Norman pulled out his phone and snapped a few photos.
The broken glass.
The expensive interior.
The briefcase still strapped into the back seat.
His captain would have to see this.
Everyone would have to see this.
He walked back to the driver's side and slid in, adjusting his rearview mirror to get a clear view of his passenger.
Taylor sat perfectly centered in the seat, his back straight despite the cuffs, staring at the metal grate that separated them.
His breathing had returned to that slow, measured rhythm, like he was meditating.
Norman started the engine and pulled onto the highway, the G-Wagon disappearing behind them into the darkness.
"You got a phone call coming when we get to the station," he said, his voice still rough with exhaustion. "You might want to use it to get yourself a good lawyer."
Taylor said nothing.
His eyes remained fixed forward, unblinking.
"Strong, silent type, huh?"
Norman adjusted his grip on the wheel, feeling his confidence rebuild with every mile that passed.
"That's fine. You'll talk eventually. They always do."
Still nothing.
The silence stretched out, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio.
Norman glanced in the mirror again, studying his prisoner.
Even cuffed and bleeding, the man looked dangerous.
There was something coiled about him.
Something that suggested the restraints were a temporary inconvenience rather than a defeat.
"You know what your mistake was?" Norman said, needing to fill the silence, needing to hear himself explain why he'd been right to do this.
"You thought you could intimidate me. All that talk about clearances and federal responses and chains of command. You thought I'd be too scared to call your bluff."
Taylor's eyes shifted to the mirror, meeting Norman's gaze through the reflection.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
Almost gentle.
"It wasn't a bluff."
"Sure it wasn't."
"You have made a grave error, son."
The word son landed like a slap.
Norman was 31 years old, a decorated officer with five years on the force, and this criminal was talking to him like he was a child who'd broken something valuable.
Norman's hands tightened on the wheel.
"The only error here was you thinking you were above the law."
"I never said I was above the law."
Taylor's tone remained maddeningly even.
"I said you didn't have the authority to detain me. There's a difference."
Norman laughed, the sound sharp and bitter.
"You don't get it, do you? I've got all the authority I need. You're in my cruiser, in my county, heading to my station. Whatever you think you are, whatever you think you do, none of it matters now."
"It will matter in approximately..."
Taylor's eyes flicked to the dashboard clock.
"Forty-three minutes. That's when the response team will arrive at your precinct."
"Response team?"
Norman shook his head, grinning now despite himself.
"You really committed to this story. I'll give you that. Most guys would have broken by now and started begging or making deals, but you? You're still playing secret agent."
"I'm not playing anything."
"Right. You're a federal asset with classified equipment and a mysterious briefcase. Let me guess. You work for the CIA? NSA? Or maybe you're with some super-secret organization that doesn't even have a name."
Taylor's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I'm a commander in the United States Army Special Operations Command. My current assignment is classified. The briefcase contains materials related to an ongoing operation that you have now compromised. The vehicle you damaged is government property worth approximately $400,000. And the moment you ran my fingerprints, you triggered an alert that is currently climbing through channels you don't have clearance to know exist."
The detail of it should have been impressive.
The specificity.
The calm delivery.
The absolute conviction in Taylor's voice.