"Well, what do we have here?" He examined the small black unit, then crushed it between his fingers. "You just don't learn, do you?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Try another smartass move like that, and you'll be leaving here in much worse shape than you arrived."
"Understood." The threat hung in the air like smoke. Trina met his gaze steadily, but stayed silent. Falner's eyes were dead. The eyes of someone who enjoyed causing pain.
Back on the road, Trina watched through the window as they passed the rest stop again. Her heart sank as she spotted a black transport truck pulling out, the very one she'd been monitoring for weeks. She knew what was inside: young girls, stolen lives, headed for God knows where. All her careful surveillance blown in an instant.
At the station, they roughly marched her through a side entrance. The building was oddly quiet for mid-afternoon, with only a few deputies visible. They stopped at booking.
"Name?" barked the desk sergeant, not looking up.
"Kesha Lorn," Trina replied evenly, using her well-established alias. She'd been operating under this identity for months with perfect documentation to back it up.
Falner's eyes narrowed slightly. He stepped closer, studying her face. "Funny! You don't look like a Kesha to me."
"That's what my mama named me," Trina shot back, letting a hint of defiance color her tone. Play the role, she reminded herself. Just another angry civilian being harassed.
"We'll see about that," Falner murmured. He nodded to Rusk. "Put her in holding. Alone."
The holding cell was small and reeked of bleach. A single narrow window near the ceiling let in a shaft of dusty light. Rusk shoved her inside hard enough that she stumbled, catching herself against the metal bench.
"Enjoy your stay, Princess," he sneered, slamming the door with unnecessary force.
Miles away, in an unmarked van serving as FBI mobile command, Agent Monroe paced the cramped space, running his hands through his gray hair in frustration. Multiple screens showed static where there should have been tracking data.
"What do you mean we've lost both signals?" he demanded. "The truck and Agent Daniels—both gone."
"Yes, sir," a young tech replied. "Agent Daniels's primary comm went dark at 14:22. Backup unit activated briefly at 14:45, but was also lost. The transport truck's tracker showed it heading east on I-70. Then nothing."
"Jesus Christ," Monroe muttered. Months of careful work, dozens of potential victims, all slipping away. And now one of his best agents was in the wind.
A junior agent burst into the van, tablet in hand. "Sir, you need to see this. It's going viral."
The shaky phone footage showed Trina being roughly handled by the deputies, their racist comments clearly audible. The teenager who'd filmed it had posted it with the caption: Cops harass Black female trucker for no reason. Spread this.
Back at the station, Falner methodically searched through Trina's confiscated belongings. His movements were unhurried, practiced. When he got to her socks, his fingers found something hard. He pulled out a slim black phone, different from the basic burner they'd already logged into evidence. Turning it on, his face hardened as he saw the encrypted screen: Satellite Uplink Active. The wallpaper was the FBI seal.
Without a word, he walked to the front of the station and quietly locked the main doors. No one in, no one out.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the holding cell window as Trina sat perfectly still, mentally mapping the building's layout, counting guard rotations, noting every detail. Her training hadn't failed her yet. She just had to stay alive long enough to use it.
The evidence room's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Falner circled Trina like a shark. She sat handcuffed to a metal chair, her dark skin glistening with sweat in the stuffy room. He held up her two confiscated devices, turning them over in his hands with exaggerated care.
"You know what I think?" Falner's voice was soft. Dangerous. "I think you're not some truck driver at all." He leaned in close, his breath hot against her face. "I think you're a fed bitch who stuck her nose where it doesn't belong."
Trina kept her expression blank, staring straight ahead. Her split lip throbbed, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain.
"Nothing to say?" He slammed both devices onto the metal table, making her flinch despite herself. "That's fine. I made some calls. Just waiting to hear back about what to do with you."
He pulled out his phone, dialing a number while maintaining eye contact with her. "Yeah, it's me. Got something you need to know about." He stepped just outside the door, but his voice carried clearly. "Found FBI gear on her. No, nobody knows she's here. What do you want me to do with her?"
Trina's ears strained to hear the response, but the voice on the other end was too muffled. Falner's face darkened as he listened.
Meanwhile, in the dispatch room, Officer Miguel Diaz pretended to file paperwork while watching the scene unfold through the glass partition. His hands shook slightly as he watched Falner return to the evidence room. This wasn't right. None of this was right.
Falner stalked over to the room's thermostat, cranking it up. "Gets mighty hot in here without AC," he drawled. "Especially in summer, especially when the ventilation's bad." He flicked off the lights, leaving only the dim glow from the hallway. "And it's amazing how many equipment malfunctions we have. Cameras, air conditioning, lights... anything could happen and nobody would know."
Sweat rolled down Trina's back, but she kept her breathing steady. She'd endured worse in ranger training. The darkness didn't scare her. It was an advantage if she could get free.
Down the hall, Deputy Rusk sat at a computer terminal, methodically deleting security footage. His pudgy fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, erasing every trace of their encounter with Trina at the rest stop. He'd done this before.
Agent Monroe's voice crackled through the precinct's main phone line for the third time in an hour. "This is Senior FBI Agent Monroe. I need to speak with your commanding officer immediately."
The desk sergeant's response was rehearsed. "Sorry, sir. Sheriff's out of town. Can't help you."
"This is a federal matter—"
Click. The line went dead.