“Hands on the truck.” Dion complied, turning his back to them and placing his palms flat against the cold, wet metal of the door. He felt Mitchell approach from behind. Rough hands grabbed his arms, pulling them apart before Mitchell began a highly aggressive, invasive pat-down. He kicked Dion's boots apart hard enough to sting and ran his hands up Dion's legs around his waist, checking for weapons. He found nothing but a standard pocket knife clipped to Dion's right pocket.
Mitchell pulled it out and tossed it onto the wet gravel. “What’s in the trailer?” Mitchell asked, stepping back. Agricultural supplies. Fertilizer? Dion answered, staring at his own reflection in the wet metal.
Mitchell scoffed. Fertilizer. The number one cover for moving weight or making bombs. It's a legitimate haul. The manifest is in the binder you're holding.
I don't care what a piece of paper says, Mitchell said, stepping around to face Dion. I want to see for myself. Open it up. No. The word left Dion's mouth sharp and definitive.
Mitchell blinked, taken aback. Excuse me, I said. No, Dion repeated, turning to face the officers, dropping his hands from the truck. You don't have a warrant. You don't have probable cause.
You have a hunch based on absolutely nothing. The trailer is sealed with a commercial tamper-evident lock. I break that seal, I lose my job. So, no, you are not searching my trailer. Banks stepped forward, his hand unholstering his taser.
Listen here, you arrogant son of a . You're in our town now. We say open the trailer. You open the trailer or you're going to find yourself in the back of a cruiser with a resisting arrest charge. Arrest me for what?
Dion challenged, his eyes locking onto Banks's. The sheer intensity in Dion's gaze made the older officer hesitate for a fraction of a second. Failure to bow. I know the law, officers. You're fishing, and the pond is empty.
The rain picked up, hammering against the pavement in heavy sheets. The standoff stretched for several agonizing seconds. Mitchell was seething. He was used to out-of-towners cowering, stuttering, and begging to be let go. Dion's unwavering calm was infuriating him.
It felt like defiance. “Fine,” Mitchell spat, rain dripping from his nose. “We won’t search the trailer yet. We’ll get a K-9 unit out here.
Dog alerts. That gives us probable cause to rip this entire rig apart.” Mitchell unclipped the radio from his shoulder.
“Dispatch, this is Unit 4. I need the K-9 unit at Henderson's on Highway 9. Suspicious commercial vehicle.” Dion listened to the radio crackle.
Unit 4 K-9 is currently on a call on the north side of the county. ETA is at least 4five minutes, Mitchell cursed under his breath. He looked at Dion, a nasty grin spreading across his face. Looks like you're going to be waiting in the rain for a while, Dave. I'm not waiting in the rain, Dion said flatly.
I'm getting back in my cab. When your dog gets here, wake me up. Dion turned to grab the handle of his door. Hey, I didn't say you could move. Mitchell lunged forward, grabbing Dion by the shoulder of his flannel shirt, attempting to spin him around.
It was a mistake. Mitchell was strong, but Dion possessed the honed explosive power of a man trained in close-quarters combat by the bureau's elite tactical instructors. As Mitchell's hand clamped onto his shoulder, Dion reacted purely on muscle memory. He didn't strike the officer. That would be assault, but he shifted his weight, dropping his center of gravity, and executed a flawless, rigid pivot.
The momentum broke Mitchell's grip instantly, sending the younger officer stumbling forward, his boots slipping on the wet gravel. He caught himself against the side of the truck, his face red with embarrassment and rage. “Assaulting an officer,” Banks yelled, raising his taser and pointing the laser directly at Dion's chest. Dion stood perfectly still, raising both hands slowly to shoulder height. I didn't touch him.