Jenkins swallowed hard, sweat suddenly pouring down his forehead, stinging his eyes. With shaking hands, he reached into Sam's shirt pocket and pulled out a second leather case, another gold badge, another federal ID. Right at that moment, the wail of police sirens pierced the air, but they weren't the standard two-tone sirens of the Atlanta PD backup Jenkins had called for. Three matte black SUVs with hidden red and blue strobe lights screeching through the park's pedestrian walkways, tearing up the grass as they surrounded Jenkins's patrol car. The doors of the SUVs flew open.
Outpoured a dozen heavily armed tactical agents wearing olive drab tactical vests with massive yellow letters across their chests. FBI supervisory agent Richard Cole stepped out of the lead vehicle. He was a large, imposing man, wearing a sharp suit with his badge clipped to his belt and an expression that promised absolute destruction. He bypassed Jenkins entirely and walked straight to the bench. Agent Paul, Agent Hayes, are you injured?
Cole asked, his voice cutting through the humid air like a razor blade. Just our pride, boss, Jonathan said calmly, looking over his shoulder at the paralyzed police officer. And our wrists. Officer Jenkins here has a heavy hand. Cole slowly turned his gaze to Jenkins.
Jenkins was frozen in place, holding two FBI badges in his trembling hands, staring at the dozen federal agents who now had their hands resting on their sidearms, watching him with murderous intent. The karma was just getting started. Supervisory Special Agent Richard Cole did not yell. He didn't have to. The terrifying quiet authority radiating from him was enough to suck the remaining oxygen out of the humid Atlanta air.
He stepped right into Officer Brian Jenkins's personal space, staring down at the trembling cop. The keys, Cole demanded, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. Now. Jenkins, his face entirely drained of its former arrogant flush, fumbled blindly at his heavy duty belt, his fingers, suddenly devoid of fine motor skills, slipped over the metal clasp twice before he managed to unhook his keyring. He handed them over to Cole like a terrified child handing a switch to a disciplinarian.
Cole didn't even look at him. He tossed the keys to another tactical agent who swiftly stepped around the bench, unlocking the handcuffs, biting into Jonathan's wrists. Then Sam's. Jonathan rolled his shoulders, massaging the deep, angry red indentations pressed into his skin. He stood up slowly, picking up his fallen gold shield from the concrete.
He dusted it off and clipped it securely to his belt. Sam did the same, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his face ticked. Listen, I—I didn't know, Jenkins stammered, his eyes darting between the dozen Federal weapons, casually resting in the hands of the tactical team. He took a nervous step back until his hips hit his cruiser. They weren't wearing ID.
They were loitering. It was a standard Terry stop—suspicious behavior in a high-crime transient area. I was doing my job. Your job? Jonathan stepped forward.