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, Cain. 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 '70s. 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 Level Access.
"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. The guy's a pro."
Kowalski stood up. He didn't look at Harlan. He looked at Dez. "Sir, could you tell me your full name and rank?"
"Master Sergeant Darius Cain, retired," Dez replied. "And I'd like my handcuffs removed now."
Harlan rolled his eyes. "Sarge, don't listen to him. He's..."
"Royce, shut the hell up! Kowalski snapped. The room went silent. Other officers stopped what they were doing.
Kowalski walked around the desk. He wasn't reaching for his keys to book Dez. He was reaching for his key to the handcuffs.
"Sarge." Harlan looked confused. "What are you doing?"
"You didn't run this card, did you?" Kowalski asked, his face pale. "You didn't even look at the numbers."
"It's fake."
"It's not fake, you idiot!" Kowalski yelled, unlocking the cuffs on Dez's wrists. "This is a Department of Defense credential with top-level clearance. This man isn't a drug dealer. He's a federal asset."
The cuffs clicked open. Dez rubbed his wrists, looking at Harlan with cold, dead eyes.
"I tried to tell him," Dez said to Kowalski. "He preferred to talk about rap music and drug fronts."