"Work."
"What kind of work?"
"Legal work."
Wells glanced at Pike. Pike smirked—the kind of smirk that said, "Sure, buddy. Legal work at midnight driving through Telfair County."
Wells leaned against the sedan—Adrian's sedan. Put his full weight on it like he was leaning on his own truck at a barbecue. "You know what that sounds like to me?"
Adrian didn't answer.
"That sounds like a story. And I've heard a lot of stories on this road." Wells pushed off the car and stepped closer, close enough that Adrian could smell the dip tobacco on his breath. "Pop the trunk."
"No."
The word landed like a stone in still water. Pike's hand went to his holster. Wells didn't move; he just tilted his head the way a dog does when it hears something it doesn't understand.
"What did you say?"
"I said no. You don't have probable cause, and I haven't consented to a search."
"Probable cause." Wells tasted the words, smiled. Not a warm smile—the smile of a man whose patience was a performance, and the performance was ending. "You hear that, Pike? He knows the vocabulary."
"I hear it."
"Let me tell you something about probable cause." Wells jabbed a finger into Adrian's chest, hard. "I decide what's probable. I decide what's cause. Out here, I'm the law. You're just a guy with a nice car and no good reason to have it."
"I want your badge number."
Wells laughed, a short bark that echoed off the gas pumps. "Badge number. That's cute." He turned to Pike. "Write that down, would you? Man wants my badge number."
Pike didn't write anything down.
"Turn around."
"I'm not—"