Vance frowned, tapping the encrypted comms unit on his vest. "Route is clear. Vanguard is miles away by now, pushing into the capital. The locals are going to want their cruiser and their officer back to process the scene."
"They don't get them," I said, stepping firmly onto the asphalt.
Down the highway, three more sets of red and blue lights were approaching fast, followed by the heavy diesel rumble of a county rescue vehicle. Augusta County Sheriff's Department was finally responding to Mitchell's initial panic call.
Mitchell himself was currently zip-tied to the heavy steel brush guard of a Suburban. Two CAT operators stood shoulder-to-shoulder, completely blocking him from view. He wasn't talking anymore. He wasn't sneering. The crushing reality of overwhelming federal force had evaporated his arrogance, leaving only the hollow shock of a man who realized his badge had just lost all its power.
I leaned carefully back into the front cabin of the cruiser. The mobile data terminal was still glowing a sickly blue. Above the dashboard, the dash camera was still running, its small green indicator light pulsing steadily near the rearview mirror.
The county system was designed as a closed loop. The high-definition video and the interior audio—specifically Mitchell's explicit confession that he was going to fabricate a resisting arrest charge to cover his assault—were stored locally on the cruiser's reinforced digital video recorder in the trunk. Simultaneously, the system was programmed to upload that exact data to the county server over a cellular band.
But we were deep in a rural dead zone. The terminal's connection status showed a solid red slash through the network icon. The upload hadn't happened. The only copy of that audio was sitting in the trunk of this specific car, wholly under local jurisdiction.
"Vance," I called out, watching the approaching county cruisers brake sharply at the edge of our armored roadblock. "I need your tech specialist. Right now."
A specialist detached from the perimeter line and jogged over. "Sir?"
"Pop the trunk," I ordered. "Locate the DVR lockbox. Disconnect the cellular antenna immediately so the system cannot receive a remote wipe command, then extract the physical hard drive."
The specialist blinked, glancing nervously toward the approaching local officers exiting their vehicles. "Sir, technically that's county property. Stripping a local law enforcement data drive without a warrant—"
"This vehicle was just used in the commission of a federal assault, false imprisonment, and an armed obstruction of a classified national security route," I stated, the cold anger finally bleeding clearly into my tone. "It is now a federal crime scene. Pull the drive before they get in range."
The specialist didn't argue again. He moved instantly to the rear of the cruiser.
The first county vehicle, a white SUV with gold lettering, slammed into park on the shoulder. A heavy-set man in a crisp white uniform shirt stepped out. Captain's bars gleamed on his collar. He took in the armored Suburbans, the heavily armed operators, the shattered glass on the highway, and his deputy zip-tied to a bumper.
"What the hell is going on here?" the Captain bellowed, storming toward our perimeter line. "Who is in charge of this circus?"
Vance stepped directly into his path, an impenetrable wall of black Kevlar and federal authority. "Restricted protective perimeter. Step back, sir."
"Step back? That's my officer and my cruiser!" The Captain pointed a thick, trembling finger over Vance's shoulder. "I don't care who you people are, you don't come into my jurisdiction and hijack my deputies. Where is Mitchell?"
I walked around the rear of the cruiser, keeping my bloodied wrists clearly visible under the harsh strobe lights.
"Your deputy is currently in federal custody," I said, closing the distance until I was standing right in front of the Captain. "I am the Lead Advance Agent for the United States Secret Service. Your deputy intercepted a restricted federal vehicle, ignored my credentials, physically assaulted me, and established an armed roadblock in the direct path of the Presidential motorcade."
The Captain’s face went pale. He looked at my suit, my wrists, and then at the shattered window of the cruiser. The severity of the situation hit him like a physical blow. But the shock only lasted a few seconds before institutional self-preservation kicked in. The instinct to protect the department immediately overrode the undeniable facts in front of him.
"If you were speeding in an unmarked car and refused to comply, my deputy had every right to secure the scene," the Captain countered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, defensive gravel. "I want Mitchell released to my custody right now. We will handle his disciplinary review internally. You can file a formal complaint with my office."
"There will be no internal review," I said flatly. "This is a federal civil rights and national security investigation."
The Captain’s eyes darted past me, locking onto the open trunk of the cruiser where the CAT specialist was working diligently with a flashlight and a heavy pry bar.
"Hey! Get out of that vehicle!" the Captain shouted, taking a sudden, aggressive step forward.
Vance’s hand rested casually on his rifle sling, a silent, terrifying warning that stopped the local supervisor dead in his tracks.