Cole yanked my left arm behind my back, ratcheting the second cuff tight against my wrist bone until my arms were pinned rigid. He shoved me down onto the bolted metal bench, kneeling to search my blazer pockets with rough, mechanical efficiency. He pulled out my car keys, my agency ID card from the floor, and my encrypted government smartphone.
"That phone pings regional headquarters in Detroit every fifteen minutes," I said. "If the handshake drops offline inside a municipal precinct without an authorized terminal sign-out, an administrative breach alert flags regional dispatch."
Cole pulled a silver-lined radio-frequency pouch from his cargo pocket. He slid the phone inside, sealed the heavy Velcro seam with a deliberate drag of his thumb, and tossed it into the canvas transfer sack.
"Signal just dropped," Cole said, his breath sour with mint. "Battery failure on the interstate. Bad towers out near the river basin."
He seized my right oxford, tore open the laces, and yanked it free, tossing it into the sack. Then his hand clamped around my left ankle. The pink routing slip was wedged between the double lining of the boot tongue. If his thumb slid two inches lower, his fingers would strike the folded paper.
"Hold still," he grunted, wrenching my heel upward.
I twisted my foot hard against his grip and let my weight slide sideways against the cinder-block wall, feigning a sudden loss of footing. My shoulder cracked against the masonry. My shoe tore free from his hand, clattering against the linoleum.
"Sit upright!" Cole barked, hauling me back by my collar. Frustrated by the delay, he grabbed the heel of the left boot off the floor, gave it one quick shake, and tossed it into the canvas bag without inspecting the tongue.
Miller picked up the wall-mounted landline. "Bring the yard van to Bay Three," he said. "Secure transfer for the Annex. Non-communicative female. Full isolation protocol."
He hung up, switched off the intake terminal, and slammed the heavy wire security grate shut over the desk. Cole grabbed the chain between my cuffs, hauled me up by the wrists, and shoved me down the short corridor into the holding cell. The heavy steel door boomed shut behind me, the electronic lock engaging with a dull, hydraulic click.
I stood in my stocking feet on the freezing concrete, the stench of damp lye and floor cleaner thick in the air. Through the small wire-mesh window, I watched Miller feed the carbon ribbon from the booking terminal into a cross-cut shredder, black plastic teeth reducing the serial numbers to confetti. Outside in the alley, the low rumble of a heavy diesel transport van vibrated through the floorboards. In my left sock, against my ankle bone, the folded pink slip was intact—the only surviving paper linking Cole, Miller, and my tag to the dead informant's seized money. But if that transport van pulled out of Bay Three before I reached an outside line, the system would erase me just as cleanly as it had erased Clara Mercer.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
"Feet moving," Cole muttered, his knuckles driving hard into my spine right over the hidden slip.
He marched me down the concrete ramp into Bay Three. The vaulted sally port was lit by amber sodium lamps, smelling of sulfur and damp concrete. Parked on the stained floor was an unmarked white transport van with barred rear windows, its exhaust chuffing grey smoke. Beside the driver’s door stood Deputy Ray Garza of the county sheriff's department in green wool trousers, a duty rig, and an active Motorola lapel microphone. Mounted on the windshield, a dual-lens dashboard camera glowed with a steady green recording light.
Miller stood near the rear wall, leaning against my silver rental sedan. The car’s trunk was popped wide open. Sitting on the bumper was my blue ballistic-nylon courier pouch, locked with a brass zipper and sealed with an orange tag: DOJ-AUD-8841. Inside were the triplicate depository receipts, certified federal subpoenas, and the audit log tracing the missing two hundred thousand dollars directly to the fourth precinct’s discretionary account.
Miller held out a yellow transfer sheet to the deputy. "Direct remittitur for the Annex, Ray. Protective isolation under special capias. Inmate is non-verbal and combative. We’re holding her personal effects in the precinct locker; you don't need to inventory the vehicle."
Garza took the sheet, his thumb hooked in his belt. His eyes flicked from Miller’s face down to my bare feet, then lingered on the dark purple bruising where Cole’s cuffs bit into my wrists.