"Deputy Rusk is trying to take my documents. Sheriff Halverson ordered it."
Halverson's eyes flicked to her phone like it was a weapon. "Mrs. Caldwell," he snapped, voice suddenly sharper, "put the phone down."
Martha didn't. "No."
Halverson stepped forward and pointed at Dean. "You are interfering with law enforcement, curfew violation, disorderly conduct. I can take you in right now."
Dean didn't flinch. "Do it on camera."
That made Halverson pause for a fraction of a second too long, not fear, strategy. He'd been counting on darkness and isolation. Now he had lights, witnesses, and multiple angles.
Pell hovered near the truck, jaw tight, eyes flicking between Martha's tote and the cameras like he was watching his timeline collapse.
"Sheriff," Pell said quietly, trying to keep it off the recordings, "this is turning into a spectacle."
Halverson's lips barely moved. "Then we control the narrative."
He lifted his voice, projecting again, stage ready. "Mrs. Caldwell is refusing evacuation and escalating. For her safety, we are securing her documents and transporting her to shelter."
Martha stared at him. "You are not transporting me anywhere."
Halverson's gaze went flat. "Rusk."
Rusk yanked again, harder. The tote strap snapped. Canvas whipped back and Martha nearly fell, catching herself on the slick grass.
The tote dropped, hit the mud, and burst partially open. Papers slid out, the top page smearing dark at the edge where it touched wet dirt.
Martha's stomach dropped through her feet.
Rusk lunged for the scattered pages. Three riders moved at once, not hitting him, not even touching him, just stepping into the space so his boots splashed and he had to stop short or collide on camera.
The braided woman crouched first, scooping up papers with both hands like they were fragile, shielding them with her body from rain and mud.
Dean bent down, grabbed the tin box from the tote, and shoved it into Martha's hands. "Hold that," he said.
Martha clutched the tin box like it was her heart. Halverson's voice snapped, "Pick those up, Deputy."
Rusk's face went red with frustration. His phone was still in his hand, but now it wasn't filming steady. It shook, panning too fast, catching only legs, mud, flashes of helmets.
He looked like a man losing control.
Attorney Klein's voice boomed from Dean's speaker again. "Sheriff Halverson, stop. Do not touch those documents. Do not touch Mrs. Caldwell. You are exposing yourself to civil liability and potential criminal investigation."
Halverson's eyes narrowed at the sound of the lawyer, then darted to the riders' phones. He was tracking what would be usable later, what could be cut, clipped, framed.
He made his next move quickly. "Rusk," he said, dropping the stage voice, "cuff one, now."
Rusk's head snapped up. "Who?"
Halverson nodded toward the nearest rider who wasn't filming. Caleb, the kid with the wide eyes from the basement, standing too close because he didn't know where to put himself.
Rusk seized the chance. He stepped around the barrier and grabbed Caleb's wrist.