He didn't call the local police chief. He didn't call the mayor. He called Special Agent in Charge Richard Caldwell, the commander of the FBI's Washington field office. "Caldwell," Hayes barked the moment the line connected.
"The director has been unlawfully detained by local police in Bethesda. The arresting officers used physical force and ignored his identity. I want a full tactical rollout. Now." "Sir, the director?"
Caldwell's voice sharpened instantly, shifting into combat mode. "Hostage rescue team, mobilize the regional quick response force and the WFO SWAT element," Hayes ordered, already pulling a shoulder holster over his dress shirt.
"I don't know the state of mind of these local cops, but they are armed. They are erratic and they have Arthur in a cage. We are treating this as an active hostile hostage situation under federal jurisdiction. I want the station locked down. Nobody gets in. Nobody gets out until I have eyes on Arthur."
"Wheels up in 5 minutes, sir. We'll bring the storm," Caldwell promised. Back at the precinct, the quiet Sunday morning was ticking away. Omali frantically grabbed the phone, trying to call the chief of police, but his hands were shaking too badly to dial the numbers. "Sarge, seriously, what is your problem?"
Rollins asked, stepping closer to the desk. "You're acting like I shot the mayor." "Worse, Derek. Worse," Omali croaked, finally turning the monitor around so Rollins could see the screen.
"Look at the screen. Look at his face." Rollins leaned in, squinting at the government web page. He read the name. He read the title.
The blood instantly vanished from his face. His jaw went slack, and the coffee he had just poured slipped from his fingers, shattering against the linoleum floor. "No," Rollins whispered, stumbling backward.
"No, that's impossible. He was wearing sweatpants. He didn't look like... He didn't look like..." "What, Derek?"
Officer Miller suddenly shouted, tossing his own cup into the trash, realizing the horrifying implication of Rollins's profiling. "He didn't look like he belonged in that neighborhood. I told you to leave him alone. I told you." "We need to let him out."
Rollins panicked, his bravado entirely evaporating. He lunged for his keys. "I'll just let him out. Apologize. Say it was a misunderstanding."
"It's too late for that," Omali said, staring blankly at the front doors of the precinct. A low, deep rumble began to vibrate through the floorboards of the station. It wasn't the high-pitched wail of police sirens. It was the heavy synchronized roar of massive armored diesel engines. The rumble grew to a deafening roar, shaking the framed commendations hanging on the precinct walls.
Before Rollins or Omali could move toward the holding cells, the front windows of the Bethesda police station darkened as massive vehicles blocked out the morning sun. Officer Miller rushed to the reinforced glass and gasped. "Oh, dear God." Outside, the quiet suburban street had been utterly transformed into a militarized zone. Eight black unmarked Chevrolet Suburbans had screeched to a halt, forming a barricade that entirely boxed in the local police cruisers.
Behind them, two massive armored Lenco Bearcats painted matte tactical olive idled aggressively, their heavy tires crushing the manicured curbs. The doors of the vehicles flew open simultaneously. Over 40 federal tactical agents poured out into the street. They moved with terrifying silent precision. They wore full tactical armor, Kevlar helmets, and olive drab windbreakers with FBI emblazoned across the back and chest in bold yellow lettering.
They carried tactical rifles and moved quickly to secure the perimeter and roof access. A voice commanded over a bullhorn. Through the windows, Miller could see federal overwatch teams taking positions on nearby rooftops, covering the precinct entrances. "They're surrounding the building," Miller stuttered, backing away from the window with his hands instinctively raised. "Rollins," Omali ordered, his voice suddenly hard and desperate.
"Put your hands on the desk. Do not touch your weapon. If they think we are a threat, they will level this building." The heavy double glass doors of the precinct were violently yanked open. A dozen tactical agents flooded into the lobby, fanning out with practiced lethal efficiency.
They bypassed the metal detectors, immediately securing the exits, the hallways, and the armory door. "Federal agents, keep your hands where we can see them. Nobody move." The lead SWAT operator bellowed, his rifle sweeping the room before locking onto Rollins.
"Hands away from your belt. Do it now." Rollins was hyperventilating. He raised his hands high above his head, trembling uncontrollably as two agents rushed forward. They didn't ask politely.
They secured Rollins, removed his duty belt, service weapon, and badge, and moved him away from the desk. Through the corridor of heavily armed agents, strode Deputy Director Thomas Hayes. He was out of breath, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his eyes burning with absolute fury. Flanking him was special agent in charge Caldwell, looking ready to dismantle the station brick by brick. Hayes marched directly to the booking desk, slamming his hand down on the elevated counter, making Omali jump out of his skin.
"I am Deputy Director Thomas Hayes of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he announced, his voice echoing in the dead, silent room. "You are holding Director Arthur Pendleton. If a single hair on his head has been harmed, I will personally see to it that everyone in this building is charged with federal kidnapping under Title 18. Where is he?" "He's in holding cell two, sir," Omali stammered, pointing a shaky finger down the hall.
"He's completely unharmed. It was a terrible mistake." "Give me the keys," Caldwell interrupted, snatching the heavy keyring right out of Omali's trembling hand. Hayes and Caldwell, followed by a tight protective detail of four SWAT operators, marched down the narrow cinderblock hallway. They reached cell number two.
Arthur was still sitting on the metal bench exactly as he had been left. His hands were resting in his lap, his expression completely tranquil. He looked up as the cavalry arrived. Caldwell quickly unlocked the door, sliding the heavy metal bars open. "Director, are you injured?"