"Book her under municipal code twelve," Calloway instructed Miller, dropping the severed plastic cargo seal onto the laminate counter. "Pedestrian trespass and obstruction of a public right-of-way. Give her the standard ninety-six-hour administrative hold for failure to produce identification."
Miller stood behind the desk, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Sheriff, her Georgia commercial license is right here in her wallet. Maya Vance. If I fail to run her license through GCIC, the state audit will flag the missing log on Monday."
"She refused identification at roadside," Calloway snapped, leaning across the counter until his shadow swallowed the screen. "That makes her an unidentified transient until court opens Tuesday. You file her as Jane Doe, or you can go work gate security at the packing plant. Understood?"
Miller swallowed hard, his collar tightening against his throat. He looked down at the keys and nodded once. "Yes, sir."
Waiting would destroy me. If Miller entered a false name into the county log, I would sit in an unlisted cell while Miller’s brother torched my father’s truck into unidentifiable scrap.
"Deputy Miller," I said, my voice steady and deliberate in the quiet room.
Miller froze. Calloway whipped around, his jaw clenched. "I told you to keep your mouth shut."
"Look at my left breast pocket, Deputy," I said, leaning forward against the iron ring until the steel cut into my wrist. "My father ran freight thirty years out of Savannah, and his first rule was keeping hard copies where no dispatcher could erase them. There is a sealed manifest slip inside that zipper. Georgia Department of Public Health dispatch order 449. It carries my thumbprint on the custody block, my departure time from the regional hub, and the serial codes for the diagnostic cases sitting in Sheriff Calloway’s trunk."
Miller did not move, but his eyes fixed on the white carbon edge showing above the brass zipper of my pocket.
"You enter me as Jane Doe," I continued, "and you are an accessory to federal cargo theft under Title 18. That freight is paid for with federal emergency health funds. My van carries an auxiliary telematics module hardwired behind the instrument panel. The second Calloway severed that seal, a silent door-breach signal went directly to the state dispatch console in Perry."
Calloway cursed under his breath, stepped across the floor, and tore the manifest from my pocket with a violent jerk, ripping the seam apart. He balled the paper in his fist and shoved it deep into his pocket. "There is no manifest," he growled.
He was too late. Miller had already seen the printed tracking number across the top. On the desk monitor, the state crime information terminal chimed with a harsh electronic tone. A red banner flashed across the screen: GCIC Priority Alert: State Courier Route 449 Interrupted. Route Coordinates Required.
Miller pulled his hands away from the keyboard, his face drained of color. "Sheriff... the state terminal just overrode the local queue. Perry is demanding our location right now."
Calloway’s face turned gray and hard as river stone. Instead of letting go, he drew his ring of keys, unlocked my cuff from the wall, and hauled me toward the iron door leading to the solitary cells. Silence and compliance would not save me, and Calloway had no intention of letting Perry find me in this room.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
Behind us, the hallway door rattled. Deputy Miller pushed through, letting the spring-loaded closer bang against the cinder block. He held a fresh strip of receipt tape ripped straight from the booking terminal printer, the white paper fluttering against his trembling knuckles.
"Sheriff, you can't lock her back here," Miller said, his voice cracking on the hard surfaces. "Perry didn't just broadcast a route check. State logistics initiated an automated distress protocol under the Public Health Critical Asset Act. Georgia State Patrol Post Thirty-One in Valdosta already acknowledged the ping. Troop G has two intercept cruisers running code north on Highway 129 right now."
Calloway did not stop turning the heavy brass deadbolt on cell three. "Valdosta is forty miles out, Miller. They don't have jurisdiction on county property without an active warrant or a direct request from this office."
"They don't need a warrant for scheduled biological transport," I said, leaning my back against the damp concrete beside the cell frame to keep my footing. My right shoulder throbbed where Calloway had jammed me against the cruiser, but I kept my chin up and my eyes pinned to Miller’s pale face. "Those reagent packs are under cold-chain federal tracking. The state contract requires an uninterrupted log. When my ignition died at mile marker eighty-eight, the auxiliary battery took over the cabin refrigeration monitor. If that van gets towed into an unlisted metal building with no commercial shore power, the ambient temperature alert trips an emergency felony larceny signal."