You guys are pathetic, Jenkins gloated, patting down Jonathan's sides. Impersonating a federal officer? That's a felony, boys. Let's see what you've really got on you. Jenkins reached his hand under Jonathan's hoodie, expecting to find a baggie of crack cocaine 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. They're fake! Jenkins stammered, though his voice had lost all its bravado. His hands began to tremble.
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 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.
Outpoured 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?