"You sit there, 'Agent'," Miller mocked, turning his back. "Let's see if the Director comes to bail you out."
For forty-five minutes, Vance sat tethered to the bench. He didn't yell. He didn't demand a lawyer. He simply watched the clock ticking on the wall, his expression shifting from mild irritation to a cold, focused intensity. Every second he was detained was a second his undercover sting operation—months in the making—was unraveling.
Sergeant Harris, a veteran desk officer with grey hair and a tired face, kept glancing nervously at the gold shield still sitting on the counter. He finally picked it up, feeling the weight of the metal. His stomach dropped. He logged into the federal database, his fingers trembling slightly as he typed in the badge number.
The screen blinked. STATUS: ACTIVE. CLEARANCE: LEVEL 5 - CLASSIFIED.
Harris turned pale. He stood up slowly and walked over to Miller, who was laughing with another officer by the coffee machine.
"Miller," Harris said, his voice dropping to a tense whisper. "That badge is real. You just chained a senior federal agent to a wooden bench."
The smile vanished from Miller’s face. The harsh lighting suddenly felt oppressive. "What? No, it has to be a sophisticated fake. He was driving a civilian car—"