They pulled the floor mats out and threw them onto the wet gravel. They opened the glove box, scattering manuals and service records. When the initial sweep yielded nothing but a pack of gum and a charging cable, Kesler's patience evaporated. He marched over to his Tahoe and popped the rear hatch. When he returned, he wasn't holding a flashlight.
He was holding a steel pry bar and a set of heavy-duty mechanic screwdrivers. Nia's heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced herself to remain seated. "Sergeant," she called out, her voice dangerously calm. If you take tools to that car, you are going to be liable for hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages. I strongly advise you to stop.
Kesler ignored her. He walked to the passenger side door. Couriers use aftermarket voids, he grunted to Riker. Behind the door panels under the center console, start popping the trim. Nia watched in surreal horror as Riker jammed the flathead screwdriver into the seam of the bespoke leather door panel.
With a sickening crack, the fragile carbon fiber clips snapped. Riker wrenched the panel backward, tearing the delicate wiring of the ambient lighting system. He tossed the ruined panel onto the shoulder. They moved like vandals disguised in badges. Hayes, looking visibly nervous, but unwilling to stop his superiors, began ripping up the custom Alcantara carpeting in the footwells.
Kesler took the pry bar to the center console, applying violent leverage until the sleek digital infotainment screen spiderwebbed with cracks and the housing ripped free from the dashboard, exposing a tangled nest of copper wires. Nothing in the dash, Sarge Riker panted, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold air. They had been tearing through the vehicle for 45 minutes, checking compartments, pulling panels, and ripping apart anything that might conceal contraband. The interior of the McLaren, once a masterpiece of automotive art, now looked like it had been through a shredder. Leather panels hung loose, wires spilled from beneath the dashboard, and expensive trim had been torn away and tossed across the seats and floor.
Kesler stood beside the wreckage, his face flushed with frustration and adrenaline. He was in too deep now. He had personally authorized the destruction of a vehicle worth more than his house. And there was no easy way to explain it if the search came up empty. If they didn't find contraband, the internal affairs fallout would be catastrophic.
He needed to find something. He had to find something. Check the frunk, Kesler barked, pointing to the front trunk. Pull the liner out. Tap the chassis.
Listen for hollow spots. They hide the cash in vacuum-sealed lead boxes to beat the dogs, tear it all out. Riker popped the front hood. He threw Nia's overnight bag onto the ground, unzipping it and scattering her clothes across the dirt. Then he grabbed the edges of the carpeted trunk liner and pulled with all his strength.