Miller spun around, pointing a finger at him. “Shut your mouth! You hacked our system. That’s another federal charge!”
Marcus actually smiled. A cold, hollow smile that didn't reach his eyes.
“I didn't hack anything,” Marcus said. “But when an active, Level-One priority target is illegally detained, the system automatically shuts down local law enforcement access to prevent a security leak. Your dispatcher is currently locked out of her own building.”
Miller stared at him, the heavy heat suddenly feeling a lot colder.
“You have exactly four minutes,” Marcus said, looking at his watch.
“Four minutes until what?” Miller demanded.
Marcus looked up at the empty sky. “Until you realize you aren't the biggest predator on this highway.”
“Stop playing mind games with me!” Miller yelled, marching back toward Marcus. His hand was resting on the grip of his service weapon now. He was sweating profusely, and it wasn't just from the Texas sun.
Davis was pacing back and forth near the ditch, holding his cell phone in the air.
“No signal,” Davis panicked, staring at his screen. “Miller, I have zero bars. I had full 5G two minutes ago. Nothing is working. We’re totally jammed.”
Miller pulled out his own phone. He stared at the screen. No Service.
He looked at Marcus. The older man was just standing there, leaning casually against the tailgate of the rusty truck, completely unbothered by the handcuffs or the screaming deputy.
“What did you do?” Miller demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“I told you,” Marcus replied calmly. “I just want to go home. You’re the one who wanted to make this official.”
Suddenly, a low, rhythmic vibration started in the ground.
Davis stopped pacing. He looked down at the gravel shoulder. The tiny pebbles were actually shaking.
“Do you hear that?” Davis asked, looking around wildly.
Miller frowned. The sound was distant at first, like a low rumble of thunder, but the sky was completely clear. It was a deep, guttural thrumming that seemed to be vibrating right up through the soles of their boots.
Then came the shadow.
A massive, dark shape swept over the highway, blocking out the sun for a split second. Miller whipped his head up just in time to see a military-grade surveillance drone—matte black, completely silent—streak overhead at an impossibly low altitude before banking sharply into the clouds.
“What the hell was that?” Miller gasped.
“Target acquisition,” Marcus said matter-of-factly.
Miller lunged forward, grabbing Marcus by the collar of his faded gray T-shirt. “Who are you?! Tell me who you really are right now!”
“You already burned my ID, Deputy,” Marcus whispered. “But don’t worry. My friends are bringing me a new one.”
The low rumble turned into a deafening roar.
Down the highway, about a mile out, the heat mirage began to distort violently. Out of the shimmering waves of hot air, a pair of headlights appeared. Then four. Then eight.
A line of massive, completely blacked-out Chevrolet Suburbans was tearing down the highway, driving side-by-side, taking up both lanes of the interstate. They were moving at over a hundred miles an hour, closing the distance terrifyingly fast.
Behind the SUVs were two massive, armored BearCat tactical vehicles.
And above them, dropping out of the clouds with a deafening chop of rotor blades, was a black, unmarked UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter.
Davis dropped to his knees in the dirt. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Miller froze. His hands went numb. He slowly released Marcus’s collar and stumbled backward.
“Three minutes,” Marcus said softly. “They made good time.”
The convoy didn't just pull over. They executed a perfectly synchronized tactical blockade.
Two SUVs skidded to a violently sharp halt diagonally across the northbound lanes, completely sealing the highway. Two more whipped around the patrol car, boxing it in from the rear. The armored BearCats roared up onto the gravel shoulder, kicking up massive clouds of blinding dust.
The Black Hawk helicopter hovered just fifty feet above the highway, its rotors whipping the blazing Texas air into a suffocating hurricane of dirt and gravel.
Before the vehicles had even completely stopped rolling, the doors flew open.
Over thirty heavily armed men and women poured out. They were dressed in full tactical gear—matte green plate carriers, ballistic helmets, and suppressed assault rifles. But they wore no police badges. No county sheriffs stars. Just a single, stark white patch on their shoulders: DHS - SPECIAL RESPONSE TEAM.
“HANDS IN THE AIR! DROP TO THE GROUND! NOW!” a voice roared through a megaphone, cutting through the chaos.
Miller was paralyzed. He stood frozen next to Marcus’s rusty truck, his hands hovering uselessly near his waist.
Click.