Naomi felt the damp grass soaking through her dress. Her sun hat had been knocked askew, hanging precariously off the back of her head. She heard Mercer towering above her, breathing heavily, barking the order to place her right hand behind her back. The indignity of the position burned through her like acid. But the Attorney General of the Commonwealth of Franklin understood the grim, practical reality of law enforcement far better than the officer currently assaulting her. She knew that once physical control had been initiated by an officer whose adrenaline was spiking, arguing with your hands was vastly more dangerous than arguing with your words. A sudden movement could be lethal. She went limp, willingly bringing her right arm behind the small of her back. She felt the cold, hard steel of a handcuff bite into her left wrist, followed by the sharp, mechanical click of the ratchets tightening against her skin.
Reese was staring at his terminal. The loading bar had finally disappeared. The screen populated with a cascade of data. His eyes scanned the text. He stopped breathing. He froze completely, his thumb hovering over the scroll button.
"Grant," Reese said. His voice was entirely drained of blood.
Mercer was still gripping Naomi’s right arm, preparing to lock the second cuff. "What?" he snapped, not looking back.
"We have a match."
"Good," Mercer sneered, shoving Naomi’s shoulder slightly. "Finally."
Reese stared at the glowing screen. The photograph attached to the driver's license was staring back at him. It was a perfect match for the woman kneeling in the wet grass. But it wasn't just the photo. It was the address. And the occupation listed in the secure state database.
"No, Grant," Reese whispered, stepping closer, his face completely pale. "I mean... we have a match."
Mercer finally paused, hearing the sheer terror in his partner's voice. He turned his head. "What are you talking about?"
Reese lowered his voice so much it was barely a breath, but in the sudden quiet of the yard, it carried perfectly. "This address... this house. It’s registered to Naomi Brooks. She’s the owner."
Mercer’s eyes widened slightly. The gears in his head ground to a halt. He looked down slowly, his gaze traveling from his heavy black boots to the pale green dress soaked with water, to the steel cuff locked tightly around the woman's left wrist. He looked toward the woman kneeling in the dirt in front of him.
Naomi Brooks said absolutely nothing. She did not gloat. She did not scream. She remained on her knees, her back straight, her chin lifted, staring at the grass in front of her. The silence radiating from her was more terrifying than any threat she could have screamed.
Jennings, standing nervously to the side, swallowed hard. "Anything else on the file, Danny?"
Reese scrolled down the screen. The text was highlighted in red, a flag reserved only for high-level government officials, judges, and protected targets. His expression changed from panic to absolute horror. He looked at Jennings, then at Mercer.
"Yes," Reese squeaked out.
"What?" Mercer demanded, his voice suddenly sounding thin.
Before Reese could read the red text aloud, a deep, mechanical roar vibrated through the asphalt. It wasn't the sound of a passing sedan. It was the synchronized, heavy rumble of high-performance engines. Everyone on the lawn turned their heads toward the end of the street.
Turning the corner in perfect, tight formation, moving much faster than the neighborhood speed limit allowed, were three massive, jet-black Chevrolet Suburbans. Their grilles were aggressive, their windows tinted to an impenetrable black. Hidden strobe lights flashed subtly in their windshields, parting the suburban stillness like a knife.
Naomi closed her eyes for half a second. She took a slow breath of the damp air.
Mercer watched the convoy accelerate toward them. The heavy vehicles looked like apex predators invading a petting zoo. "What the hell is this?" Mercer muttered, his grip on Naomi’s arm loosening in his confusion.
Naomi shifted slightly against the pressure, turning her head just enough to look Mercer directly in his eyes. Her voice was ice-cold and perfectly steady.
"That would be the people I told you were coming."
The three black SUVs did not slow down to parallel park. They accelerated violently toward the brick house before braking so sharply that the scent of burned rubber filled the air. They angled into the curb, effectively boxing in the two police cruisers. Before the heavy vehicles had even fully settled on their suspensions, the doors blew open almost simultaneously. The men and women who stepped out onto the asphalt did not wear standard police uniforms. They wore impeccably tailored dark suits, earpieces curled behind their ears, and their suit jackets fell open just enough to reveal the heavy, matte-black firearms secured at their hips. They moved with a terrifying, synchronized efficiency.
The first person out of the lead vehicle was a tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped hair and eyes that constantly scanned for threats. He took three long strides toward the lawn. Then, he stopped dead. His eyes locked onto the scene unfolding in the grass. He saw the wet dress. He saw the dirt on the knees. He saw the local police officer standing over the woman, holding her arm, a steel cuff glinting in the afternoon sun.
The man's face contorted from professional vigilance into absolute, cold fury.
"Attorney General Brooks!"
The title echoed off the brick facades of the mansions. It hit the ears of the neighbors standing on their porches holding their phones. It hit Officer Reese, who physically recoiled as if he had been struck. And it hit Officer Grant Mercer.
Mercer’s hand instantly released Naomi’s right wrist as if her skin had suddenly caught fire. He took a stumbling step backward.
Everyone on the lawn went completely, suffocatingly still.