He had operated under the assumption that he was untouchable. Now staring at the highest ranking law enforcement officer in the nation Briggs felt his entire world shrinking to the size of a jail cell. I I don't understand. Briggs stammered, his thick fingers trembling so violently that they tapped against the leather of his duty belt. He took another step backward, his boots kicking up a small cloud of red dust.
Director, you're uh you're driving a civilian vehicle. This is entrapment. You can't just Entrapment implies I coerced you into committing a crime you were not already predisposed to commit, Thomas. Director Fletcher interrupted, his voice smooth, cultured, and laced with absolute authority. I did not force you to pull me over without probable cause.
I didn't force you to threaten to pull me through my window. And I certainly didn't force you to falsely claim you smelled narcotics as a pretext for an illegal search. You did all of that entirely on your own. It is muscle memory for you at this point, isn't it? Before Briggs could formulate a defense, Special Agent Frank Sullivan vaulted out of the back of the SUV.
He was followed immediately by the two other heavily armed tactical agents. They moved with terrifying, synchronized precision. In seconds, they had Briggs flanked. Sheriff Thomas Briggs, keep your hands exactly where they are, Sullivan ordered. His hand resting firmly on his holstered weapon.
Do not move an inch. Do not even twitch. Briggs's eyes darted wildly, the panic finally breaching the dam of his arrogance. He looked past the federal agents, his desperate gaze finding his young partner, Deputy Kyle Harrison. Harrison was still standing by the passenger side of the cruiser, his taser lowered, his expression unreadable.
Kyle! Briggs barked, his voice cracking, shedding any semblance of command. Kyle, call dispatch. Get every unit out here. We have a situation on Route 2 9.
These guys are they're impersonating federal agents. Call it in. Harrison did not move toward his radio. He did not reach for his gun. Instead, the young deputy slowly reached into his shirt pocket.
He pulled out a small black object, a digital audio transmitter, and deliberately unclipped it from his uniform. Dispatch isn't going to answer, Sheriff. Harrison said. His voice, usually timid and deferential, was now calm, steady, and entirely foreign. Briggs stared at the transmitter in Harrison's hand, his mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.
Kyle, what are you doing? What is that? Harrison reached up and peeled the Faulkner County Sheriff's patch off his shoulder, letting it flutter to the dusty asphalt. My name isn't Kyle Harrison. It's Special Agent Kyle Reed, FBI Undercover Operations Division.