"I am complying," David said, his voice shockingly steady, betraying no fear. "You are making a monumental mistake, officer." "Shut your mouth," Briggs growled, patting David down with rough, invasive hostility. He felt the wallet in David's back pocket, yanked it out, and tossed it carelessly onto the trunk of the car. He didn't even bother to open it to check the military ID David had mentioned.

Briggs wasn't looking for identification. He was looking for submission. Up the road, a rusted pickup truck slowed down and pulled over onto the opposite shoulder. Two teenagers hopped out of the bed. Sensing the tension, one of them quickly pulled out a smartphone, hitting record.

Brig saw the camera out of this corner of his eye. Instead of calming down, the audience seemed to fuel his narcissistic rage. He wanted to show the town the rookie and this arrogant driver who held the power. "You're resisting." Briggs lied loudly, performing for the camera.

He grabbed David's left wrist, twisting it behind his back with enough torque to strain the rotator cuff. "Stop resisting." "I am not resisting," David stated loud enough for the camera to pick up his calm, level voice. "My hands are on the car. I am fully compliant."

Infuriated by David's unbreakable composure, Briggs decided to take the ultimate step in public degradation. He drew his Glock 19. Toby gasped. "Officer Briggs, he's not. Back off, Miller."

Briggs snapped, pressing the cold, hard steel of the barrel directly against the base of David's skull. The metallic click of the safety being disengaged sounded as loud as a thunderclap in the heavy summer air. David's heart rate spiked. A cold rush of adrenaline flooding his system, but his breathing remained perfectly controlled. 4 seconds in, 4 seconds out.

Tactical patience. Get on the ground, Briggs commanded, his voice trembling with a toxic mix of adrenaline and power. On your knees right now. David closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. The asphalt beneath them was baking in the 110° sun.

It was rough, unforgiving, and laced with shattered glass and gravel. Officer, David said quietly, so only Briggs could hear. If I kneel on this road, there is no going back for you. I am telling you as a man to look at the ID in my wallet. Kneel, boy, Briggs roared, shoving the gun harder against David's spine.

David slowly lowered himself. The searing heat of the asphalt instantly burned through the fabric of his jeans, biting into his skin. The gravel dug into his kneecaps, sending sharp spikes of pain shooting up his legs. He kept his back perfectly straight, his shoulders squared, refusing to bow his head. Even on his knees, David Henderson exuded the terrifying aura of a king temporarily in chains.

Brig stepped back, keeping the gun trained on David. He looked around proudly. That's right. That's exactly where you belong. Down in the dirt.

You people come into my town. You act like you own the place. Now you learn. David looked straight ahead at the treeine. His left wrist a few inches from his face bore a heavy matte black tactical smartwatch.

Suddenly the screen illuminated. A brief encrypted vibration pulsed against his skin. A text message appeared from Captain Sarah Jenkins, his second in command and lead wingman. Command Reaper Squadron is airborne. Holding pattern established at Angels 15, awaiting your arrival.

David knew the timeline. It was 14:15. The ceremony was starting. The general of the base, the mayor of the town, and hundreds of civilians were currently taking their seats. And the man who was supposed to be leading the four ship F15 formation that would shatter the sky in 15 minutes was currently kneeling on boiling asphalt.

A gun pointed at his head by a rogue cop, a dark, dangerous calm settled over David. The time for deescalation had passed. Officer Mitchell Briggs had wanted a show of power. He had wanted to humiliate a man he viewed as less than human. David slowly turned his head, looking up at Briggs from the ground.

The sunglasses were off, and Briggs finally saw the full weight of the stare directed at him. It wasn't the look of a defeated man. It was the look of a predator who had just allowed the trap to close, knowing he was the one holding the remote detonator. Officer Briggs," David said, his voice cutting through the thick heat like a surgical blade. "Do you hear that?"

Briggs frowned, his gun wavering slightly. "Hear what?" "Shut up!" David tilted his head toward the east, toward the sprawling military base miles away. "Listen!"

At first there was nothing but the sound of the wind and the distant cicadas, but then a low subsonic vibration began to rattle the ground. It was a deep guttural roar like distant thunder that didn't stop. It was the sound of 40,000 lb of thrust tearing through the atmosphere. That," David said softly, a grim, terrifying smile touching the corners of his mouth, is the sound of my men. 10,000 ft above the sprawling sunbaked landscape of Fairview, Captain Sarah Jenkins was living in a world of high octane mathematics and suppressed anxiety.

Call sign Valkyrie. She was a combat hardened pilot and the designated flight lead for Reaper Squadron's second element. Right now she was flying in a holding pattern, her F-15E Strike Eagle banking in a lazy wide circle. Behind her, three other multi-million dollar fighter jets mirrored her every move with terrifying precision. But the formation was incomplete.

The apex was missing. Command, this is Reaper 2, Sarah transmitted over the secure military frequency, her voice tight but professional. We are holding at Angel's 10. Timeline to target is tminus 12 minutes. Still no visual or coms from Reaper 1.

Please advise inside the heavily fortified command center back at the base. Technicians were scrambling. Colonel David Henderson was never late. He was a man who operated on a molecular level of punctuality. Reaper 2, command.