Mercer answered:
“We’re developing that.”
The phrase remained with Renee.
Developing.
Not observing.
Developing.
A drug-detection dog was requested.
None was nearby.
Estimated arrival:
Forty-five minutes.
Renee checked her watch for the first time.
“You cannot hold me indefinitely while you search for a reason to search.”
Mercer looked at her.
“You a lawyer?”
“No.”
“You sure sound like one.”
“I read.”
Grant leaned against his cruiser.
“You seem nervous.”
Renee almost laughed.
“I’m standing beside two armed strangers who keep implying I’m a drug courier.”
“Armed strangers?”
Grant looked at his uniform.
“We’re police.”
“I’m aware.”
“That should make you less nervous.”
Renee stared at him.
“Why?”
Grant’s smile disappeared.
Mercer stepped in.
“Okay.”
“Enough.”
He looked toward the bag.
“We’re going to secure it while we investigate.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Is the money evidence of a specific crime?”
“Potential proceeds.”
“From what crime?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Renee looked at him.
“Listen to what you just said.”
Mercer’s patience ended.
“Ma’am, step back.”
He opened the motorcycle compartment.
Renee immediately raised her phone.
“I’m recording.”
Mercer looked at it.
“Go ahead.”
He removed the bag.
Placed it on the cruiser.
Then unzipped it.
Renee did not move.
Grant began removing bundles.
“Damn.”
Mercer looked almost pleased.
“Yeah.”
Renee said:
“I do not consent to this search.”
“Noted.”
“Every bundle is numbered.”
“Sure.”
“The count sheet is inside the front compartment.”
Mercer found it.
Pages.
Signatures.
Amounts.
Donor codes.
Grant skimmed it.
“Could’ve printed this at home.”
Renee said nothing.
They found the deposit paperwork.
The nonprofit’s federal tax identification.
A letter from Falcon Ridge authorizing access for the afternoon event.
Grant held it up.
“This says ‘Captain Cole.’”
Renee looked at him.
“Yes.”
Mercer frowned.
“Captain?”
Renee remained silent.
Grant looked again.
CAPT. RENEE E. COLE
Then below:
Falcon Ridge Flight Safety Memorial Committee
Grant’s expression shifted.
“Military captain?”
Renee answered carefully.
“I told Officer Mercer my current employment wasn’t relevant to a traffic stop.”
Mercer took the letter.
Read it.
Then looked at her.
“This could still be fake.”
That was when Renee stopped trying to persuade them.
Because once every piece of evidence could simply be declared fake, there was no longer an investigation.
Only a conclusion searching for protection.
So she waited.
And when Mercer slipped another stack of bills into the evidence bag and Grant laughed again, Renee checked her watch a second time.
The desert began to vibrate.
At first it was barely audible.
A low mechanical thunder rolling through the hills.
Grant’s smile faded.
He looked toward the horizon.
“What the hell…”
The sound grew.
Fast.
Deep.
Violent.
Mercer turned.
Two fighter jets screamed across the highway from west to east.
Low enough that the noise punched through the air and rattled the windows of both cruisers.
Grant ducked instinctively.
A second pair followed several seconds later.
Four gray aircraft tearing through the blue sky toward the distant mountains.
Mercer stared upward.
Renee did not.
She kept looking at him.
The final jet disappeared.
The roar faded slowly across the desert.
Renee took one step closer.
“You should’ve asked where I was headed.”
Mercer’s smile vanished.
The jets were not there for Renee.
That mattered.
They had not been summoned.
Nobody on base knew she was detained.
The aircraft were part of a scheduled four-ship training return.
But Renee knew the route.
Knew the timing.
And knew they were approaching Falcon Ridge’s western corridor.
Mercer did not.
When the jets vanished, Grant looked toward the mountains.
“Base nearby?”
Renee stared at him.
“You’ve been patrolling this highway how long?”
Grant ignored that.
Mercer held the money.
“Where exactly were you going?”
“Falcon Ridge.”
“We know that.”
“No.”
Renee’s voice remained quiet.
“You heard it.”
“You didn’t ask what was happening there.”
Mercer said nothing.
“A memorial begins at sixteen hundred.”
“For?”
Renee looked toward the distant hills.
“Major Ethan Holloway.”
Grant frowned.
The name meant nothing to him.
Renee continued.
“He died eight months ago during a night-training accident.”
A pause.
“He left a wife and two daughters.”
She looked toward the cash.
“The ride this morning raised money for his family and six others supported by the same fund.”
Mercer’s expression changed slightly.
Not enough.
“You expect us to take your word for that?”
Renee looked at his hand.
“No.”
“I expected you to call the number printed on the letter you already took from my bag.”
That silenced him.
There was a phone number.
Official base exchange.
Contact:
Lt. Col. David Holloway
Grant picked up the document.
Mercer said:
“Don’t.”
Grant looked at him.
“Why not?”
“We’re still investigating.”
Grant hesitated.
Renee noticed.
It was the first crack between them.
“Call it.”
Grant looked at her.
“It’s your investigation too.”
Mercer said:
“Tyler.”
Grant stared at his partner.
Then took out his phone.
The call lasted ninety-two seconds.
Grant gave his name.
Department.
Location.
Asked whether Captain Renee Cole was expected.
Then his face changed.
“Yes, sir.”
Pause.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“No, sir.”
He looked toward Mercer.
“We have her.”
Renee’s eyebrow lifted.
Grant corrected quickly.
“She’s here.”
Longer pause.
“Yes, sir.”
He ended the call.
Mercer looked at him.
“Well?”
Grant lowered the phone.
“She’s expected.”
Renee said nothing.
Grant continued.
“The memorial committee has been waiting.”
Mercer’s grip tightened around the bundle.
“That doesn’t prove the money.”
Grant looked uncomfortable.
“The base contact knew the amount.”
That finally landed.
Renee had not told the officers one thing.
The final total had been transmitted to Falcon Ridge shortly before she departed.
Seventy-eight thousand four hundred twenty dollars.
The exact amount Grant heard over the phone.
Mercer looked toward the open evidence bag.
Then the stacks.
Then Renee.
Grant lowered his voice.
“We need to give it back.”
Mercer said:
“Not yet.”
“Wade.”
“Large currency is still suspicious.”
“The documentation checks.”
“We haven’t verified the nonprofit.”
Renee finally spoke.
“You have.”
Mercer turned.
“The federal registration number is printed on the paperwork.”
“I’m sure dispatch can confirm it.”
She paused.
“You haven’t asked them to.”
Mercer’s face reddened.
“Don’t tell me how to conduct—”
Grant interrupted.
“She’s right.”
Silence.
Mercer looked at him.
Grant had stopped smiling entirely.
“We’ve had her here almost an hour.”
“No drugs.”