Miller looked at the approaching dust clouds. A desperate, wild look entered his eyes. He realized he was out of time. If he could just get the Sheriff on his side—if he could explain it away, say the old man was resisting, say it was a setup—maybe he could survive this. The Sheriff liked him. The Sheriff always protected his own.
Miller squared his shoulders, shoving the watch deep into his pants pocket to hide it, and took a deep breath, preparing his final lie.
Chapter 3: The End of the Line
The wail of the sirens grew deafening as two county cruisers tore down the highway, their lightbars flashing aggressively against the bright afternoon sun. They skidded to a halt in the gravel on either side of Miller’s vehicle, kicking up a massive cloud of dust that choked the air.
Before the dust even settled, the doors of the lead cruiser flew open.
Sheriff Thomas stepped out. He was a large, imposing man in his late fifties, wearing a crisp tan uniform and a wide-brimmed Stetson hat. His hand rested naturally on his gun belt as he scanned the scene. Two other deputies emerged from the second car, looking tense and ready for a fight.
Miller immediately jogged forward to meet the Sheriff, his face twisted into an expression of frustrated authority. He pointed back over his shoulder at Arthur.
“Sheriff, thank God,” Miller said loudly, ensuring the other deputies could hear him. “We’ve got a sovereign citizen here. Mentally unstable. He used some kind of illegal jammer to block our radio frequency, and he’s been making threats against me and Davis. He’s claiming to be a federal agent. Complete lunatic.”
Sheriff Thomas frowned deeply, his eyes narrowing as he looked past Miller, peering through the settling dust at the old man leaning against the Mustang.
“He resisted arrest, Sheriff,” Miller continued rapidly, trying to fill the silence. “I was about to put him on the ground, but he reached into his jacket. I think he might have a weapon. I need authorization to draw down and secure him.”
Sheriff Thomas didn't look at Miller. He didn't acknowledge the request.
As the dust finally cleared, the Sheriff’s eyes locked onto Arthur’s face.
The color instantly drained from the Sheriff’s weathered cheeks. He stopped walking. His hand fell away from his gun belt.
“Sheriff?” Miller asked, stepping closer, confused by his boss’s sudden paralysis. “Should we move in?”
Sheriff Thomas reached up and slowly took off his Stetson hat, holding it against his chest. He completely ignored Miller, walking right past the corrupt deputy, his boots crunching heavily in the gravel until he stopped five feet away from Arthur.
“Director Vance,” the Sheriff said, his voice tight, respectful, and deeply nervous. “I… I had no idea you were in my county, sir.”
Miller felt the earth drop out from beneath his feet. The ringing in his ears drowned out the sound of the cicadas.
He had hoped the old man was bluffing. He had prayed the badge was a fake, that the name was just a scare tactic. But seeing the Sheriff—a man who bowed to no one—standing with his hat in his hands, shattered Miller’s final delusion.