"He did not look like what, Derek?" Officer Miller suddenly shouted, tossing his own cup into the trash as the implication of Rollins's profiling became impossible to ignore. "He did not look like he belonged in that neighborhood? I told you to leave him alone."
I told you. "We need to let him out," Rollins said, panicking, his bravado entirely evaporating. He lunged for his keys. "I will let him out, apologize, and say it was a misunderstanding." "It is 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 heavily armed federal 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 short-barreled M4 carbines, their weapons held at the low ready, perimeter secured, roof access covered.