“This is good,” Miller said, shaking his head. “I mean, this is really good. Where’d you get this printed? The swap meet in Dallas?”
Marcus didn’t blink. “Call your dispatcher. Have them run my full name and date of birth through the NCIC federal database. They will verify who I am.”
“Oh, I don’t need to call dispatch,” Miller said, stepping closer to Marcus, holding the ID card up to the sun. “I’ve been a cop for twenty years. I know a fake when I see one. You really think the Director of Homeland Security drives a piece of crap rusted truck in the middle of nowhere without an escort?”
“Sometimes,” Marcus said softly, “the Director just wants to be left alone.”
“Bullshit,” Miller spat. “You’re a fraud. And now, you’re going to jail for a very, very long time.”
Davis stepped forward, his voice trembling slightly. “Miller, maybe we should just run the name? It literally takes two seconds.”
“I said back off, Davis!” Miller roared. He turned back to Marcus, holding the ID card by its corner. “You know what we do with fake federal IDs to keep them off the streets?”
Miller reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver Zippo lighter. He flipped the top open with his thumb.
“Deputy,” Marcus said, his voice dropping an octave. “Think very carefully about what you are about to do.”
“I’m doing my job,” Miller said.
He struck the flint. The flame erupted.
And right there, on the side of a scorching Texas highway, Deputy Miller held the flame to the edge of a Level 8 Federal Identification Card. The plastic blistered. The holographic seal melted into black sludge.
Marcus didn't scream. He didn't lunge. He simply watched the man destroy government property.
As the ID card warped into an unrecognizable piece of melted plastic, Marcus slowly brought his left hand up to his chest, crossing his arms. In doing so, his right thumb naturally rested against the heavy titanium face of his watch.
It wasn't an Apple Watch. It wasn't a Rolex. It was a custom-built piece of hardware issued to exactly twelve people in the United States government.
Marcus pressed and held the tiny, unmarked side button for exactly three seconds.
A silent, invisible encrypted signal shot up to a satellite orbiting in the upper atmosphere.
Miller dropped the smoldering plastic onto the asphalt and crushed it beneath his boot. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
“You are making a catastrophic mistake,” Marcus said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he slowly turned around and placed his hands flat against the scorching metal of his truck’s tailgate.
Miller grabbed Marcus’s wrists roughly, yanking his arms back and snapping heavy steel handcuffs into place. He tightened them down hard, making sure the metal dug into Marcus’s skin.
“The only mistake I made was not pulling you out of this junk heap sooner,” Miller snarled, shoving Marcus slightly against the truck.
Davis, the rookie, was fully hyperventilating now. He had retreated to the patrol car and pulled out the vehicle’s radio microphone.
“Dispatch, this is Unit 4-Bravo. I need a 10-27 and a 10-29 on a Marcus Vance. V-A-N-C-E.”
Static hissed through the radio. Then, the dispatcher’s voice cracked through the speaker, sounding confused. “4-Bravo, say again? The system just froze.”
Davis swallowed hard. “System froze? Try it again. Marcus Vance.”
Silence. Ten seconds passed. Then twenty.
Suddenly, the radio erupted. It wasn't the dispatcher’s voice. It was a computerized, automated tone, followed by a harsh, synthesized voice repeating a single phrase on a loop:
“CODE BLACK. SECURE CHANNEL. CODE BLACK. SECURE CHANNEL.”
Davis stared at the radio in absolute horror. He looked up at Miller, who was busy patting down Marcus’s pockets.
“Uh, Miller?” Davis called out, his voice cracking. “Something is wrong with the radio.”
“It’s just a dead zone, Davis! Get off the radio and come help me search the cab!” Miller yelled back.
But Davis couldn't move. His eyes were glued to the patrol car’s mounted laptop. The screen, which usually displayed a simple blue-and-white dispatch interface, had suddenly turned entirely red. A massive warning box flashed in the center of the screen:
ACCESS DENIED. TERMINAL LOCKDOWN INITIATED BY U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE.
“Miller…” Davis whimpered, backing away from the cruiser. “The… the computer just locked us out. It says Department of Defense.”
Miller finally stopped. He looked at Davis, then looked at the laptop screen glowing red inside the dark cruiser. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of doubt crossed the arrogant deputy’s face. But his ego was too massive to let it take hold.
He marched over to the cruiser, shoved Davis aside, and stared at the screen.
“It’s a glitch,” Miller muttered, slamming his fist down on the keyboard. “Stupid county IT department.”
Marcus turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the two deputies. The handcuffs were tight, but he felt absolutely no pain.
“It’s not a glitch, Deputy,” Marcus said quietly.