.
“You can verify my service through ordinary channels.”
Harlan crumpled the corner of one document.
“I don’t need you telling me how to investigate.”
Julian looked toward Evan.
“Deputy, what’s your name?”
The young man hesitated.
“Evan Mercer.”
“Deputy Mercer, if your sheriff believes those records are fraudulent, the responsible thing is to preserve them and verify them.”
Evan looked toward Harlan.
“Sheriff, maybe we could call—”
“Cuff him.”
Evan froze.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“For what?”
Julian almost respected the question.
Harlan did not.
“Fraud. Obstruction. Failure to comply.”
Julian spoke calmly.
“I complied with every physical order you gave me.”
Harlan ignored him.
“Do your job, Evan.”
The deputy pulled out his handcuffs.
Julian placed his hands behind his back.
Evan checked the spacing carefully and made sure the cuffs were not excessively tight.
At least one person on that road was still thinking.
Harlan shoved the leather portfolio beneath his arm.
Julian looked toward him.
“I object to the seizure of those papers, and I want that preserved on the body-camera record.”
Harlan laughed.
“You think you’re in court?”
“No.”
Julian looked at Evan’s chest.
“I know his camera is running.”
Evan’s expression changed.
Harlan looked at the camera too.
Then he smiled.
“Camera doesn’t scare me.”
Julian nodded.
“It shouldn’t.”
That answer seemed to irritate Harlan more than a threat would have.
Julian was placed in the back of the cruiser.
Evan drove Julian’s truck to the sheriff’s office while Harlan transported the prisoner.
No immediate tow inventory.
No careful property documentation.
No urgent verification.
Just a fifteen-minute ride through rural Georgia while Julian watched pine trees slide past the rear window.
“Am I under arrest?” Julian asked.
Harlan stared at the road.
“You’re detained.”
“For what?”
“Document fraud.”
“How long?”
“As long as I need.”
Julian stopped talking.
The Larkin County Sheriff’s Office was a tired one-story building sitting behind a faded sign and an American flag barely moving in the heat. Nothing about it looked sinister. That was something Julian had learned years earlier—some of the worst decisions happened in ordinary rooms under fluorescent lights.
An older dispatcher named Betty Lawson looked up as Harlan walked him inside.
“Who’ve you got?”
“Fraud suspect.”
Julian said, “Julian Carter.”