Briggs threw the Charger into drive and stomped on the accelerator. The Cruiser's tires squealed against the hot asphalt, throwing up a cloud of white dust as he pulled out onto the highway, closing the distance between him and the black Suburban. Inside the Cruiser, the siren wailed to life, a piercing shriek that shattered the afternoon silence, accompanied by the blinding flash of red and blue light bars. Briggs rode the bumper of the SUV, an aggressive intimidation tactic he had perfected over the years. Most drivers panicked, swerved, or slammed on their brakes, giving him legitimate probable cause for a reckless driving charge.
But the driver of the Suburban did none of those things. The SUV's brake lights illuminated smoothly. The vehicle signaled right, decelerated with perfect control, and pulled over onto the wide gravel shoulder, coming to a gentle, precise stop. Briggs scoffed, slapping the steering wheel. "Thinks he's smart.
Let's go, Kyle. Hand on your weapon. We don't know what kind of cartel trash is hiding behind that tint." The dust settled around the two vehicles. Briggs stepped out of the Cruiser, adjusting his duty belt to ensure the heavy handle of his Glock 17 was prominently displayed.
He walked with a deliberate, rolling swagger, the walk of a man who owned the ground he stepped on. Deputy Harrison trailed a few paces behind, hand nervously resting on his holster, covering the passenger side of the SUV. As Briggs approached the driver's side of the Suburban, he tapped the tail light with his flashlight, a standard procedure leaving a fingerprint in case things went south. But Briggs did it hard enough to risk cracking the plastic, a subtle establishment of dominance. He stopped at the driver's window.
Through the heavy tint, he could barely make out the silhouette of the driver. "Roll it down." Briggs barked, rapping his knuckles sharply against the reinforced glass. "All the way down. Now."
With a soft electric hum, the heavy glass descended. The blast of icy, climate-controlled air that hit Briggs's face was a stark contrast to the oppressive Georgia heat. But what truly gave the sheriff a moment of pause was the man sitting behind the wheel. He was a black man in his late 50s, dressed impeccably in a crisp, dark, navy suit with a subtle, expensive silk tie. His posture was perfectly straight, his hands resting at the 10 and 2 positions on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.
He didn't look angry. He didn't look terrified. He looked entirely, unsettlingly serene. His eyes, dark and sharp as cut flint, met Briggs's gaze without a flicker of intimidation. "Good afternoon, deputy."
The man said. His voice was deep, resonant, and completely devoid of the nervous tremor Briggs was so accustomed to hearing. "It's sheriff." Briggs corrected sharply, puffing out his chest so his star badge caught the sunlight. "Sheriff Thomas Briggs, and you're a long way from home, boy.
License, registration, and proof of insurance. Hand them over." The man did not flinch at the derogatory term. He simply maintained eye contact. "May I I ask the reason for this traffic stop, Sheriff Briggs?
You were swerving back there, Briggs lied smoothly, a rehearsed script rolling off his tongue. Crossed the center line, plus that window tint is illegal in the state of Georgia. Now, are you going to hand over your documents or am I going to have to drag you out of this vehicle for resisting a lawful order? The man slowly removed his left hand from the wheel, reaching into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Briggs instinctively dropped his hand to his firearm, his thumb popping the retention strap.