Do not lie to me, Mitchell. Do not make this worse for yourself. You rolled in here with your lights off. You boxed me in. You didn't ask for my bill of lading right away.
You focused entirely on my logbook, looking for an excuse to hold me. You specifically asked about agricultural supplies, and you were obsessed with getting into my trailer. Dion stepped forward, closing the distance until he was inches from Mitchell's face. “You knew exactly what you were looking for, didn’t you?” Dion asked softly. “No, I swear,” Mitchell protested, putting his hands up defensively.
I just saw an out-of-state plate. I was fishing. Okay, I admit it. I was fishing for a drug bust to make detective. Wrong answer, Dion said.
He reached out with lightning speed, grabbing Mitchell by the front of his tactical vest. He didn't hit him, but he yanked him forward, pulling him off balance, forcing Mitchell to look directly into his eyes. “My truck is a ghost,” Dion whispered fiercely. The plates are registered to a dummy corporation. The DOT numbers trace back to a shell company in Chicago.
There is absolutely nothing in the National Crime Information Center database that flags this vehicle. Nothing. The only way you pull me over, the only way you push this hard to get into my trailer is if somebody told you to look for a white Peterbilt pulling a dry van with Illinois plates. Banks gasped, looking at his partner in horror. Mitch, what did you do?
Mitchell's face went entirely pale. The bravado he had wielded like a club just 20 minutes prior was completely shattered. He looked at Dion, his eyes wide with a very real, very deep terror. It wasn't just the fear of the FBI anymore. It was the fear of something much darker.
The rain continued to fall, washing away the last remnants of Mitchell Hayes's arrogance. He trembled in Dion's grip, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Dion released his hold on the young officer's vest, letting him stumble back against the side of his own cruiser. “Who tipped you off?” Dion demanded, his voice slicing through the heavy rhythm of the downpour. “Nobody,” Mitchell choked out, though his eyes darted nervously toward his own pockets.
“I told you it was just a hunch.” “You’re a terrible liar, Mitchell,” Dion said, taking a deliberate step forward. “And you are currently obstructing a federal investigation involving the Sinaloa cartel. Do you understand what that means? It means when I make a phone call to the Atlanta field office, you won't be dealing with internal affairs. You will be dealing with a federal indictment.
You will be locked in a federal penitentiary where half the inmates are people your department put away. Or worse, the cartel finds out you blew their surveillance operation and they handle you themselves.” Banks Griffin couldn't take it anymore. The older officer broke ranks entirely. “Give it to him, Mitch,” Banks yelled, his voice cracking with desperation.
Whatever you did, whoever you talked to, tell the agent. I've got two kids and a mortgage. I am not going to federal prison because you wanted to play dirty. Mitchell looked at Banks, feeling the absolute sting of betrayal. But he knew his partner was right.
He was completely cornered. He reached a shaking hand into the cargo pocket of his uniform trousers. He bypassed his department-issued smartphone and pulled out a small cheap prepaid burner phone. He held it out to Dion like it was made of radioactive material. Dion snatched the phone from his hand.
He pressed the power button, waking the screen. It was unlocked. He opened the message application. There was only one contact listed, saved simply as Jay.
Dion opened the thread. There was only one message received at 1:15 a.m. roughly half an hour before Dion had pulled into the gas station. White Peterbilt 389 IIL plates should be passing through Oak Haven on Highway 9 between 1 and 3 a.m. Detain the driver. Check the seal on the trailer. If it's red, text me immediately. $5,000 in the usual spot.
Dion stared at the glowing screen, the implication of the words sending a cold spike of adrenaline through his veins. The operation was compromised. The cartel didn't know it was an FBI sting. If they did, they would have sent a hit squad, not a corrupt small-town cop. But they knew the route.
They were tracking the shipment. They were using local dirty law enforcement as an early warning system to verify the cargo hadn't been intercepted by rival factions or law enforcement. “Who is Jay?” Dion asked, holding the phone up. “I don’t know his real name,” Mitchell pleaded, his voice breaking. “I swear to God, I don’t.