A corrupt officer looking for an easy target to stroke his fragile ego.When flashing red and blue lights pierced the midnight highway, Officer Mitchell Brody thought he was asserting his dominance. He had no idea he had just pulled over a three-star general. And the hidden 360-degree cameras were already rolling.The rain was coming down in sheets on Interstate 84, transforming the slick black asphalt into a mirror reflecting the dull yellow glow of the streetlights. It was past 2:00 in the morning—the kind of hour where the world belongs to long-haul truckers, insomniacs, and the police.Sitting in the idling cruiser concealed in the shadow of an overpass, Officer Mitchell Brody chewed on a stale piece of gum and watched the sparse traffic roll by. Brody was a 12-year veteran of the force, a man whose career had stalled out at patrolman due to a string of excessive force complaints that his union rep had barely managed to sweep under the rug. He was bitter, arrogant, and carried a badge not to protect and serve, but to exert control over a world he felt hadn't given him his due.In the passenger seat sat Officer Kevin Daily, a 23-year-old rookie fresh out of the academy. Daily was still green enough to believe in the handbook, nervous enough to double-check his seatbelt every five minutes, and increasingly uncomfortable with his training officer's aggressive policing methods."Quiet night, Mitch," Daily offered, trying to break the heavy silence in the cruiser."Too quiet," Brody grunted, his eyes narrowing as a pair of crisp, bright LED headlights cut through the downpour in the distance. "Let's see what we've got here."The vehicle approached, gliding over the wet pavement with the heavy, silent grace of expensive German engineering. It was a late-model Mercedes-Benz S-Class, painted a deep, lustrous obsidian. As it passed beneath the overpass, the ambient light illuminated the driver for a fraction of a second. Brody saw a Black man in his late 50s sitting with perfect posture, wearing a sharply tailored charcoal suit.Brody's jaw tightened. "Look at this guy," he muttered, shifting the cruiser into drive. "Middle of the night, driving a hundred-grand car. Probably moving product up to the city.""He was doing exactly 65, Mitch," Daily pointed out hesitantly, checking the radar display. "Speed limit.""People driving perfectly at 2:00 a.m. are trying not to get caught," Brody snapped, flipping the switch for the siren and lights.The cruiser lurched forward, tires spinning momentarily on the wet grass before catching the pavement. "Let's go fishing."Inside the Mercedes, Lieutenant General Ronald Hayes was enjoying the rare silence. After a grueling 14-hour day of strategic briefings at the Pentagon and a subsequent flight, all he wanted was to reach his home, take off his suit, and sleep.At 58, Hayes was a man carved from granite. He had done tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, earned a Silver Star for gallantry, and currently oversaw one of the military's most critical logistics commands. He was a man accustomed to bearing the weight of immense responsibility with a calm, stoic demeanor.