Rollins hesitated.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Rollins unlocked them.
Arthur rubbed his wrists.
The red marks were already visible.
He placed a single brass key on the counter.
Nothing else.
Omali frowned.
“No wallet?”
“No.”
“No phone?”
“Inside my home.”
Rollins smiled.
“See?”
Arthur looked at him.
“See what?”
“You're making yourself look worse.”
Arthur shook his head.
“No, Officer.”
He looked at Omali.
“Your officer is making himself look worse.”
Omali felt an uneasy chill.
Arthur continued.
“I am requesting my phone call.”
“Sure.”
“And I request that you preserve the dash-camera recording from Officer Rollins's vehicle.”
Omali stopped.
“Why?”
“Because it contains evidence of what happened.”
Rollins laughed.
“Listen to this guy.”
Arthur didn't look at him.
“Sergeant, I am also requesting that the station preserve all surveillance footage from the moment I arrived.”
Omali stared.
“Are you an attorney?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know—”
“I know the law.”
Rollins stepped forward.
“You're under arrest.”
Arthur finally turned toward him.
“I know.”
Rollins smiled.
“Then act like it.”
Arthur picked up the phone.
He knew the number by heart.
Twelve digits.
Two rings.
Then a voice.
“Hayes.”
Arthur turned slightly away.
“Tom.”
Silence.
“Sir?”
“It's Arthur.”
Hayes immediately understood something was wrong.
“Where are you?”
“Bethesda precinct.”
Another pause.
“What happened?”
“I've been arrested.”
Hayes went completely silent.
“Are you injured?”
“Physically, no.”
“Who arrested you?”
“Local patrol officer.”
Hayes's voice became sharper.
“Why?”
“Trespassing, apparently.”
“Arthur.”
“Yes?”
“Are you telling me someone arrested the Director of the FBI while he was standing outside his own home?”
“That appears to be what happened.”
Hayes took a breath.
“Do you want me to notify the Attorney General?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I want the process preserved exactly as it is.”
Hayes understood.
Arthur wanted evidence.
Not chaos.
“Understood.”
“Bring legal counsel.”
“Yes.”
“And Internal Affairs.”
“Yes.”
Arthur paused.
“Tom?”
“Sir?”
“Don't let anyone turn this into a circus before we understand the facts.”
Hayes almost laughed.
“Arthur, if a local police department has arrested you in your own driveway, the circus has already arrived.”
Arthur smiled faintly.
“Fair enough.”
He hung up.
Rollins stared.
“Who did you call?”
“A colleague.”
“Your lawyer?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Arthur looked at him.
“You'll find out.”
Rollins scoffed.
He grabbed Arthur's arm.
“Back to the cell.”
The holding cell door slammed shut.
Arthur sat on the metal bench.
Rollins stood outside.
“You're going to learn something today.”
Arthur looked up.
“What?”
“You're not above the law.”
Arthur nodded.
“I agree.”
Rollins smiled.
“Good.”
Arthur's expression remained calm.
“But neither are you.”
Rollins's smile disappeared.
“What does that mean?”
Arthur leaned back.
“Nothing.”
Rollins walked away.
At the booking desk, Sergeant Omali was staring at the computer.
Something had been bothering him.
He pulled up the property database.
442 Elmwood Estates.
The result appeared.
Owner:
Arthur J. Pendleton.
Omali stared.
He checked again.
Paid in full.
Property value: $6.2 million.
He opened another database.
Arthur Pendleton.
The computer flashed a restricted-access warning.
Omali frowned.
He opened a public government website.
The first result appeared.
A photograph.
Silver hair.
Serious expression.
Dark suit.
And beneath the photograph:
Arthur J. Pendleton
Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation
Omali stopped breathing.
“Derek.”
Rollins looked over.
“What?”
Omali turned the monitor.
“Read it.”
Rollins walked closer.
His eyes moved across the screen.
Then widened.
His face went completely white.
“No.”
Miller approached.
“What?”
Rollins whispered.
“No.”
Miller saw the screen.
He closed his eyes.
“Oh, God.”
Omali looked toward the holding corridor.
“What have we done?”
Rollins grabbed the edge of the desk.
“He didn't say.”
Miller stared at him.
“He did.”
“What?”
“He told you.”
Miller's voice was bitter.
“He told you to verify the address.”
Rollins shook his head.
“I didn't know.”
Miller looked at him.
“That is exactly the problem.”
Before anyone could respond, a deep rumbling sound rolled through the building.
The windows vibrated.
Everyone froze.
The rumble became louder.
Then came the unmistakable sound of multiple engines.
Omali walked toward the front windows.
His stomach dropped.
Black SUVs were filling the street.
Then armored vehicles appeared.
Federal agents spilled out.
Dozens of them.
The peaceful Sunday morning had transformed into something that looked like a military operation.
Rollins whispered:
“What are they doing?”
Miller stared through the glass.
“They're here for him.”
Omali closed his eyes.
“No.”
A bullhorn sounded outside.
“FEDERAL AGENTS! KEEP YOUR HANDS VISIBLE!”
Rollins looked toward the holding cells.
For the first time that morning, he was genuinely afraid.
The Federal Storm
The first armored vehicle stopped directly in front of the precinct.
Its doors opened.
Agents emerged quickly and professionally.
There was no shouting.
No chaos.
Just precision.
The FBI Washington Field Office had mobilized.
Deputy Director Thomas Hayes arrived with Special Agent in Charge Richard Caldwell.
Neither man looked remotely calm.
Hayes had known Arthur Pendleton for more than twenty years.
He had served under him.