Two agents instantly flanked Sergeant O'Malley, who raised his hands in immediate surrender. Two more stepped in front of Gallagher, who looked ready to faint.
Hayes marched directly to Roland. "Director, are you injured?"
"I'm fine, Christian," Roland replied smoothly, adjusting his Georgetown T-shirt. "Just a minor inconvenience."
"Sir, Deputy Director Croft is three minutes out with the Civil Rights Division Response Team," Hayes reported, his hand resting on his holstered weapon as he glared at Jenkins. "Identify the officer who put hands on you."
Roland did not need to point. Jenkins was pressed against the back wall, his face the color of spoiled milk, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The arrogance that had carried him through the morning had completely evaporated, replaced by the crushing weight of what he had done.
"Who is in charge of this precinct?" Roland demanded, his voice finally echoing with the full authority of his office.
The door to the back offices flew open, and Captain Thomas Miller came stumbling into the hallway—a portly man in a rumpled white shirt, sweat already soaking through the collar. He had seen the Suburbans from his window and was still pulling his uniform jacket on as he ran.
"I am... I'm Captain Miller." He rushed forward, breathless and wide-eyed, only to be stopped by the stiff, unyielding arm of a federal agent standing guard at the hallway threshold. He looked at the tactical agents, then at Roland, and visibly swallowed. "Director Pendleton, sir, this is... this is a monumental misunderstanding. My men, they make mistakes, but I assure you—"
"Stop talking, Captain," Roland commanded.
The room fell dead silent.