Sergeant Patricia Owens froze. The pen slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the desk.
She looked at Danielle, then at Dominique, then slowly raised her eyes to Dalton.
"Rick," Owens said, her voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Tell me she's lying."
Dalton slammed his hand on the counter. "She's lying! They're impersonating federal
officers! They were drunk and out of control at Luis's bar!"
"We have not consumed enough alcohol to be legally impaired, a fact a breathalyzer will
immediately confirm," Dominique interjected smoothly. "Furthermore, the entire incident,
including Sergeant Dalton kicking my federal credentials across the floor, was recorded on
the bar's security cameras and by at least half a dozen civilian witnesses on their cellular
devices."
Owens’ face went chalk-white. She had been around long enough to recognize the absolute,
terrifying cadence of federal investigators laying out an indisputable chain of evidence. She
looked at Boyd.
"Boyd," Owens demanded. "Did she drop a badge?"
Boyd swallowed hard, looking desperately at Dalton, then back to Owens. The young officer
was cracking under the pressure. He nodded, once, very slowly. "Yes, Sarge. It... it looked
real."
"God damn it, Rick," Owens breathed, standing up from her chair. The ramifications of what
was happening crashed over her like a tidal wave. This wasn't a bad arrest; this was a
career-ending, department-destroying catastrophic event. Arresting federal agents under
color of law while intoxicated was the kind of thing that brought the Department of Justice
down on a precinct like a hammer.
"Take the cuffs off them," Owens ordered, her voice trembling.
"No!" Dalton shouted, stepping between the women and the desk. "They're my prisoners!
I'm processing them!"
"Rick, you idiot, take the cuffs off them right now!" Owens yelled back, her professional
demeanor shattering. "Are you out of your mind? You're drunk! I can smell it from here!"
"I am the ranking officer on this floor!" Dalton roared, attempting to assert authority he no
longer possessed.
"Actually, Sergeant Dalton," Danielle said calmly, turning to face him, "we are the ranking
officers in this building. And you are digging a hole so deep you will never climb out."
Owens didn't wait for Dalton. She buzzed herself out from behind the secure glass, grabbing
a set of universal handcuff keys from her belt. She walked quickly to Danielle, ignoring
Dalton’s protests.
"Ma'am, I am taking these off," Owens said, her hands shaking as she unlocked the metal
cuffs. She moved to Dominique and did the same.
Both women brought their arms forward, rubbing their deeply bruised wrists. They didn't
thank Owens. They didn't show relief. They maintained their icy, professional composure.
"Sergeant Owens," Dominique said, rubbing her left wrist. "I need you to secure this area. I
need you to confiscate Sergeant Dalton's and Officer Boyd's department-issued weapons
immediately. And you need to wake up your Chief of Police. Right now."
Owens didn't argue. She didn't hesitate. She knew survival meant complying with the
highest authority in the room.
"Dalton, Boyd. Weapons on the desk. Now," Owens commanded.
Dalton looked like he was about to explode. His hand hovered over his holster. For a
terrifying second, everyone in the room wondered if he was unstable enough to draw his
weapon.
"Do it, Rick," Owens pleaded, her voice cracking. "Please. It's over."
Slowly, defeatedly, Dalton unbuckled his holster and placed his firearm on the counter. Boyd
eagerly did the same, looking relieved to be disarmed.
Danielle reached into her pocket with her newly freed hands. She pulled out her sleek,
secure government-issued smartphone. She dialed a number she knew by heart, ignoring
the officers standing just feet away.
The phone rang twice.
"Special Agent in Charge Reynolds," a gruff voice answered on the other end.
"Sir, it's Agent Carter," Danielle said, her voice echoing in the silent booking room.
"Dominique and I require a response team at the local precinct in..." she glanced at Owens.
"What jurisdiction is this?"
Owens provided the town name, her voice barely a whisper.
Danielle repeated it into the phone. "We have been unlawfully detained and assaulted by
intoxicated local officers. We need the duty team, evidence technicians, and OPR out here
immediately. Yes, sir. We have secured the immediate area. We will hold until you arrive."
She hung up the phone and looked at Dalton, who was staring at her with the hollow, empty
eyes of a man who realized his life was over.
