I walked up the steep embankment, taking my time, letting the sheer absurdity of their lie settle over the illuminated scene. When I crested the ridge and stepped onto the solid pavement, I was surrounded by a dozen state troopers in heavy body armor. They did not point their rifles at me. They kept them leveled directly at the chests of Miller and Cole.
Captain Reynolds, a tall, hard-eyed man with graying temples, stepped out from behind the armored door of the lead interceptor. He looked at my bruised face, my empty hands, and the dried blood cracking on my forehead.
"Search him for a weapon," Reynolds ordered two of his troopers.
They patted me down quickly and professionally. "Clean, Captain. No firearms on his person."
Reynolds turned his cold gaze onto Cole. "Your dispatch call claimed he leaned out of a moving vehicle and fired twice at your cruiser. Yet he doesn't have a gun, Deputy."
"He must have thrown it in the brush!" Cole lied desperately, sweat pouring down his pale face despite the freezing wind. "He tossed it! I swear to God, Captain, he shot my hood!"
Reynolds pulled a heavy satellite radio from his tactical belt. He didn't speak to Cole. He keyed the microphone. "Investigator Hayes. We have the physical scene secured. The county deputies are claiming the suspect disposed of the weapon."
The radio crackled. My daughter’s voice filled the silent highway, perfectly clear and entirely devoid of any emotion.
"That is a negative, Captain," Sarah’s voice broadcast over the interceptor's PA system, bouncing off the canyon walls. "I have been monitoring a live, continuous audio feed from the suspect's person for the last forty-seven minutes. Deputy Cole fired his own weapon at the canyon wall to manufacture a lethal-force justification. Furthermore, I have an unbroken recording of Sergeant Miller and Deputy Cole explicitly conspiring to plant an unregistered thirty-eight caliber drop piece on the suspect's body."
The color completely drained from Miller's face. His jaw went entirely slack. The confident shift supervisor looked like he had just been hit by a freight train. He slowly turned his head, staring at the empty air, finally realizing the trap they had walked blindly into.
"She's lying!" Cole shouted, completely losing his grip on reality. "This is a setup! Who the hell is she?"
"She is the Senior Investigator for the State Internal Affairs Division," Captain Reynolds said softly. "And the man you just tried to murder is her father."
Reynolds stepped forward, closing the distance to Cole in two long strides. He grabbed the fabric of Cole’s tactical vest and slammed him hard against the steel side of the state interceptor.
"Trooper," Reynolds commanded, his eyes locked onto Cole's terrified face. "Check the deputy's left cargo pocket. Investigator Hayes says he has an unregistered thirty-eight in there."
A state trooper stepped up, drove a heavy knee into Cole’s thigh to keep him pinned, and reached into the deep pocket of the county uniform. He pulled out the cheap, black revolver. He popped the cylinder under the floodlights. It was fully loaded.
"Drop piece secured, Captain," the trooper announced.
"Now check his front right trouser pocket," Reynolds ordered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy calm. "You're looking for fifteen crisp hundred-dollar bills. State treasury bait cash."
Cole squeezed his eyes shut. A low, pathetic whimper escaped his throat.
The trooper dug into the uniform pocket and pulled out the folded stack of money. The green treasury band was still perfectly intact, the microscopic audit code glowing clearly under the harsh white floodlights.
"Cash secured," the trooper confirmed.
"Arrest them," Reynolds ordered, stepping back from the vehicle. "Both of them. Strip their belts, cuff them, and put them in the back of the transport. They belong to the state now."
The troopers moved with brutal efficiency. They stripped Miller and Cole of their county badges, their weapons, and their radios. The heavy steel handcuffs ratcheted tightly around their wrists, a sharp, metallic finality to their reign of terror on Route 50.
I walked over to the edge of the canyon, pulling my torn canvas jacket tight against the cold. Captain Reynolds fell in beside me.