Officer Gregory Finch was having a slow, irritating Tuesday. At 28 years old, Finch had been with the local police department for barely three years. He was the kind of cop who watched a few too many action movies, wore wraparound sunglasses even when it was cloudy, and treated every minor traffic stop like a high-stakes cartel takedown. He was constantly looking for a bust that would get his name in the local paper.
When the dispatch call came over the radio—"Suspicious person, possible fraud/impersonating military personnel at the Route 1 Shell"—Finch flipped on his lights and hit the gas. A stolen valor bust? That was perfect. Those videos always went viral online. He could already picture the commendation.
Alicia had just finished pumping her gas. She screwed the cap back on, closed the fuel door, and was opening the driver's side door of her sedan when the wail of a police siren pierced the humid air. A patrol cruiser swung sharply into the gas station lot, tires screeching unnecessarily on the wet pavement. The car angled aggressively, blocking Alicia's sedan from backing out of the pump. The red and blue strobe lights painted the gray afternoon in chaotic, flashing colors.
Alicia sighed, her hand resting on the handle of her open car door. She didn't immediately connect the police presence to the loudmouth inside the store. She assumed there was a robbery or an accident nearby.
Finch threw his cruiser door open and stepped out, his hand resting instinctively on his duty belt. He marched directly toward Alicia.
At the same time, Mitchell burst out of the convenience store, pointing a stubby finger at her. "That's her, Officer! That's the fake trying to scam people in a colonel's uniform!"
Finch gave Mitchell a quick, acknowledging nod. In Finch's mind, the dynamic was already set: the older guy in the tactical hat was the upstanding citizen reporting a crime; the black woman standing quietly by her car was the suspect.
"Ma'am, step away from the vehicle and keep your hands where I can see them," Finch ordered, his voice echoing loudly across the concrete lot.
Alicia's brow furrowed. She closed her car door, but stayed exactly where she was. "Officer, is there a problem?"
"I said step away from the vehicle," Finch barked, closing the distance between them. He stopped about four feet away, puffing his chest out. "We received a call about an individual impersonating a military officer for financial gain."
Alicia's eyes flicked to Mitchell, who was standing on the curb with a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. She turned her attention back to the young officer.
"Officer," Alicia said, her voice radiating the kind of absolute, unwavering authority that only comes from decades of command, "I am Colonel Alicia Reynolds, United States Army. I stopped here for fuel on my way to Fort Belvoir. I have not asked anyone for anything, let alone financial gain. That man inside decided to harass me because he doesn't believe I earned the rank on my chest."