Because, Nia said, pointing to a tiny, almost invisible pinhole in the passenger side A-pillar, the interior cameras have night vision overlay, and you just pulled a bag of narcotics out of your own uniform pocket on a live feed. The plastic bag slipped from Kesler's trembling fingers, landing softly on the damp gravel. The small plastic baggie of cocaine sat on the damp, oilstained gravel of Interstate 84 like a live grenade. Sergeant David Kesler stared at it, the color draining entirely from his weathered face. For 20 years, that little bag had been his ultimate insurance policy.
The drop gear that justified illegal searches, secured falsified arrests, and protected his pension when a hunch turned up empty. Now, illuminated by the flashing red and blue strobes of his own cruiser. It was the physical evidence of his total destruction. "Pick it up, Sergeant," Nia said, her voice eerily calm, cutting through the chilling Oregon wind. "Or leave it.
It doesn't matter. The high-definition macro lens in the A-pillar just logged the serial number printed on the edge of that Ziploc. Officer Brendan Hayes, the youngest of the three, suddenly staggered backward until his shoulder hit the side of the destroyed McLaren. He was hyperventilating, his hands frantically gripping the fabric of his ballistic vest. "Sarge!"
He gasped, his voice pitching into a panicked whine. "Sarge, tell me she's bluffing. Tell me this isn't broadcasting. Shut up. Hayes.
Officer Thomas Riker barked, but Riker's own voice trembled. He dropped the heavy metal pry bar he had used to rip apart the car's $15,000 dashboard. It hit the pavement with a hollow clatter that echoed into the treeine. Kesler didn't move. His brain, usually so adept at twisting the law into knots, had flatlined.
He looked at the tiny green LED pulsing steadily on the black telemetry box embedded in the supercar's firewall. Pulse, pulse, pulse. Every flash was another megabyte of incontrovertible federal evidence streaming to a server he couldn't reach, couldn't smash, and couldn't burn. Inside the cabin of the ruined car, Nia's iPhone, buried somewhere under the shredded Alcantara floormats, began to ring loudly through the Bluetooth system that was miraculously still connected to the surviving speakers. Nia didn't ask for permission.
She stepped past the frozen officers, reached into the passenger side, and fished her phone from the debris. The caller ID displayed on the cracked center console screen read, "Harrison Mitchell, Esq., Seattle." She answered the call and put it on speaker near, "Are you unharmed?" A sharp authoritative voice boomed through the McLaren's premium Bowers and Wilkins sound system. Harrison Mitchell wasn't just a corporate attorney.
He was a former federal prosecutor who now commanded one of the most ruthless white-collar law firms on the West Coast. I'm physically fine, Harrison, Nia replied, her eyes locked onto Kesler. But the vehicle is a total loss. And I believe Sergeant Kesler just attempted to plant a Schedule II narcotic in the cabin. I saw it, Mitchell's voice crackled, vibrating with lethal intent.