O'Grady didn't care about the rain. His eyes were darting around the interior of the Taurus, looking for probable cause. "Step out of the vehicle."
"Excuse me?" Cynthia asked, her tone hardening just a fraction. "For an alleged traffic violation?"
"I said step out of the vehicle," O'Grady barked, his hand dropping to rest on the butt of his service weapon.
Now, Cynthia did not panic. She did not argue. As the director of the FBI, she knew exactly how this game was played. She also knew that her rental car was equipped with a state-of-the-art 360-degree covert surveillance system installed by the Bureau's technical division. High-definition cameras were currently recording the cabin, the exterior, and O'Grady's every move, backing the encrypted feed directly up to a secure server in Quantico.
She unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped out into the freezing rain.
"Face the car. Hands on the roof," O'Grady ordered.
Cynthia complied. She felt O'Grady's rough hands pat her down—a search that was far more aggressive than protocol dictated. He found nothing but her cell phone and a tube of lipstick.
"Wait here," he snapped.
Through the reflection in the wet glass of her car window, Cynthia watched O'Grady open her driver's-side door and lean into the vehicle. He rummaged through the center console, tore through the glovebox, and checked under the seats—a full illegal search without a warrant, without probable cause, and without her consent.
Then, Cynthia saw it.
O'Grady's right hand slipped into his own heavy raincoat pocket. When his hand emerged, his fingers were curled around a small, transparent plastic bag containing a chunky white substance. He smoothly dropped it under the driver's seat, then immediately pretended to discover it.
"Well, well, well," O'Grady said, pulling his head out of the car and holding the bag up into the glare of the police cruiser's headlights. "What do we have here?"
Cynthia turned her head slowly. "I've never seen that before in my life."
"Sure you haven't," O'Grady sneered, shaking the bag of what looked like crack cocaine. "It just magically appeared under your seat. You people are all the same. Drive a nice rental, wear a nice suit, think you can move product through my sector without getting caught."
"Officer O'Grady, I strongly suggest you think about what you are doing," Cynthia said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register.
O'Grady laughed. It was a cruel, barking sound. He pulled his handcuffs from his belt. "Turn around. Hands behind your back."
Cynthia turned. She felt the cold steel bite into her wrists as O'Grady ratcheted the cuffs entirely too tight.
"Cynthia Holloway," O'Grady whispered in her ear, "you are under arrest for possession of a Schedule II controlled substance with intent to distribute. You have the right to remain silent. I highly suggest you use it."