The driver looked toward the second deputy.
Then back.
“Am I being detained for the lane violation you mentioned?”
“You’re being detained while I investigate.”
“Investigate what?”
The deputy removed his sunglasses.
His eyes were pale and irritated.
“Why a man dressed like you is carrying what looks like restricted government paperwork through my county.”
The driver stared.
Several responses occurred to him.
None would improve the situation.
He chose the simplest.
“I work for the federal government.”
The deputy smiled.
“Of course you do.”
The driver reached slowly toward the visor.
“Credentials are clipped above me.”
“Hands.”
The driver stopped immediately.
“Fine.”
“Look at them yourself.”
The deputy glanced toward the visor.
A federal identification credential rested inside a protective sleeve.
Photograph.
Agency seal.
Name.
Title.
Clear enough to read from outside if somebody actually wanted to.
The deputy looked at it for less than two seconds.
Then back at the driver.
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
The younger deputy had approached by then.
He looked through the passenger side.
His attention moved from the credential to the document case.
Then to the specialized communication device secured low beside the dashboard.
“Maybe we should run him.”
The older deputy ignored the suggestion.
“Out of the truck.”
The driver exhaled.
“Before I step out, I’m asking you to contact your dispatcher and request federal credential verification.”
The deputy’s jaw tightened.
“You’re not in a position to make requests.”
“That is exactly the correct procedure.”
“You telling me my job?”
“No.”
“I’m telling you how to resolve this in thirty seconds.”
The deputy opened the truck door.
“Out.”
The driver stepped down.
He was six feet tall, broad but not bulky, his hair closely cut and mostly gray at the temples.
Nothing about his clothes suggested rank, authority, money, or status.
Only his posture did.
He stood the way people stood after decades of being expected to remain composed when everybody else lost control.
The deputy noticed.
It irritated him further.
“Hands on the hood.”
The driver looked at him.
“For a traffic allegation?”
“For officer safety.”
“I have made no threatening movement.”
“Hands on the hood.”
The driver obeyed.
The metal was hot beneath his palms.
The deputy began searching the outside of his clothing.
Wallet.
Phone.
Keys.
Nothing illegal.
The younger deputy watched.
Then he looked through the open pickup again.
“Registration is clean.”
The older deputy said:
“I know.”
“You want me to call dispatch?”
“Not yet.”
The driver turned his head slightly.
“Why not?”
The deputy pushed his shoulder forward.
“Face the truck.”
The driver did.
The younger deputy frowned.
The older deputy reached through the open passenger door and pulled out the leather document case.
The driver immediately spoke.
“Do not open that.”
The deputy turned.
“What?”
“That case contains sealed federal material.”
The deputy smiled.
“Now you’re getting nervous.”
“No.”
“I’m giving you notice.”
“Notice of what?”
“That you do not have authorization to open that case.”
The deputy opened it.
The younger man said:
“Sir.”
The older deputy ignored him.
Inside were several sealed folders.
A credential wallet.
A secure access card.
Printed travel authorizations.
The deputy picked up the credential wallet.
He examined it.