And I haven't been calling dispatch for the last 6 months, Thomas. I've been calling Director Fletcher. The revelation struck Briggs like a physical blow to the chest. His knees buckled slightly, and he had to lean against the hot metal of his own cruiser to stay upright. The rookie he had taken under his wing, the kid he had been teaching how to skim cash off the top of drug busts, how to falsify police reports, how to intimidate witnesses.
It had all been a lie. Every conversation in the cruiser, every illegal order he had given, every boast about his untouchable empire had been transmitted directly to Washington. You wore a wire, Briggs whispered, his face draining of all color, leaving his skin a sickly mottled gray. For 6 months you sat in my car. 1,400 hours of recorded audio to be exact, Agent Reed replied, stepping forward to join his federal colleagues.
We have the dashcam footage of you stealing $40,000 from that landscaping crew from Florida last month. We have the audio of you threatening Mayor Hughes. We have the bank routing for the offshore shell companies you set up in the Caymans. We have everything, Briggs. Director Fletcher stepped closer, invading Briggs's personal space just as the corrupt sheriff had done to him mere minutes ago.
But Fletcher didn't need to shout to project power. For 3 years, your department has been a black hole for constitutional rights, Fletcher said. His dark eyes locking onto Briggs's terrified gaze. You turned a badge into a license to steal. You targeted minorities, out-of-state plates, and the working class.
You thought because you were a big fish in a small pond, the ocean wouldn't eventually swallow you. I I can make a deal, Briggs pleaded, his voice dropping to a pathetic, desperate whisper. The bravado was entirely gone. He was sweating profusely, the dark stains spreading under the arms of his tan uniform shirt. Director listen to me.
There are higher-ups, state politicians, judges. I can give you names. I can give you the whole network. Just just don't do this here. Not on the side of the road.
Fletcher's expression remained carved from stone. We already have the network, Thomas. Thanks to you, and thanks to Agent Reed. We don't need your cooperation. We only need your surrender.
Fletcher nodded to Agent Sullivan. Sullivan stepped forward and forcefully grabbed Briggs's right wrist, twisting it behind the sheriff's back. Briggs let out a sharp gasp of pain, but he didn't resist. He couldn't. His spirit had been entirely broken.
Sullivan deftly unclipped Briggs's Glock 17 from his duty belt and tossed it to one of the tactical agents. The heavy metallic click-clack of federal handcuffs ratcheting tightly around Briggs's wrists echoed across the desolate highway. "Thomas Briggs," Sullivan recited loudly, the Miranda warning sounding like a death knell in the humid air. "You are under arrest for violations of Title 18, United States Code, Section 1962, the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, as well as multiple counts of extortion, wire fraud, civil rights violations, and conspiracy." As the cuffs locked, Briggs hung his head, his chin resting on his chest, staring at the dust on his boots.