He grabbed me. I pivoted. Lower the weapon, officer. Mitchell pushed himself off the truck, his hand dropping to his Glock. He didn't draw it, but he unsnapped the retention strap.
You're done, pal. Put your hands behind your back. You're under arrest. For what? Dion demanded, his voice echoing in the empty lot.
Interfering with an investigation, resisting. I don't care. I'll think of something on the drive to the station. Mitchell snarled. He reached onto his belt and pulled out a pair of steel handcuffs.
Turn around. Dion calculated the odds. He could disarm both men in less than 3 seconds. He could have them face down in the mud before they even realized what hit them. But doing so would blow his cover, ruin a multi-million dollar federal sting, and create an absolute jurisdictional nightmare.
He needed the cargo to reach Atlanta tomorrow. He had one trump card. It was early, but they had forced his hand.
Before you put those cuffs on me, Dion said, his voice dropping the trucker accent entirely, adopting the crisp authoritative cadence of a federal agent. You need to let me get my secondary ID from the cab. You already gave us your ID, Banks said, keeping the taser trained on him. That's my commercial license, Dion said, locking eyes with Mitchell. My real ID is in a locked steel box beneath the sleeper bunk.
Let me get it. It will clear all of this up. Mitchell hesitated. He looked at Dion's posture. It wasn't the posture of a scared criminal.
It was the posture of someone who held all the cards, but Mitchell's ego wouldn't let him back down. You think we're stupid? Mitchell laughed harshly. You want to reach under the bed into a locked box? What's in there, Dave?
A45. You want to blow my head off? There is a firearm in the box, Dion admitted calmly. But there is also a credential wallet. I will step back.
You can go into the cab, pull the box out, and I will give you the combination. You can open it yourself. Mitchell and Banks exchanged a look. This was bizarre. a trucker admitting he had a gun, inviting them into his cab, remaining completely unflappable. “All right,” Mitchell said, a predatory glint returning to his eye.
“We’re searching the cab. Banks, keep him covered. If he twitches, light him up.” Mitchell climbed up the steps and into the Peterbilt. Dion watched from the rain. Banks's taser laser dot dancing lightly on his chest.
Inside the cab, Dion could hear Mitchell tearing things apart, the sound of Velcro ripping, compartments being slammed, clothes being tossed onto the floor. It wasn't a search for a lockbox. It was a punitive destruction of property. Mitchell was trashing the cab out of spite. “Under the bunk,” Dion called out loudly over the rain.
“Stop tearing my clothes up and lift the mattress.” A moment later, Mitchell emerged, standing in the doorway of the cab. In his hands was a heavy matte black biometric and combination lockbox. He looked down at Dion, victorious.
“Found it,” Mitchell said, stepping down from the cab and placing the heavy box on the hood of the cruiser out of the rain. “Give me the code.” “9427,” Dion recited.
Mitchell punched the numbers into the keypad. A green light flashed and the heavy latch clicked open. Mitchell threw the lid back.