Within minutes, a cruiser arrived. As Marcus was forcefully shoved into the stifling, plastic-lined back seat of the patrol car, he maintained his stoic, unbreakable demeanor. He looked out the window at Braddock.
"I hope you have excellent union representation," Marcus told him quietly through the mesh divider.
Braddock just sneered, entirely convinced he had just busted a sophisticated corporate espionage thief trying to steal trade secrets. As he drove toward the precinct, Braddock actually whistled along to the radio, his ego blinding him to the catastrophic, career-ending error he had just committed. He was already drafting the heroic incident report in his head, completely unaware of the hurricane waiting for him at the station.
The drive to the 4th precinct was brief, yet every second the cold metal cuffs bit into Marcus’s skin felt like a profound violation. Upon arrival, Braddock hauled Marcus out of the cruiser, a triumphant, self-satisfied smirk plastered across his youthful face. He paraded his prisoner through the back entrance, marching him past the grim holding cells, and straight into the bustling processing area.
It was a slow Saturday morning. The station hummed with the quiet drone of ringing phones, the clacking of keyboards, and the distinct smell of floor wax and stale coffee. Sergeant Tom Miller, a seasoned, grey-haired veteran just two years shy of a hard-earned pension, sat slumped at the elevated front desk. He was hunched over a weekend roster, half-heartedly nursing a lukewarm cup of joe from a Styrofoam cup.
"Got a live one, Sarge," Braddock announced loudly, demanding the attention of the room as he practically shoved Marcus toward the steel booking bench. "Caught him trying to break into Sterling Tower using a cloned executive pass. Belligerent. Refused to comply. Resisted."
Sergeant Miller sighed, slowly raising his heavy head and peering over the rim of his reading glasses. First, he looked at the brash young officer, noting the arrogant puff of his chest. Then, his weary gaze shifted down to the man in the handcuffs.
The Styrofoam coffee cup stopped dead, hovering halfway to Miller’s mouth. His eyes widened, the deep wrinkles on his forehead stretching taut. He blinked hard, once, twice, hoping his aging eyes were playing a cruel trick on him.
They weren't.
Standing before him, dressed in simple sweatpants and a hoodie, but radiating an undeniable, furious aura of calm authority, was Marcus Sterling. Miller knew him intimately. Sterling was the single largest private benefactor of the local Police Athletic League. Just three months ago, Sterling had fully funded the precinct's state-of-the-art digital communications hub. Miller had shaken the man's hand and shared a drink with him at the Mayor's charity gala.