"Then you won't object if we search the cab," Boone declared. He immediately stepped past Marcus and moved toward the driver's door of the Peterbilt.
"Actually, officer," Marcus said, turning to block his path, "I do object. I do not consent to any search of my vehicle." He maintained his ground. "You can issue a citation for the tail light and allow me to continue my route."
The atmosphere beneath the gas station canopy changed instantly. The lazy mockery vanished. Cold, deliberate malice replaced it. Pierce rushed around the front of the truck, one hand dropping toward his taser.
"What did you just say to him?"
"I said that I know my rights," Marcus replied. "You have no probable cause to search the cab of my truck."
Boone laughed. It was a dry, barking sound. He looked toward Pierce and shook his head. "He knows his rights, Colton." Boone smiled. "We have a roadside attorney here. A constitutional scholar."
Without warning, Boone's arm shot forward. He grabbed a fistful of Marcus's denim jacket and shoved him backward with brutal force. Marcus allowed himself to be pushed. He stumbled until his spine slammed against the heavy steel body of the fuel pump.
Before Marcus could regain his balance, Pierce attacked. The younger deputy seized Marcus's left arm, twisted it violently behind his back, and drove his face into the aluminum side of the trailer. The cold metal cut into Marcus's cheek.
"Stop resisting!" Pierce screamed. "Stop resisting!" It was the rehearsed language of a corrupt officer constructing an audio justification for his own violence.
"I'm not resisting," Marcus said, his voice remaining remarkably calm despite the burning pain inside his shoulder.
The deputies removed their handcuffs. Cold steel closed around Marcus's wrists and tightened viciously against his skin.
"You are under arrest for interfering with a police investigation, resisting arrest, and creating a public disturbance." Boone whispered directly into his ear. "You are going to remain here and keep your mouth shut while we tear your truck apart." His voice became lower. "If you say one word, I will have Pierce bounce your skull off the pavement." Boone paused. "Do you understand?"
Marcus did not respond. He allowed his eyes to move upward, making brief contact with the tiny camera concealed inside the housing of the side mirror. We have them, he thought. Federal civil rights violations, false arrest, assault under color of law.
But the FBI did not merely want Boone and Pierce. It wanted the entire corrupt department. To dismantle the organization, investigators needed to record the deputies attempting to steal the bait.
"Watch him," Boone ordered. He grabbed the chrome handle of the Peterbilt's door and pulled himself into the cab.
From where he remained restrained against the trailer, Marcus could hear the destruction beginning. Drawers were pulled open and thrown onto the floor. The mattress inside the sleeper berth was overturned. Boone found Marcus's personal duffel bag, opened it, and violently emptied its contents across the driver's seat.
"There is nothing in the bags," Boone called. His voice was muffled through the cab's thick glass.
"Check beneath the bunk," Pierce shouted back. His knee pressed against Marcus's lower back. "That's where these drivers usually bolt down their lock boxes."
Inside the cab, the hidden cameras recorded every detail of Boone's illegal search with agonizing clarity. The deputy removed the blankets, kicked aside the small refrigerator, and tore up the heavy rubber flooring beneath the sleeping area. Then Boone stopped. A wicked smile slowly spread across his face.
Bolted directly to the reinforced steel chassis of the truck was a heavy matte black biometric lock box. It was approximately the size of a large briefcase, constructed from thick steel and reinforced around the hinges. To an officer like Boone, a lock box meant only one thing: illegal cash, large amounts of untraceable drug money that a truck driver would never dare report stolen. This was exactly what Boone and Pierce preyed upon. This was their payday.
Boone hurried out of the cab, his face flushed with greed and adrenaline. He jumped onto the pavement and marched toward Marcus with wild eyes.
"Well, well, well," Boone said. His hot breath struck Marcus's face. "What do we have hidden beneath your bed?" He smiled. "It looks like a heavy-duty safe."
"That is private property," Marcus replied, perfectly imitating the panic of a frightened driver. "You have no authority to open it. I want an attorney."
"An attorney?" Pierce laughed. He pressed his knee harder into Marcus's back. "You believe an attorney is coming to Route 87 in the middle of the night?" His voice turned cold. "It is only us out here, boy."
"We already know what is inside the box," Boone said. His voice dropped, becoming falsely reasonable and conspiratorial. "Let us make an arrangement. You open the safe. If it contains cash, we seize it under suspicion of narcotics trafficking." He smiled. "But we allow you to leave. We remove the handcuffs. You return to your truck and drive away. No arrest, no felony charges. You go home to your family."
Boone's expression hardened. "If you refuse to open the box, you are going to the county jail. And I promise that you will not survive your time in custody."
It was extortion, clear, undeniable, textbook extortion. Inside the nearby command center, Agent Voss was already preparing the indictments.
"I don't have a key." Marcus lied, perfectly imitating a terrified civilian trapped without options. "It is a company truck. The lockbox belongs to the dispatcher."