"I said it's fake, Dawson. Drop it."
Dawson dropped it. She walked back to her desk, sat down, pulled out her personal phone under the desk, and texted her husband three words. Something bad happening.
Meanwhile, 40 miles away, agent Nora Sullivan checked her phone. 10:00 a.m. Text to Director Briggs. No reply. She waited. Sent another at 10:30. Nothing. 11:00 a.m. Still nothing. She pulled up his GPS. The blue dot sat right on top of the Hadley Springs Sheriff's Office.
Sullivan picked up her desk phone, dialed the station. Three rings. Adler picked up. "Hadley Springs Sheriff's Office."
"This is Senior Special Agent Norah Sullivan, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm calling regarding a man you may have in custody. Malcolm Briggs."
Adler's stomach dropped. He put the call on hold, walked to Crenshaw's office, door open. Krenshaw was leaning back in his chair, boots on the desk. "Sheriff, there's an FBI agent on the line asking about the guy in holding."
Crenshaw didn't move. "Tell her we're handling a local matter."
"She said she's a senior special agent and I said, 'Hang up the phone, Trent.'"
Adler walked back to his desk, picked up the receiver. "Ma'am, the sheriff says this is a local matter."
The line went dead. Sullivan had already hung up. She stared at her phone for 3 seconds. Then she called the FBI Houston field office. "This is SSA Sullivan. I need a tactical team mobilized to Hadley Springs, Texas immediately. The director has been detained by local law enforcement. This is not a drill."
Back in the cell, Malcolm sat on the metal bench, hands folded, still as concrete. Two hours now, no phone call, no water. The fluorescent light buzzed and flickered. He heard boots. Crenshaw appeared on the other side of the bars. Folding chair, same smirk.
"Last chance," Krenshaw said. "Tell me who you really are and maybe I don't add possession of fraudulent government credentials to your charges."
Malcolm looked at him and for the first time his expression shifted not to anger to something quiet, something almost sad. "Sheriff, I've told you who I am. I've asked for my phone call, which is my constitutional right. You've denied it. I've told you that badge is real. You've laughed at it. Everything that happens from this point forward is on you. Every single consequence on you."
Crenshaw tilted his head. "Is that a threat?"
"No," Malcolm said. "It's the last bit of mercy you're going to get."
The fluorescent light flickered. The station was quiet. And somewhere on a highway outside of Houston, three black suburbans were doing 90 miles an hour headed straight for Hadley Springs.
12:47 p.m. Hadley Springs had never seen anything like it. Three black Chevrolet Suburbans rolled down Main Street in a tight line. No sirens, no lights, just three tons of tinted glass and federal authority moving through town like a slow rolling storm. People stopped on the sidewalk. A man dropped his grocery bag. The woman at the post office stepped outside and just stared.
The suburbans pulled into the sheriff station parking lot. Perfect V formation. Engines cut. Silence. Then the doors opened. Agent Norah Sullivan stepped out first, dark suit, FBI badge on her hip, sidearm visible, sunglasses off. Her face was the kind of calm that came right before someone's life fell apart. Six agents followed, all suited, all armed, all moving with the kind of precision that only federal training puts into a person's walk.
Sullivan pushed through the station's front door. The hinges groaned. The air conditioning was barely working. Adler was behind the desk mid bite into a sandwich. He saw the badges, the suits, the sidearms. The sandwich hit the desk.
"I'm Senior Special Agents Norah Sullivan, Federal Bureau of Investigation." Her voice filled the room without rising. "You are holding FBI Director Malcolm Briggs in your custody. Take me to him now."
Adler's mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound came out. Crenshaw heard the commotion from his office. He stepped into the hallway, saw the suits, saw the badges, saw the suburbans through the window. Black, massive, unmistakable. His smirk was gone. Sullivan locked eyes on him. "Are you Sheriff Krenshaw?"
"I Yeah. Who's asking?"
"I just told you who's asking." She took one step closer. "Where is Director Briggs?"
Krenshaw's tongue went dry, his eyes darted to Adler. To Dawson, who was standing in the corner, arms folded, face white as paper. Back to Sullivan. "Now hold on," he said, his voice cracked on the second word. "We got a situation here, a local matter. The man didn't have proper where is he?"
Krenshaw pointed down the hallway. He didn't speak. His arm was shaking. Sullivan walked past him. Her shoulder nearly brushed his. He flinched. She reached the holding cell, stopped. Malcolm Briggs sat on the metal bench, hands folded in his lap, back straight. The fluorescent light buzzed above him. His shirt was wrinkled. His wrists had red marks from the cuffs, but his eyes his eyes were exactly the same as they'd been at 7:30 that morning. Calm, steady, unbroken.