I am adding a threats charge to his report." Omali slowly looked up from his monitor. He looked at Rollins, then at Officer Greg Miller, who was quietly sipping his coffee by the water cooler. "Derek," Omali whispered, his voice cracking violently. "Derek, what have you done?" "What do you mean?" Rollins asked, his arrogant smile faltering at the sight of his sergeant's absolute terror. "I got a bad guy off the streets.
I was just doing my job." "You idiot," Omali breathed, standing up. His legs were shaking so badly that he had to grip the edge of the desk to keep from collapsing. "You absolute, catastrophic idiot.
You did not arrest a burglar." Before Omali could explain, 30 miles away in Washington, DC, the machinery of the United States government was moving with terrifying speed. Deputy Director Thomas Hayes had slammed the phone down in his secure home office and immediately hit a red speed dial button on his encrypted console. 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 roll out. 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 did not look like—