"Target is on site," Cole's voice cracked urgently in their ears.
"He's approaching the drop zone. Do not engage the officer. Maintain surveillance."
Jenkins didn't like Jonathan's calm demeanor. It didn't feed his ego. He stepped closer, invading their personal space, the smell of cheap cologne and stale coffee radiating off him.
"I didn't ask if you were catching shade," Jenkins snapped, his hand tightening on his belt.
"I told you to move. What are you two doing out here anyway, dressed like it's winter in the middle of August? You looking to score? You casing somebody?"
"No, sir," Sam said, finally turning his head just enough to acknowledge the cop while keeping Penhaligan in his peripheral vision.
"Just waiting for a friend, like my buddy said. We'll be gone in a few."
"Stand up," Jenkins ordered.
Jonathan's jaw tightened. Penhaligan had just sat down at a cafe table 50 yards away, placing the briefcase on the ground between his feet. The cartel contact, a heavyset man in a polo shirt, was approaching him. The transaction was about to happen.
"Officer," Jonathan said, dropping his voice a register, shifting from civilian deference to a more authoritative level tone.
"We aren't doing anything wrong. We are sitting on a public bench. I strongly suggest you go check on that family over there or continue your patrol. We are busy."
It was the wrong thing to say to a man like Jenkins. The phrase, I strongly suggest, hit Jenkins's fragile ego like a battering ram. His face flushed red beneath his sunglasses.
"Oh, you strongly suggest?" Jenkins sneered.
He unclipped his radio.
"Dispatch, this is Unit 41. I need a secondary unit at the Olympic Park fountains. I have two noncompliant suspects refusing to vacate. Possible narcotics activity."
"Unit 41. Copy. Secondary unit is en route," the dispatcher replied.