"CAT Lead, I have visual on the ramp," the voice barked in Vance’s ear. "The barricade vehicle is a black Charger, federal strobes. It has moved out of position. The ramp is exposed. I see a secondary local unit at the top of the ramp."
"CAT Lead, this is Command. Do you have visual on Agent Vance?"
"Negative Command. We see an unidentified uniformed officer in the driver's seat of the Charger. The vehicle is blocking the shoulder, but the main ramp lane is open."
There was a split second of dead air. In the world of VIP protection, that silence was the sound of a trigger being prepped.
"Command, CAT Actual. Unidentified individual in a federal vehicle at a compromised choke point. We are treating this as an active threat. We are breaking formation to secure the ramp. Moving to intercept."
"No, no, no," Vance whispered through gritted teeth. He threw himself against the glass again. If CAT swarmed the Charger with weapons drawn, Miller’s adrenaline-soaked brain would likely perceive it as an ambush. If Miller reached for his weapon—or worse, for Vance's weapon, which he had stolen—he would be dead before his hand cleared his pocket.
Chapter 8: The Swarm
Suddenly, the synchronized flow of the motorcade below broke its perfect rhythm.
Two massive, matte-black Chevy Suburbans with heavily tinted windows and roof-mounted antenna arrays suddenly peeled off from the main convoy. Their tires screamed in protest as they veered right, hitting the bottom of the Gallows Road on-ramp at forty miles per hour.
Instead of passing under the overpass, they were coming up.
Inside the Dodge Charger, Miller panicked. He realized two massive, unmarked vehicles were charging up the wrong way on the on-ramp, heading directly for him. Assuming they were erratic civilians or a threat, Miller threw the Charger into park and threw open the door, stepping out onto the asphalt.
"Hey! Stop the vehicle!" Miller shouted, waving his arms, his hand resting aggressively on his duty belt.
It was the worst possible move he could have made.
The two black Suburbans didn't slow down. They accelerated, their engines roaring like angry predators. They crested the hill of the ramp and slammed on their brakes, the heavy vehicles sliding on the damp pavement, perfectly pinning the Dodge Charger and the Fairfax County SUV between them in a V-shaped tactical block.
The doors of the Suburbans flew open before the vehicles had even fully stopped.
Six operators poured out onto the pavement. They weren't wearing police uniforms. They wore heavy tactical plate carriers, drop-leg holsters, and helmets. In their hands were short-barreled assault rifles, the stocks tucked tightly into their shoulders, the optics raised to their eyes.
They moved with terrifying, silent efficiency. There was no yelling. There were no dramatic commands. There was only the immediate, overwhelming application of force.
Four red laser dots appeared simultaneously on Officer Miller’s chest, head, and groin.
"Do not move a muscle," a voice commanded. It wasn't a yell. It was a cold, clinical statement delivered by the lead operator, a man whose face was entirely obscured by a balaclava and ballistic sunglasses. "Keep your hands exactly where they are."
Miller froze, his mouth hanging open. The angry, arrogant cop who had violently tossed a federal agent into a cage just three minutes ago was completely paralyzed. He was staring down the barrels of four suppressed rifles, manned by operators who looked completely prepared to pull the triggers.
"I... I'm a police officer," Miller stammered, his hands slowly rising in the air, trembling violently. "I'm securing this ramp."
"Where is Agent Vance?" the lead CAT operator asked, stepping forward, his rifle never wavering from Miller's face.
Miller swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically. He slowly raised one trembling finger and pointed toward the back of the Fairfax County SUV.
The lead operator didn't take his eyes off Miller. He tapped his radio mic. "Command, CAT Actual. We have secured the ramp. Threat is detained at gunpoint. Checking the secondary vehicle for the Route Control Agent."
Another operator detached from the formation, his rifle slung but ready, and moved swiftly toward the back of the SUV. He peered through the tinted glass, his eyes locking onto Vance, who was sitting awkwardly sideways, his hands cuffed tightly behind his back.
The operator's eyes widened slightly in recognition. He tapped the glass, signaling to Vance, then pulled the door handle. It was locked.
The operator turned back to Miller, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register.
"Unlock the cruiser. Right now."
Miller’s hands shook so violently he could barely operate the electronic fob on his duty belt. The chirp of the cruiser unlocking sounded unnaturally loud in the tense silence of the standoff. The CAT operator did not wait for an invitation; he pulled the heavy door open, leaning into the stifling rear compartment of the SUV.
"Agent Vance, are you injured?" the operator asked, his voice flat and professional, though his eyes betrayed a hard, burning anger directed at the local cop outside.
"Shoulder is hyperextended, but functional," Vance grunted, awkwardly shifting his weight to step out of the cage. "He clamped the cuffs down to the bone. I need them off. Now."
The operator turned his head slightly, his gaze locking onto Miller, who was still pinned under the laser sights of the other three rifles. "Keys. Very slowly with your right hand."
Miller gulped air, slowly reaching to his belt to retrieve his handcuff key. He extended it outward like a peace offering. Another CAT operator snatched it from his trembling fingers, moving swiftly to Vance’s side. The cold steel ratchets clicked in reverse, and the cuffs sprang open.
Vance brought his arms forward, wincing as fresh blood rushed into his severely pinched wrists. Deep, purple indentations circled his skin, and his left shoulder throbbed with a dull, sickening heat. He rotated his arm, ignoring the pain, his focus entirely on the operational reality. The perimeter was still exposed.