"The FBI is on the way, Sergeant Dalton," Danielle said quietly. "I suggest you call a very
good lawyer."
Chapter 8: The Federal Response
The next hour in the booking room felt like an eternity suspended in amber. Sergeant
Owens had ushered the twins into a secure, private interview room, desperate to separate
them from Dalton and Boyd. She offered them water, coffee, and medical attention for their
wrists, all of which they politely but firmly declined. They sat at the small metal table, silent
and focused, mentally cataloging the timeline of events, ensuring their independent
recollections perfectly aligned before the official debriefing began.
Outside the room, the precinct was descending into chaos.
Chief of Police Thomas Harrison, a man who had been sleeping soundly in his suburban
home an hour prior, burst through the precinct doors with his uniform shirt half-tucked
and his hair in disarray. He had received a frantic call from Owens that had included the
words "intoxicated off-duty officers" and "assaulted FBI agents." He had driven a hundred
miles an hour to get there, praying it was a misunderstanding.
It was not.
Chief Harrison found Dalton sitting on a bench in the hallway, his head buried in his hands,
completely sobered up by the sheer terror of his reality. Boyd was sitting across from him,
quietly sobbing.
"Dalton," Chief Harrison barked, his face purple with rage. "Tell me this is a joke. Tell me
you didn't arrest federal agents."
Dalton slowly raised his head. He looked ten years older than he had when he walked into
the bar. "Chief... they didn't look like agents. They had an attitude. I... I made a mistake."
"A mistake?" Harrison roared, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "You arrested two
black FBI agents in front of a crowd with cell phones while you reek of whiskey! You didn't
make a mistake, Rick! You just handed this entire department over to the Department of
Justice on a silver platter! You're fired. You're both fired. And you're likely going to federal
prison."
Before Harrison could continue his tirade, the heavy doors of the sally port buzzed open
with a loud, aggressive alarm.
Four sleek, black unmarked SUVs rolled into the garage, their tires screeching against the
concrete. Before the vehicles even came to a complete stop, the doors flew open. A dozen
men and women wearing dark suits and Kevlar vests emblazoned with bold yellow 'FBI'
letters poured out. They moved with a terrifying, synchronized efficiency. There was no
shouting, no confusion. Just the cold, calculated execution of federal authority.
At the head of the formation was Special Agent in Charge (SAC) Marcus Reynolds. Reynolds
was a towering man in his late fifties, with a stern face carved from granite and a
reputation for ruthlessly protecting his agents. He strode into the intake room, his eyes
scanning the space, immediately identifying Chief Harrison.
"Chief Harrison," Reynolds said, his voice low but carrying the weight of a thunderclap. "I
am SAC Reynolds, FBI. Where are my agents?"
Harrison, a man used to being the most powerful person in a room, suddenly felt very
small. "Agent Reynolds. They are safe. They are in interview room two. I assure you, we are
handling this—"
"You are handling nothing," Reynolds interrupted, cutting him off completely. He gestured
to the armed agents fanning out across the room. "The Federal Bureau of Investigation is
taking jurisdiction of this entire facility. My evidence response team is en route to the bar to
secure the crime scene and all civilian video footage. Your officers, Dalton and Boyd, are
now federal subjects. Do not speak to them. Do not allow them to leave."
Reynolds didn't wait for a response. He walked briskly to interview room two and opened
the door.
When he saw Danielle and Dominique sitting there, their wrists bruised and their clothes
slightly disheveled, the stoic mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing a flash of
paternal fury. But he quickly composed himself.
"Agents Carter," Reynolds said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.
"Report."
Danielle and Dominique stood up.
"Sir," Danielle began, her voice steady and professional. "At approximately 22:45 hours,
while off duty at a local establishment, we were approached by three off-duty, uniformed
officers..."
For the next twenty minutes, the twins delivered a flawless, detailed chronological account
of the incident. They recited direct quotes, described physical actions, and outlined the
specific statutes that had been violated. They detailed Dalton’s threats, Boyd’s intoxication,
and Stevens’ physical assault on Dominique. They noted the exact time Luis Ramirez