Seated in the back of the SUV, surrounded by the glowing electronics, were three men. They were not wearing suits. They were wearing heavy olive drab tactical armor, Kevlar vests, helmets, and drop-leg holsters. Across the chest of each tactical vest, bold yellow letters spelled out a single, terrifying acronym. FBI. The man sitting in the center, a rugged, imposing agent named Frank Sullivan, slowly pulled off his headset.
He looked down the pale, wide-eyed sheriff with a look of absolute disgust. Sullivan reached beside him and picked up a thick, bound manila folder. He held it out toward the stunned sheriff. "Sheriff Thomas Briggs." Sullivan said, his voice hard as iron.
"I'm Special Agent Frank Sullivan, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Public Corruption Unit." Briggs staggered backward, his boots crunching loudly on the gravel. His jaw opened, but no sound came out. The swagger, the arrogance, the absolute power he had wielded just 3 minutes ago evaporated into the stifling summer air, replaced by a cold, suffocating terror. He turned his head slowly, looking back at the man in the navy suit.
Aaron Fletcher was still standing, perfectly still, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. "Who? What is this?" Briggs stammered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched wheeze. His hand fell away from his gun, his knees suddenly feeling like they were made of wet sand.
Aaron Fletcher walked slowly toward the back of the vehicle, his polished leather shoes crunching methodically against the rocks. He stopped beside the open tailgate, looking down at the trembling sheriff. "You asked for my license and registration, Sheriff." "Briggs." Aaron said, reaching into his inner breast pocket once more.
This time, he didn't pull out a leather wallet. He pulled out a flat, heavy credential case. He flipped it open, revealing a gleaming gold badge and a federal identification card. "Allow me to properly introduce myself." The man said, his voice ringing with absolute, undeniable authority.
"My name is Aaron Fletcher. I am the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and you Sheriff are the target of a three year federal probe into extortion, civil rights violations and racketeering. Briggs felt the world tilt on its axis. The oppressive heat of the afternoon suddenly felt like a freezer. He looked at the glowing screens broadcasting his own illegal threats.
He looked at the heavily armed federal agents sitting in the trunk and he looked into the unforgiving eyes of the most powerful law enforcement officer in the United States. You took the bait Thomas, Director Fletcher whispered stepping forward until he was inches from the Sheriff's face. And now your county belongs to me. The silence that descended upon Route 9 was absolute, deafening and heavier than the sweltering Georgia humidity. The only sound was the low rhythmic thrum of the idling Chevrolet Suburban and the erratic shallow wheezing escaping Sheriff Thomas Briggs's throat.
Director Aaron Fletcher did not blink. He stood with the immaculate poise of a man who had orchestrated this exact moment down to the millisecond. His gold FBI badge caught the harsh afternoon sun casting a blinding reflection that seemed to burn directly into Briggs's retinas. For 15 years Briggs had been the apex predator of Faulkner County. He had broken men in interrogation rooms, stolen life savings on the side of the highway and laughed in the face of local judges who were too terrified or too bought off to stop him.