Dion's jaw tightened imperceptibly, but his training kicked in. He knew the protocol. Do not break cover. Do not escalate. My mistake, Dion said smoothly, taking a deliberate step back to de-escalate the physical tension.
I'll just get back in my cab and get some shut-eye. Got a long haul to Florida. Not so fast, Mitchell barked, stepping forward again to close the distance. I didn't say you were free to go. Dion froze, turning his head slowly to look down at the young officer.
“Am I being detained, officer?” “I’m conducting a routine inquiry,” Mitchell replied, a smug smile playing on his lips. We got a lot of cargo theft out here on Highway 9. A lot of drugs moving through and here you are parked in the dark looking like you don't belong. I drive a truck for a living, Dion replied evenly. I belong wherever the road goes.
I pulled over because I was tired. That's a DOT safety regulation. Banks stepped up beside his partner, shining his flashlight directly into Dion's eyes. Don't get smart with us, pal. Let's see your license, registration, and your driver's log right now.
Dion sighed. A perfectly executed performance of an annoyed but compliant citizen. It's in the cab. I'll have to get it. We'll come with you, Mitchell said instantly.
Dion turned and walked back to the Peterbilt, acutely aware of the two officers trailing just inches behind him. He climbed up the steps, opening the heavy door. He reached into the side compartment of the door, pulling out a leather binder that contained his alias's CDL, the truck's legitimate registration, and a meticulously falsified logbook provided by the FBI's logistics team. It was flawless. It would pass an inspection by a federal DOT auditor, let alone two small-town cops.
He handed the binder down to Mitchell. Mitchell snatched it out of his hand. He stepped back into the glow of the spotlight, opening the binder and flipping through the pages. Banks kept his flashlight trained on Dion, who remained standing on the steps of his cab, looking down at them. “David Rollins,” Mitchell read aloud, mispronouncing the last name slightly.
“Out of Chicago. That’s a long way from home, Dave.” Like I said, heading to Florida, Dion answered. Mitchell spent an agonizing five minutes scrutinizing every line of the logbook. He checked the dates, the mileage, the rest periods. He was looking for a discrepancy, a mathematical error, a missing signature, anything to justify a citation, or better yet, a search.
But the book was perfect. Frustrated, Mitchell snapped the binder shut. Logbook looks suspicious. Too neat. Dion almost laughed.
It's suspicious because I fill it out correctly. Watch your mouth. Banks snapped, tapping his flashlight against the aluminum side of the truck. You're walking a thin line here, driver. I've been fully cooperative, Dion said, his voice dropping an octave. losing a fraction of the weary trucker act and adopting a sliver of the authoritative tone he used when interrogating cartel lieutenants.
My paperwork is in order. My truck is legally parked. I haven't broken any traffic laws. If you aren't writing me a ticket, I'd like my documents back. Mitchell's face flushed red.
He hated being challenged, especially by someone he deemed beneath him. He looked at the truck, then back at Dion. “Step down from the vehicle,” Mitchell ordered, his hand resting on his gun again.
“For what reason?” Dion asked, holding his ground. “Lawful order. Step down now.”
Mitchell's voice cracked slightly, betraying his adrenaline. Dion knew his rights, both as a citizen and as a federal agent. Under Terry versus Ohio, they had no reasonable suspicion. Under Rodriguez versus United States, they couldn't prolong the stop without cause. But he also knew that arguing constitutional law with a hotheaded cop on a dark, rainy highway was a good way to get shot.
He needed to play this out. He needed them to dig their own grave. Slowly, deliberately, Dion stepped down from the cab. He kept his hands visible, resting them lightly on his belt buckle. “Turn around,” Banks ordered.