I backed up against the cold steel of the warehouse wall. There was nowhere left to run.
"I didn't play a game, Sheriff," I said, my voice trembling but loud enough for him to hear. "I just refused to let you destroy the truth."
Hollister chuckled, a wet, dismissive sound. He stopped ten feet away from us. "The truth is whatever I write on the incident report, June. You exported a video file onto a USB drive. Miller saw the notification on your computer. That makes you guilty of corporate espionage, tampering with a municipal investigation, and fleeing the scene of a crime. By the time I'm done processing you, that diner will be seized by the county for back taxes, and you'll be looking at five to ten years in a state facility."
He held out a thick, calloused hand, palm up. "Give me the drive. Right now. You hand it over, and I'll consider letting you walk away with a misdemeanor. You refuse, and Miller puts you on the ground, we strip-search you in holding, and we take it anyway."
I felt the hard plastic edge against my ribs. I thought about the bloody towel in the bag in my hand. I thought about David, and how angry he would be if he saw this man standing in front of me, threatening to steal our life's work. I didn't reach for my shirt. I gripped the plastic bag tighter and stared Hollister directly in the eyes.
"No," I said.
Hollister’s amused smirk vanished, replaced by a flat, dead stare. His jaw tightened. "Miller," he barked. "Restrain her. If she resists, use force."
Deputy Miller hesitated, the plastic zip-ties trembling slightly in his grip. He looked at me, then at Walter, who was standing perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the highway behind Hollister's cruiser.
"Sheriff, maybe we just wait for—" Miller started.
"I gave you a direct order, Deputy!" Hollister roared, his hand moving to unclip the retention strap on his holster. "Put her on the ground!"
Miller took a reluctant step toward me, reaching out to grab my shoulder.
The air shifted. It didn't happen with a siren. It happened with a heavy, synchronized rumble that vibrated through the soles of my shoes.
Three massive, matte-black Chevrolet Suburbans, entirely unmarked save for subtle government exempt license plates, swung off the highway in a tight, aggressive formation. They didn't park. They executed a precision tactical block. The first Suburban slammed to a halt directly behind Hollister’s cruiser, completely sealing it in. The second and third vehicles flanked the lot, cutting off every conceivable angle of escape.
Before the dust even had a chance to settle, the doors of the Suburbans opened in unison. Eight men and women wearing dark, tactical body armor stepped out onto the gravel. Emblazoned across their chests and backs in stark white lettering were the words FBI - FEDERAL TASK FORCE. They moved with a terrifying, silent efficiency, fanning out and establishing a perimeter in seconds. None of them drew their weapons, but their hands rested near their tactical belts, radiating an overwhelming, absolute authority that made Hollister’s local tyranny look incredibly small.
Hollister froze, his hand dropping away from his holster. He spun around, his arrogant posture instantly collapsing as he registered the federal plates and the tactical armor. Deputy Miller dropped the plastic zip-ties into the dirt, stepping backward with his hands instinctively raised at his sides.
A man in a tailored dark suit and a long wool overcoat stepped out of the lead Suburban. He didn't wear armor, but he carried a heavy, reinforced laptop case. He bypassed Hollister entirely, his eyes locked on Walter.
The agent walked directly to the loading dock, coming to a stop a few feet away from us. He looked at the bruised jaw and the dried blood on Walter's temple, his expression tightening with quiet fury.
"Director," the agent said, his voice respectful but sharp. "Agent Vance, Department of Justice. We received the priority one distress signal and locked onto your device's GPS."
"Thank you for your prompt arrival, Agent Vance," Walter replied calmly. He pointed a steady finger toward the center of the gravel lot. "That man is Sheriff Hollister. He is operating under the assumption that his local badge grants him immunity from federal assault charges, evidence tampering, and witness intimidation."