"Like I told Perry, the driver wasn't on scene," Calloway replied smoothly. I could hear his heavy boots shifting on the loose stone outside. "Window was cracked, hazards dead, no manifest on the dash. Likely an illegal runner who abandoned a dead axle and took off into the scrub toward the river. My deputy took the inventory."
"Then where is the vehicle, Sheriff?" Agent Carter asked. "Because our regional telemetry shows the carrier’s primary satellite receiver went dark at mile marker eighty-eight, but the backup cellular transponder buried in the refrigeration unit just pinged off the cellular tower behind your substation three minutes ago."
Silence hung outside the metal door, thick and sharp.
Calloway didn't answer right away. When he spoke again, the relaxed drawl had vanished, replaced by the tight, hard rasp he had used when he shoved me against my own door. "That transponder is malfunctioning, Agent. You boys are wasting state gasoline. Now unless you have an administrative warrant signed by Superior Court Judge Arrington, you are trespassing on Mercer County operational property. Step back to your vehicles."
They were going to let him stonewall them. State troopers were bound by procedural courtesies, and county sheriffs in rural jurisdictions had spent two centuries hiding behind local court seals to run off state auditors. If Carter and Ellis got back in their cruisers to phone the district attorney in Waycross, Calloway would wait for nightfall, transfer me to an unlisted holding tank in the neighboring county, and leave Miller’s brother to torch my van into unrecognizable scrap iron.
I stood up from the iron bench. I stepped over to the heavy steel door, placed my mouth against the narrow wire-glass observation slit, and filled my lungs from the diaphragm.
"State Courier Route 449! Driver Maya Vance, Commercial License 0-9-8-2-4!" I shouted, putting the full force of my voice against the glass so the sound rang off the painted cinder blocks like a hammer on an anvil. "Vehicle identification number ending in four-four-zero-two! Diagnostic reagent crates serial numbers D-H-H-S Seven-Seven-One and Seven-Seven-Two! They are in the trunk of Unit One!"
The corridor erupted in immediate movement.
"Calloway, stand clear of that entryway!" Trooper Ellis shouted, his voice cracking like a whip across the concrete.
"Don't you order me in my own house, boy!" Calloway roared back.
Footsteps pounded across the booking floor, heavy boots striking tile in rapid succession. Keys rattled violently against the exterior lock of cell three. The brass cylinder turned once, jammed, then yielded under a frantic, shaking hand.
The steel door swung outward, squealing against its hinges.
Deputy Miller stood in the open doorway, his uniform tie askew, his face chalk-white, and his right hand clutching the heavy brass key ring. Behind him in the narrow corridor stood Senior Trooper Ellis in his immaculate blue and gray uniform, service weapon snapped down in its retention holster but his hand resting firmly above the grip. Beside Ellis stood a woman in plain clothes wearing a state windbreaker, an electronic handheld tablet clutched against her side.
"Miss Vance?" Agent Carter asked, stepping past Miller into the dim holding bay. Her eyes took in my torn canvas pocket, the dark bruise forming along my right jaw where Calloway had forced my head down against the squad car, and the deep red gouges left on my wrists by the ratcheted cuffs. "Are you the contracted driver for Regional Logistics Route 449?"
"I am," I said, stepping across the threshold onto the hallway floor. My knees ached from the concrete, but I stood straight, keeping my voice level and deliberate. "I departed the Perry distribution depot at zero-nine-thirty hours under sealed state order. At eleven-thirty-eight, Sheriff Calloway pulled me over at mile marker eighty-eight on Route 14. He claimed my right rear marker light was cracked. When I asked for the citation and refused to surrender access to the cargo hold without a signed chain-of-custody transfer, he handcuffed me, shoved me into the cruiser, and called dispatch to report an abandoned vehicle."
"That is an unverified statement from an unregistered trespasser!" Calloway shouted from the end of the hall. He stood framed in the sally-port doorway, his wide shoulders blocking the sunlight, his thumb hooked into the edge of his duty belt. "She was wandering the shoulder without identification. She became combative when approached."
"Is that why my driver’s license is sitting next to your terminal keyboard, Sheriff?" I asked, pointing directly toward the open booking room door. "My commercial wallet is on the laminate counter. Deputy Miller looked at it before you ordered him to log me as Jane Doe under municipal code twelve."
Agent Carter looked sharply at Deputy Miller. The young deputy stared down at the floor, his shoulders trembling inside his stiff tan shirt.