CHAPTER FOUR: THE FABRICATION
Iris watched from the back of the cruiser. Her wrists were bruised, her shoulders aching, but her mind was razor-sharp. She saw the frustration building in Mercer's body language. He threw a pry bar onto the ground in disgust. He had expected to find a stash of cash or drugs—something to justify the seizure of a supercar, which his department could auction off to pad their budget.
Mercer walked to the rear of the McLaren, out of sight of his own cruiser's dashcam. He motioned for Voss and Danner to join him.
Iris strained to see. The McLaren's rear-facing Sentinel cameras, hidden flawlessly in the taillight housing, were capturing everything in 4K resolution.
"We got nothing, boss," Voss whispered, looking nervous for the first time. "We just totaled a very expensive car. If she's got good lawyers..."
"Shut up, Voss," Mercer hissed. He looked around, ensuring the highway was still empty.
"Danner. Camera off," Mercer ordered.
Danner hesitated. "Sarge, policy says—"
"I said, camera off, Danner! We're having a tactical discussion," Mercer barked.
Reluctantly, Danner clicked his body camera into sleep mode.
What the three men didn't know was that the Sentinel Arc’s directional microphones, embedded in the rear bumper, were picking up their conversation with studio-quality clarity.
Mercer reached into the deep cargo pocket of his tactical pants. When his hand emerged, it was holding a small, clear plastic baggie filled with a white, powdery substance.
"It's a shame we had to tear up the dash," Mercer said, a sinister grin spreading across his face. "Especially since the suspect clearly dropped this stash bag wedged right between the passenger seat and the center console."
Danner’s eyes widened in shock. "Sarge... what are you doing? You can't be serious."
"Listen to me, rookie," Mercer took a step toward Danner, pressing his finger into the young officer's chest. "That girl in there is a smart-ass. You think she got a car like this working a desk job? She's moving weight. We just haven't found the main stash. But this?" He held up the bag of cocaine.
"That's not hers, Colin! You just pulled that out of your own pocket!" Danner argued, his voice trembling. "I'm not signing off on a planted evidence report."
Mercer's face turned crimson. He grabbed Danner by the tactical vest, pulling him close. "You want to end your career before it starts, Luke? You want to be a rat? You know what happens to rats in this department? They find themselves responding to a shots-fired call with no backup. You're going to write in your report that you saw Voss find this bag on the floorboard. Or else."
Voss, eager to save his own skin after initiating the disastrous search, chimed in. "Just do it, Danner. It's standard procedure for these types. She's nobody. Just another thug with too much money."
Danner looked at the baggie, then at the ruined McLaren, and finally at the cruiser where Iris was sitting. He swallowed hard, the moral cowardice taking over. He nodded slowly.
"Good boy," Mercer sneered.
Mercer walked around to the passenger side of the McLaren. He tossed the baggie onto the torn carpet. He then tapped his body camera, turning it back on.