The steel hook of Rayburn’s flatbed clanged against the Chiron’s forged aluminum subframe, sending a sharp vibration through the composite floor. Sergeant Miller stood three feet away on the gravel shoulder, thumbs hooked into his vest where the yellow envelope containing my credentials remained concealed. He did not look at the car anymore, watching the dark corridor of Route 9 for oncoming headlights.
"You’re going to sit in Vance’s cruiser until we clear this lane," Miller said, his tone flat. "Touch a handle, you get charged with interfering. Step toward the asphalt, you get charged with resisting. Keep your hands on your head."
"You know what was inside that envelope, Sergeant," I said, holding my ground on the stone. "That badge carries a registered Department of Justice serial number. My squad in Charlotte tracks my transit log. When dispatch misses my check-in, my supervisor pulls my coordinates."
Miller did not turn. "Cell reception doesn't bridge this gap, Miss Cross. The road commission gives us authority to remove uninsured hazards blocking passage. Rayburn has an open towing contract. When an out-of-state driver runs off and leaves untagged machinery in the lane, the county takes custody of the salvage."
"I never entered the ditch until you forced me out at gunpoint," I replied. "And the title is on the front seat."
Miller turned slightly, his gaze cold in the high beams. "Right now, you're an undocumented pedestrian loitering on a county shoulder without verified state identification. Vance, cage her."
Deputy Tyler Vance stepped forward, boots dragging across the gravel. His knuckles hovered near his duty belt, trembling against the keepers. When his eyes met mine, his gaze dropped. He had seen the Department of Justice seal, and he knew the statutes governing the suppression of federal property. Yet when Miller cleared his throat, Vance gripped my arm and steered me toward the patrol car.
"Tyler," I whispered, pitching my voice low over the idling cruiser. "Look at my wrist."
His eyes flicked down. Above my cuff sat the titanium casing of my Bureau chronometer, cycling a rolling code every fifteen seconds. "That unit handshakes with our regional server every ten minutes. If Miller books me under a fake name, your unit number is already stamped on the state queue."
Vance’s jaw twitched. He did not answer, but his fingers loosened before he shoved me inside and slammed the door. The reinforced latch dropped home with a heavy thud.
From inside the partition cage, the world narrowed to scratched polycarbonate. Rayburn wrapped a heavy chain around the Chiron’s front suspension wishbone. When the hydraulic winch engaged, the composite splitter snapped with the crack of a rifle shot, tearing from the carbon-fiber tub. Two hundred thousand dollars of aerodynamic trim dragged across the stones, leaving an oily furrow in the weeds.
Miller leaned against the flatbed, signing a three-part carbon paper pad. Through the mesh, I read the header: Form 14-B, Blackwood County Expedited Forfeiture. Under state statute, an impounded vehicle required a forty-eight-hour inventory hold before any salvage claim could be filed. A Form 14-B bypassed that by designating the vehicle an abandoned road hazard, granting the operator authority to scrap the chassis within twenty-four hours.
They were not impounding the car for a hearing. They were taking it to Rayburn’s yard to torch the stamped chassis numbers before sunrise.
Five minutes later, Vance climbed into the front seat. He did not touch the radio mic. He gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, his breath hitching as he shifted into gear and pulled away from the shoulder.
"Where is Miller hauling my vehicle, Vance?" I asked.
"Stay quiet back there," Vance said, staring rigidly into the darkness. "Sergeant’s following us to the substation. We’re doing the processing by the book."
"He didn't run my civilian license on your mobile terminal," I said, pointing toward the rugged laptop mounted beside his console. Its screen stayed frozen on a blank map. "Because the moment you enter my name into CJIS, the system alerts the Charlotte field office. He knows that. Do you know what happens to the secondary officer on a kidnapping indictment?"
Vance’s knuckles turned chalk-white against the wheel, but he remained silent as we descended Route 9, turning past shuttered barns into the gated municipal compound behind the Blackwood County annex.
The substation was a cinderblock bunker behind chain-link wire. Vance escorted me through the side entrance into a windowless processing room lit by humming tubes. Behind the booking counter sat Pete, an elderly records clerk in a faded county windbreaker. Miller entered thirty seconds later, the yellow manila envelope still clamped under his arm.
"Book her as an unidentified female," Miller instructed Pete, tossing my civilian driver's license into a plastic tray. "Route 9 obstruction and failure to comply."
Pete adjusted his spectacles, squinting at his monitor. "Sergeant, highway patrol’s regional gateway just kicked back an alert on Route 9. High-value transit transponder flagged an unscheduled impact."
"Clear the ticket," Miller said without hesitation. "Rayburn called it in as highway scrap. Log it as an equipment fault."