He had just killed his camera.
"County, ignore the prompt," Mitchell lied smoothly into the radio, his voice eerily calm now that he had committed to the cover-up. "It's a spoofed plate. These sovereign citizens use cloned VINs and hacked databases to throw off local systems. I’m going to conduct a probable cause search of the vehicle for narcotics and illegal firearms."
"Copy that, Mitchell. Do you need backup?"
"Negative. I have the scene under control."
He dropped the radio mic.
"You just made the biggest mistake of your life," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet cabin, loud enough to penetrate the plexiglass partition.
Mitchell stiffened, looking at me through the rearview mirror. "I told you to shut your mouth."
"You turned off your body camera," I continued, leaning forward against the heavy wire mesh. "You think you're isolating the scene. You think you can plant something, or rough up my car, or erase the dashcam footage to make your lie stick. But you don't understand what you're standing next to."
Mitchell turned around in his seat, glaring at me through the cage. "I'm standing next to a felony impersonator going to state prison."
"Look at the roof of the Charger, Mitchell," I commanded, projecting my voice with the exact tone I used during tactical briefings. "Right behind the satellite fin. There is a secondary, low-profile optical lens. The Charger’s dash array isn't just a local hard drive. It is a rolling command post with 360-degree, high-definition recording. It is currently streaming directly to a secure server in Washington via a dedicated uplink. It watched you assault me. It watched you crush my earpiece. And it just logged the exact second you manually terminated your body camera recording."
Mitchell swallowed hard, his eyes flicking to the roof of my car.
"They are tracking my biometric vitals," I told him, the clock in my head hitting the three-minute mark. "They are tracking the vehicle's telemetry. They know the car has stopped on the primary route, and they know I haven't transmitted the all-clear code. You have exactly three minutes before the Counter Assault Team descends on this highway."
"You're lying," Mitchell breathed, but the absolute certainty in his voice was gone. It was entirely replaced by fear.
"If the motorcade reaches the county line without my signal, they will assume I am dead or taken hostage," I explained carefully, trying to keep him from doing something completely irrational. "They will automatically trigger a tactical abort. Three heavily armored Suburbans will lock down this road. Dozens of federal agents with automatic weapons will secure the perimeter. When they find you standing here with your camera off, holding a gun near a compromised agent, they are not going to ask for your badge number, Mitchell. They are going to treat you as a lethal threat to the President of the United States."
"Shut up!" Mitchell roared, slamming his fist against the plexiglass partition. The plastic rattled violently.
He threw the cruiser door open and stormed out into the cold air. He was moving on pure adrenaline and panic now. He marched directly toward the Charger, determined to rip the car apart and find something—anything—that proved I was a fraud. He needed narcotics. He needed a stolen weapon. He needed a lifeline.
I twisted in the backseat, fighting the searing pain in my shoulders, craning my neck to watch him through the side window.
Mitchell reached the driver's side of the Dodge. He grabbed the handle and yanked the heavy, reinforced door open. He leaned inside, his hands frantically tearing at the center console, pulling out charging cables and secure logbooks. Then, his eyes landed on the dashboard.
He saw the black leather credential case. The one I had told him about before he dragged me out.
Mitchell picked it up. He opened it.
Even from thirty feet away, I could see the moment the remaining fight drained out of his body. His shoulders slumped. He stared at the solid gold star, the biometric security chip embedded in the thick plastic, and the raised federal seal that no local impersonator could ever replicate.