He was wrenching Dez's arms upward, testing the limits of the shoulder joints. It was a move designed to inflict pain, to force submission. But Dez's shoulders were thick with muscle and scar tissue. He barely registered the torque.
He simply adjusted his stance, widening his feet slightly to maintain balance, absorbing Harlan's erratic shoving. "You're tight on the left one," Dez stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Check the spacing." "I said shut your mouth," Harlan hissed into Dez's ear.
He clicked the cuffs shut, ratcheting them down until they bit into the skin. He patted Dez down, his hand slapping aggressively against Dez's cargo pockets. He pulled out a wallet, a heavy set of keys, and a folded piece of paper. Harlan threw the items on the trunk of the Charger.
He opened the wallet. He saw the driver's license, Darius T. Kane, 422 Maple Ridge. Harlan paused for a fraction of a second.
The reality of the situation flickered in his mind. The ID matched the house. The suspect lived here. But Harlan was too deep in the adrenaline now to back down.
To admit he was wrong was to admit weakness, and in the toxic culture of the Oak Haven precinct, weakness was worse than incompetence. He had to find something else. He had to justify the stop. He looked at the folded paper.
It was a receipt from a hardware store, but underneath it was a small laminate card. Harlan squinted at it. It didn't look like a normal ID. It had no state seal, just a series of clearance codes and a holographic chip.
"What is this?" Harlan asked, holding up the card. "Fake ID? You trying to impersonate a fed?"
"Look at the back," Dez said calmly. "There's a number. Call it." "I'm not calling your buddy to bail you out," Harlan sneered.
He shoved the wallet into his own pocket, a violation of protocol, but Harlan didn't care. He grabbed Dez by the arm and yanked him away from the car. "You're coming in. We'll sort out your fake IDs at the station."
"Officer," Dez said, planting his feet. He didn't move. Harlan tugged, but it was like trying to pull a rooted oak tree. "There is a camera on my porch."
"There is a camera on your dash. You are currently arresting a homeowner on his own property for no crime. If you put me in that car, you end your career." Harlan's face turned crimson.
He unholstered his taser. "Get in the car or I will light you up. You understand me? I will ride the lightning on you right here."
Dez looked at the taser. His military survival training had taught him how to remain composed under pain and pressure, but he had no intention of escalating the encounter. "Do what you have to do," Dez said, "but make sure your body-cameraera is on. I want the judge to see exactly how you operate."
Harlan hesitated. He glanced down at his chest. The green light was blinking. He hated that light.
"Get in the car." Harlan shoved Dez toward the cruiser. This time, Dez allowed himself to be moved. He had seen the neighbor across the street.
He saw another neighbor, a teenager two houses down, holding up an iPhone. The audience was assembling. Dez ducked his head, a reflex of habit, and slid into the cramped back seat of the cruiser. The hard plastic seat was uncomfortable, smelling of stale vomit and industrial cleaner.
Harlan slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood. As Harlan stomped around to the driver's seat, Dez shifted his weight. His hands were numb, but his mind was racing. He needed to make a call, but his phone was in his front pocket, currently inaccessible.
Harlan got in the front, breathing heavy. He keyed the radio. "Dispatch, I have one in custody, uncooperative. Transporting to station for processing."
"Possible forgery and possession of forged government documents." Dez closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. Forged government documents. The kid had no idea.
The cruiser pulled away, leaving the Charger abandoned in the driveway with the tools still laid out. As they drove, Harlan kept glancing in the rearview mirror, trying to catch Dez looking fearful. He wanted to see the panic setting in. "You know," Harlan said, his eyes meeting Dez's in the mirror, "we get guys like you all the time."
"Think you can move into a nice town, flash some cash, and do whatever you want. We check everyone here. Keeps the riffraff out." "Is that what I am?"
Dez asked. "Riffraff?" "You don't belong here, Kane. I don't care what the deed says."
"I know a drug dealer's front when I see one." Dez actually laughed. It was a dry, sharp sound. "Drug dealer?"
"That's the box you put me in? Where else does a guy like you get the cash for a place like that? Rap music, basketball?" Harlan smirked.
"I'm going to tear that truck of yours apart. I guarantee I find something. A roach, an unregistered piece, something." "Officer Harlan," Dez said, reading the nameplate on the dashboard, "I served 22 years in the United States military."
"I trained the men who killed terrorists you haven't even heard of. The money for that house came from a settlement after an IED took the hearing in my right ear and half the sensation in my left leg. If you tear my truck apart, the only thing you're going to find is a tire iron and a copy of the Constitution, which you clearly haven't read." Harlan slammed on the brakes at a stop sign, the sudden jolt throwing Dez forward against the cage.
"Shut up!" Harlan yelled. "Not another word!" "Just remember," Dez whispered, his voice dangerously low, "you started this."
They arrived at the precinct minutes later. It was a squat, brick building that looked like it hadn't been renovated since the 1970s. Harlan dragged Dez out of the car and marched him through the back entrance. The booking area was busy.
A few other officers looked up. "What you got, Royce?" asked the desk sergeant, a heavy-set man named Marcus Kowalski. Kowalski was eating a sandwich, crumbs dusting his uniform. "Resisting, disorderly," Harlan bragged.
"And this." Harlan tossed the laminated card onto the high desk. "Suspect was stripping a car on Maple Ridge. Claims he lives there."
"Had this fake fed ID on him." Kowalski wiped his mouth and picked up the card. He squinted at it. He flipped it over.
He looked at the holographic chip. He looked at the series of numbers. Kowalski's chewing slowed. He stopped chewing.
He looked up at Dez, who was standing calmly by the bench, flanked by Harlan. Kowalski looked back at the card. He recognized the insignia. It wasn't standard military.
It was JSOC, Joint Special Operations Command, and the clearance code, Yankee White clearance. "Royce," Kowalski said, his voice dropping an octave, "where did you get this?" "Out of his wallet. I'm telling you, it's a good fake."