“Then get out of the car right now.”
Marcus unfastened his seatbelt with a soft click. He swung his legs around and stepped onto the concrete sidewalk. As he straightened to his full height, it became immediately obvious that he was several inches taller than Travis, possessing broad shoulders that filled out his tailored gray suit.
That physical realization seemed to make Travis noticeably more aggressive.
“Back up against the car!” Travis ordered, stepping directly into Marcus’s personal space.
Marcus took one step backward until his shoulder rested lightly against the dark pillar of his sedan. “My hands are where you can see them,” he said quietly, keeping both palms open at his waist.
Travis moved within inches of him, his chest almost touching Marcus’s jacket. “You think because you’re driving an expensive car and wearing a nice suit that you get to question my authority on the street?”
Marcus’s jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained entirely under control. “I think every citizen you stop has the fundamental right to know why they are being detained.”
Travis let out a short, harsh laugh. “Oh, I see. You one of those internet lawyers?”
Marcus did not answer.
“What?” Travis snapped, taking another half-step forward. “You hear me talking to you?”
“Yes, I hear you.”
“Then answer the question!”
Marcus looked straight down into Travis’s eyes behind his sunglasses. “My profession has absolutely nothing to do with whether or not you choose to follow standard police procedure.”
Across the sidewalk, the delivery driver quietly set his two catering boxes down on a wooden bench, taking a step closer to the curb. The young nursing student stopped completely, raised her smartphone, and aimed the camera lens directly at Travis’s back. Travis caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. His face flushed a deep, angry red beneath his uniform cap.
“Everybody wants to be an expert now,” Travis muttered through clenched teeth.
Marcus said nothing. He remained as still as a statue against the car.
“Phone cameras,” Travis spat out, gesturing wildly toward the sidewalk. “Internet experts. People who’ve never worn a heavy belt a day in their lives trying to tell real cops how to do their jobs.”
Marcus looked down once more at the black plastic casing of the body camera mounted on Travis’s chest. Then he met the officer’s eyes.
“Your camera should make this entire situation very simple to evaluate later,” Marcus said.
Travis stepped even closer, his face inches from Marcus’s chin. “You keep staring at my camera, pal.”
“I’m very glad it’s running,” Marcus replied quietly.
That single sentence changed something in the air.
Travis’s nostrils flared. The restraint that sixteen years on the force was supposed to have built vanished in a sudden, blinding flash of pure, unadulterated humiliation. He pointed a thick forefinger directly at the center of Marcus’s chest.
“Listen to me very carefully,” Travis hissed. “You are going to drop the damn attitude right now.”
“What attitude?” Marcus asked softly.
That was the exact moment.
It was not a physical struggle. It was not an attempted escape. It was not a raised hand, a sudden jerk, or a defensive gesture. Travis’s open right hand moved in a sudden, violent arc across the space between them.
The slap cracked through the wide intersection like a gunshot.
The sheer force of the impact knocked Marcus’s rectangular glasses crooked across his nose. His head snapped sharply to the left, his chin tucked into his collar from the blow. Across the street, the young woman holding the phone let out an audible, horrified gasp.
The delivery driver took a fast step forward, his voice booming over the sound of passing cars: “What the hell are you doing?!”
Marcus Reed did not fall. He did not raise his hands to strike back. He did not even stumble. For two full, excruciating seconds, he remained completely motionless, his head turned sideways toward the rear tire of his car.
Then, with agonizing slowness, he reached up with two fingers, took hold of the bridge of his glasses, and straightened them carefully across the bridge of his nose. He turned his head back to face Travis Harlan.
A dark, heavy red mark was rapidly blooming across the left side of his brown cheek. Yet his posture remained perfectly upright. Travis was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his tactical vest, his face contorted with adrenaline. Marcus was not breathing hard at all.
Travis thrust his finger into Marcus’s face again. “Now you understand how this stop is going to work!”
Marcus looked at him. The stillness in his dark eyes had completely shifted. It was no longer polite. It was no longer passive. It was a cold, terrifyingly absolute stillness.
“Is your body camera still recording?” Marcus asked softly.
Travis glanced down instinctively at his chest. The small LED indicator was still glowing a solid, steady green.
“Don’t you worry about my camera,” Travis growled, trying to regain his dominant stance.
Marcus offered a slow, deliberate nod. “I won’t.”
Travis leaned forward, opening his mouth to issue another order, but Marcus spoke first, his voice dropping into a register so quiet that only the officer could hear it over the street noise.