Chapter 10 - Justice at 120 Miles Per Hour
Three months later.
The autumn air in Blackwood County was crisp, the leaves of the loblolly pines turning vibrant shades of amber and gold. Interstate 95 stretched south toward the Florida line, smooth, peaceful, and bathed in the warm morning light.
At Mile Marker 84—the exact spot where glass had shattered and sirens had torn the air—a newly erected historical marker gleamed on the highway shoulder, dedicated to civic courage and the defense of constitutional rights.
Sitting in the shade of an overpass in a brand-new, unmarked black Dodge Charger was Special Deputy U.S. Marshal Cole Brooks.
He was dressed in a sharp navy tactical suit, his gold federal badge gleaming proudly on his belt. The hesitation, the self-doubt that had once plagued him as a rookie under Miller’s thumb, was gone. His eyes were sharp, confident, and observant.
His radio crackled to life with a familiar, crisp voice.
“Unit 1-Alpha, this is Command. How does the corridor look today, Marshal Brooks?”
Cole smiled, keying his microphone. “Interstate 95 is clear, Agent Cross. Traffic is moving smoothly at sixty-five miles per hour. No rogue deputies in sight.”
“Good,” Maya’s voice replied with a warm chuckle. “Keep it that way. I’m approaching your position now.”
Cole looked up into his rearview mirror.
Cruising down the highway at exactly sixty-five miles per hour came a vehicle that turned every head for three miles in either direction.
It was a brand-new, bespoke Rolls-Royce Phantom—its obsidian paint polished to a mirror finish, completely restored by the Department of Homeland Security’s Fleet Directorate. Its bespoke bulletproof glass reflected the blue Georgia sky, and mounted discreetly on its front bumper were the covert red-and-blue strobes of a Federal Director’s flagship vehicle.
The Phantom slowed smoothly, pulling onto the shoulder beside Cole’s Charger.
The heavy, soundproof door swung open, and Special Agent-in-Charge Maya Cross stepped out.
She was dressed in an immaculate cream-colored bespoke blazer, dark aviator sunglasses resting on her nose, radiating an aura of untouchable authority and grace. She walked over to Cole’s window, leaning against the door frame.
“You look like you belong in that suit, Cole,” Maya said, her smile genuine and proud.
“I learned from the best, ma’am,” Cole replied, adjusting his tie. “How did the sentencing hearing go this morning?”
Maya took off her sunglasses, her eyes holding the satisfaction of absolute closure.
“Donald Briggs received thirty-five years at Terre Haute Federal Penitentiary. No parole. Hank Miller took a plea deal: twenty-eight years in maximum security. The entire Blackwood County syndicate has been dismantled from top to bottom. The Department of Justice has installed an interim oversight committee, and the new sheriff being sworn in next week is an honest, former state investigator.”
Cole let out a long, slow breath. The nightmare that had gripped his hometown for decades was finally, truly over.
“What about Elena Ramos?” Cole asked.
“She was awarded a full civilian commendation by the Governor yesterday,” Maya smiled. “Her children received full college scholarship trusts funded through the federal asset forfeiture of Briggs’ estate. She’s doing wonderfully.”
Maya turned and looked at the immaculate, gleaming Rolls-Royce parked behind them.
“And my car is finally back where it belongs,” she added, running her hand along the flawless, rebuilt B-pillar. “No more broken windows.”
Cole chuckled. “I bet the next officer who thinks about pulling you over will check the registration twice.”
“They can check it as many times as they want,” Maya said, her voice ringing with the quiet, unshakable strength that had carried her through the darkest moments of the interstate standoff. “The law belongs to the people, Cole. Never forget that. The moment someone puts on a badge and forgets that they serve the citizens, that’s the moment they fall.”
She tapped the roof of Cole’s Charger twice with her palm.
“I have a meeting at the federal field office in Jacksonville in two hours,” Maya said, slipping her aviators back on and walking toward the driver’s door of the Phantom. “Care to provide an escort to the state line, Marshal Brooks?”
Cole Brooks smiled, reached down, and turned the ignition of his cruiser. The powerful Hemi V8 roared to life, its hidden emergency lights strobing in clean, synchronized flashes of crimson and blue.
May you like
“It would be my absolute honor, Agent Cross.”
The bespoke Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled smoothly onto the highway, followed closely by the black federal cruiser. Together, they surged forward into the open horizon, two guardians of the law cruising at 120 miles per hour toward a brighter, cleaner future—leaving the shadows of corruption far behind in the rearview mirror.
