He bolted in the opposite direction, melting into the crowd of tourists.
"No!" Jonathan yelled, watching 2 years of undercover work evaporate in front of his eyes.
"Cole! Target is running. North exit, gray suit!"
"We see him. Units are too far out. He's getting into a cab. Damn it, Paul. We lost the money," Cole replied, his voice furious, echoing painfully in Jonathan's earpiece. The realization that the operation was dead washed over Jonathan like ice water. The cartel money was gone.
The ledger was gone. And it was all because of a racist beat cop who couldn't leave well enough alone. A cold, dark fury settled in Jonathan's chest.
"On the ground!" Jenkins screamed again, spit flying from his lips as he shoved Sam hard against the back of the bench.
"Take it easy. We're complying."
Sam gritted his teeth, allowing Jenkins to force him chest first against the hot iron slats of the bench. Sam knew better than to fight a uniformed officer, even if the officer was dead wrong. Survival came first. The truth would come out in about two minutes.
Jenkins violently wrenched Sam's arms behind his back, the steel handcuffs biting viciously into Sam's wrists as Jenkins ratcheted them far tighter than legally allowed. Jonathan stood still, his hands raised in the air, his eyes burning holes into Jenkins.
"Your turn," Jenkins sneered, breathing heavily, high on adrenaline.
He holstered his taser and drew his secondary pair of cuffs.
"Turn around. Hands behind your back. Give me a reason to drop you."
"Come on, Officer Jenkins," Jonathan said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of any fear.
"You just cost the United States government $3 million. You just let a cartel money launderer escape. My name is Special Agent Jonathan Paul. The man you just assaulted is Special Agent Samuel Hayes. We are with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
Jenkins paused. For a second, a flicker of doubt crossed his face, but then he looked at Jonathan's baggy clothes, his worn out shoes, and his skin color. The prejudice ran too deep. He couldn't compute the reality in front of him.
He laughed, a harsh mocking sound.
"FBI? Yeah, right. And I'm the president of the United States," Jenkins scoffed, stepping forward and violently spinning Jonathan around.
He kicked Jonathan's legs apart, almost hyperextending his knee and slammed his chest against the bench next to Sam. Jenkins slapped the cuffs on Jonathan, locking them tightly.
"You guys are pathetic," Jenkins gloated, patting down Jonathan's sides.
"Impersonating a federal officer? That's a felony. Let's see what you've really got on you."
Jenkins reached his hand under Jonathan's hoodie, expecting to find a small bag of narcotics or an illegal unregistered handgun. Instead, his hand brushed against a molded Kydex holster holding a perfectly maintained Glock 19. Next to it, clipped securely to a reinforced tactical belt, was a heavy leather credential case. Jenkins's smirk faltered.
He pulled the leather case out from under the hoodie. Flipping it open, the harsh midday sun hit the polished metal inside. A solid gold shield with the blue enamel seal of the Department of Justice. Next to it, a laminated ID card bearing Jonathan's photo, the FBI watermark, and the signature of the director.
The park around them seemed to go dead silent. The only sound was the splashing of the fountain and the erratic, suddenly shallow breathing of Officer Brian Jenkins. Jenkins stared at the gold badge. He blinked.
He looked at the badge, then looked down at the two men in handcuffs.
"A fake!" Jenkins stammered, though his voice had lost all its bravado.
His hands began to tremble.
"This is... you bought this online. Good fake, though."
"Check my left breast pocket, Brian," Sam said from the bench, his cheek pressed against the hot iron, his voice dripping with pure venom.
"Go ahead. Let's see how many fake federal credentials you can find today."
Jenkins swallowed hard, sweat suddenly pouring down his forehead, stinging his eyes. With shaking hands, he reached into Sam's shirt pocket and pulled out a second leather case, another gold badge, another federal ID. Right at that moment, the wail of police sirens pierced the air, but they weren't the standard two-tone sirens of the Atlanta PD backup Jenkins had called for. Three matte-black SUVs with hidden red and blue strobe lights came screeching through the park's pedestrian walkways, tearing up the grass as they surrounded Jenkins's patrol car.
The doors of the SUVs flew open. Out poured a dozen heavily armed tactical agents wearing olive drab tactical vests with massive yellow letters across their chests.
"FBI supervisory agent Richard Cole stepped out of the lead vehicle."
He was a large, imposing man, wearing a sharp suit with his badge clipped to his belt and an expression that promised absolute destruction. He bypassed Jenkins entirely and walked straight to the bench.
"Agent Paul, Agent Hayes, are you injured?" Cole asked, his voice cutting through the humid air like a razor blade.
"Just our pride, boss," Jonathan said calmly, looking over his shoulder at the paralyzed police officer.
"And our wrists. Officer Jenkins here has a heavy hand."