He looked precisely as my father had described him: thick-necked, barrel-chested, in his late fifties, wearing an expensive tailored linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, hairy forearms. His silver hair was combed back with pomade, and his small, deep-set eyes carried the unblinking, heavy confidence of a man who had owned judges, sheriffs, and tax assessors for thirty years.
"Wade," Vance said, his voice a slow, gravelly Georgia baritone. He didn't look at me; he looked at the cruiser's dashboard camera remote hanging from Kessler's belt. "The in-car camera off?"
"Cut the feed two miles back, Commissioner," Kessler said, pushing me forward so hard my thighs struck the edge of the folding table. "System logged a hard drive error. Nobody's seeing a frame."
Vance finally lifted his gaze to mine. He picked up a crystal tumbler from the table, swirled two fingers of amber whiskey, and took a measured sip.
"You have your father’s chin, Simone," Vance said quietly. "Marcus was always an arrogant son of a bitch. Carried himself like he was still a staff sergeant in the First Cavalry, even when he was knee-deep in hog manure trying to pay off the bank."
"Commissioner Vance," I said. My voice was level, calm, completely devoid of the panic he was waiting to see. "You're orchestrating an aggravated kidnapping and evidence fabrication under color of law. Every minute you continue this, you're compounding your liability under Title 18."
Kessler let out a short, wet bark of laughter from behind me. "Told you, Hoyt. Thinks she's a high-priced federal lawyer. Still hasn't figured out she's sitting in a hole she ain't climbing out of."
Vance didn't laugh. His eyes narrowed slightly, sweeping over my posture, taking note of my breathing, which remained slow and rhythmic despite the humidity and the cuffs. He set the glass down with a soft, deliberate tap.
"I know what you do in Washington, Simone," Vance said.
A flicker of cold calculation went through me, but I didn't let a muscle in my face twitch.
"You're listed as an administrative analyst with the Department of Agriculture’s Foreign Agricultural Service," Vance continued, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a folded slip of yellow legal paper. "Office on Independence Avenue. Six-figure salary. Good benefits. But a friend of mine on the Senate Appropriations Committee—a man who helps direct state infrastructure block grants—did a little quiet digging when we saw Marcus transfer his secondary land deed to you last winter. He couldn't find your tax records. They're sealed behind an executive intelligence firewall."
Vance leaned forward, resting both palms flat on the green leather folio.
"You work for the spooks," he whispered. "Maybe you're an analyst. Maybe you're a desk jockey who shuffles field reports from embassies. But you made a mistake coming down here, thinking a badge from northern Virginia means a damn thing in the river bottom of Telfair County. Out here, the law is what we decide it is."
"If you know who I work for, Vance," I said, looking directly into his cold eyes, "then you know you crossed a tripwire the moment your deputy forced me off Route 17. The Agency doesn't lose track of its directors."
"Director?" Kessler scoffed, stepping closer. "Listen to this lying—"
"Shut up, Wade," Vance snapped, not taking his eyes off me. He tapped the green folio. "Inside this folder is a quitclaim deed. It transfers Marcus Hartwell’s seventy-two acres along the Ocmulgee to the Altamaha Logistics Authority for a fair-market valuation of two hundred and ten thousand dollars. That’s three thousand an acre. More than that swamp dirt has ever produced in its history."
"The state corridor project is slated to build a multi-modal freight terminal on that bend," I said. "The land was independently appraised last month at four point two million."
"Not when it's tied up in a federal drug forfeiture proceeding," Vance countered smoothly. "Wade has two kilograms of uncut cocaine sitting on the front seat of his cruiser. Found in the lockbox of an F-150 registered to Marcus Hartwell, driven by his daughter. That triggers immediate seizure under Georgia Code Section 16-13-49. The county takes title to the vehicle and the real property associated with the criminal enterprise. The land goes to public auction. My development group buys it for pennies on the dollar."
He opened the folio, uncapped a gold Montblanc pen, and pushed it across the table toward my bound hands.
"Or," Vance said softly, "your father signs this deed tonight. You sign as the secondary title holder. The two kilos of powder disappear into an incinerator in the back of the maintenance shed. Wade writes a ticket for a broken tail light, you put Marcus in your rental car, and you take him back to Washington. You never set foot in this state again."
"And if he doesn't sign?"
Vance’s expression hardened into granite. "Wade's cousin, Bobby, is sitting in an unmarked service van three hundred yards down the lane from your daddy’s farmhouse right now. Bobby’s got a jug of farm-grade kerosene and a scoped deer rifle. If my phone doesn't ring with an all-clear code by eleven-thirty, your daddy’s house burns to the foundation with the old man locked inside. Then Wade drives you to the state line, leaves you in the trunk of an impounded vehicle, and we let the GBI figure out why a D.C. bureaucrat got caught in a cartel turf dispute."
He checked his gold wristwatch. It was 11:08 PM.
Twenty-two minutes.
"Sign the document, Simone," Vance urged, his voice dropping into a patronizing hum. "Save the old man's life. You know how the game is played. You take the loss, you live to fight another day."
Before I could answer, the silence of the room was punctured by a shrill, rhythmic warble.
It wasn't a standard police frequency. It was the high-priority encrypted alert tone of Kessler’s state-issued Motorola radio sitting on the shoulder strap of his tactical vest.
Kessler frowned, his hand dropping to the radio. "What the hell? Dispatch was told to keep the net clear."
He keyed the mic. "Kessler. Go ahead."
A frantic voice crackled through the small speaker, distorted by static and distance. It was the night-shift dispatcher from the McRae barracks, her voice high and tight.
"Unit Four, be advised—we just had a direct terminal override from the Georgia Information Sharing and Analysis Center in Atlanta. State Patrol Headquarters just received an urgent federal request from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Savannah Field Office. They are inquiring about an active officer check on Georgia registration Whiskey-Tango-Seven-Niner-Four."
My father’s pickup truck.
Kessler’s eyes widened. He shot a frantic, questioning look at Vance. "Say again, Dispatch? Who’s asking?"