Rayburn hesitated, reaching down to pick up the brass cutting torch from the shelf of the rolling cart. He struck the flint striker against the tip. A brilliant orange flame sputtered into the air, whistling loudly as he opened the oxygen valve, drawing the flame down into an intense, razor-sharp needle of pale blue fire.
"Step away from the vehicle, Rayburn," I called out, my voice cutting through the hiss of the flame with the flat, mechanical certainty of an iron gate swinging shut.
Miller spun around, his hand instinctively dropping to the snap of his holster. Rayburn froze, holding the hissing torch three feet above the carbon-fiber decklid, his eyes going wide behind his protective safety goggles.
I walked through the wide threshold of the bay door into the full glare of the overhead floodlights. My Sig Sauer was drawn and held in a relaxed, two-handed low-ready position, aligned directly on the center of Miller’s chest. The gold shield pinned to my canvas coat caught the harsh halogen beam, the deep blue enameled lettering reflecting cleanly across the concrete: Federal Bureau of Investigation — United States Department of Justice.
Miller blinked against the glare, his jaw tightening until the muscle along his cheek twitched. "Brooks? How the hell did you get out of my cell?"
"Your substation locks are standard commercial mortise cylinders, Sheriff," I said, stepping five paces into the bay, positioning myself so both men remained clearly within my field of view. "You left the evidence room unlocked, your dispatch ledger open on the desk, and your signed twelve-hundred-dollar destruction kickback lying beside the terminal."
Miller let out a short, forced laugh, though his fingers stayed hooked against his leather belt, trembling slightly. "You think you’re smart, girl? You just broke out of a county detention facility. You stole an authorized sheriff’s department vehicle to come out here onto private property. That makes you an armed fugitive resisting arrest. Whatever little badge you flashed back on Route 14 doesn't mean a damn thing out here in the woods."
"Take a very close look at the badge, Miller," I replied, my voice dropping an octave, perfectly steady. "I am Special Agent Maya Brooks with the Jackson Field Office, Public Corruption and Organized Crime Division. My encrypted federal phone is currently transmitting an open audio stream to the regional dispatch desk at the Department of Justice. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Vance has the digital scan of your fraudulent ledger, your forged vehicle impound order, and the cash voucher countersigned by your hand. You aren't processing an abandoned vehicle. You are currently engaged in the criminal destruction of federal evidentiary property and interstate transport of stolen goods under color of authority."
Rayburn stared at the gold shield, then looked down at the hissing flame in his right hand. The grease on his leather apron shone under the lights. His shoulders sagged. Slowly, deliberately, he turned the brass thumb-wheel on the torch. The blue needle of fire sputtered, choked, and died with a sharp, hollow pop. He set the brass torch onto the steel cart, pulled off his heavy leather gloves, and raised both empty hands above his shoulders.
"Sheriff," Rayburn muttered, his voice dry and strained, "I told you I wasn't getting mixed up in no federal jurisdiction. You told me this was a seized drug runner with no title."
"Shut your mouth, Harlan!" Miller snapped, his face turning an ugly, mottled crimson. He took a half-step toward me, his hand tightening on the grip of his service weapon. "You're in my county, Agent Brooks. Nobody saw you get brought into that station, and nobody saw you leave. You think three squads from Meridian can make it down Old Sawmill Road before I put two rounds into an escaped prisoner and write the incident report myself?"
"Try it," I said, bringing the Sig Sauer up into a full, locked shooting stance, the tritium front sight resting directly over the gold star on his chest. "Draw that weapon, Miller. Make the choice. But know this: every word you just spoke about writing that incident report was recorded in real time on a federal server four miles outside your jurisdiction. The Mississippi Highway Patrol entered Old Sawmill Road two minutes ago. If you pull that gun, you don't get a trial, you don't get a pension, and you don't walk out of this bay."
As if summoned by the words, the low, wailing scream of heavy pursuit sirens broke through the southern pines, rising from the direction of the highway. Down the gravel access road, the flashing reflection of blue and red emergency strobes painted the dripping tree branches in rhythmic pulses of crimson and cobalt.