Before Miller could finish his sentence, the heavy reinforced glass doors of the precinct hissed open.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The low-level chatter died. The heavy footsteps of six people walking in perfect sync echoed across the room.
Leading the pack was District Attorney Sarah Jenkins. In her fifties, wearing a sharp beige trench coat and a look of absolute fury, she walked with a terrifying authority. Flanking her were four men in dark suits, their earpieces curled tightly around their necks—Vance’s federal detail.
Jenkins bypassed the front desk entirely and walked straight to the wooden bench. She looked down at Vance, then at the iron cuffs cutting into his tailored sleeve.
"Agent Vance, are you injured?" she asked, her voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel.
"Just delayed, Sarah," Vance replied calmly. "Though I fear the docks operation is completely compromised."
Jenkins closed her eyes for a brief second, processing the catastrophic loss of the bust. When she opened them, her gaze locked onto Miller, who was now frozen by the coffee machine, the color draining from his face.
"Unlock him," Jenkins ordered.
Miller scrambled for his keys, his hands shaking so violently he dropped them twice before finally freeing Vance’s wrist.