Nia continued, "Each word deliberate. They're equipped with omnidirectional audio receptors, so they captured more than just video. Every conversation, every threat, every order you've given since you stopped me was recorded." She paused, letting the silence stretch. "And it doesn't store the data locally," she added.
"Which means destroying this box won't erase anything." Hayes swallowed hard, his hands beginning to shake. "Where does it store it?" Nia offered a smile that didn't reach her eyes. The moment Officer Riker's cruiser activated its light bar, the system woke up.
It has been live streaming encrypted 4K video, multidirectional audio, and biometric telemetry directly to a secure Amazon Web Services server managed by my corporate legal team. It operates on an independent satellite uplink. Silence descended on the highway. Even the wind seemed to stop. Every word you've said, Nia continued, stepping closer.
Every lie you told about smelling marijuana, every swing of that pry bar, every piece of carbon fiber you snapped. It has all been broadcast in real time in high definition. You can't unplug it. You can't smash it. And my lead attorney, who woke up the moment the damage sensors triggered an alert on his phone 45 minutes ago, has been watching this entire illegal search from his living room in Seattle.
Kesler's face cycled through shades of red, purple, and finally an ashen white. He looked at the shattered interior of the $300,000 car. He looked at the pry bar in Riker's hand. He realized with a sudden crushing weight that he hadn't just violated department policy. He had committed a dozen federal civil rights violations on a live unerasable broadcast.
Panic is a dangerous thing in desperate men. Kesler's veteran instincts, the dark, corrupt ones that had saved his skin for 20 years, took over. If the car was a total loss, and the camera caught them tearing it apart, he needed a trump card. He needed justification. Kesler reached slowly into the deep cargo pocket of his tactical pants.
His fingers closed around a small, heavy plastic baggie he always kept for emergencies. Drop gear. A few ounces of confiscated cocaine that had never made it to the evidence locker. That's a very nice story, Miss Caldwell, Kesler said, his voice dropping to a lethal, quiet rasp as he subtly pulled his hand from his pocket, keeping his back angled away from the front of the car. But a camera only records what it sees and what it's going to see.
He moved quickly, stepping toward the passenger door, intending to toss the baggie into the ripped up floorboards where they could discover it. "Is that a bag of cocaine in your right hand?" And Sergeant Kesler? Nia asked loudly, her voice projecting clearly into the crisp night air. Kesler froze midstride, his arm hovering over the open door.