And that's when he saw the man's eyes in the side mirror.
Calm.
Unblinking.
And utterly devoid of fear.
Norman's boots crunched gravel as he approached the driver's side, his flashlight beam sweeping across the G-Wagon's flawless exterior.
Up close, the vehicle looked even more expensive.
Custom armor plating along the doors.
Reinforced side panels.
The kind of modifications that cost six figures.
Nobody needed a truck like this unless they were either protecting something valuable or expecting trouble.
His hand stayed on his holster, thumb resting against the retention strap.
Standard procedure, he told himself.
Though his heart was hammering harder than it should have been.
Through the tinted window, he could make out the driver's silhouette, motionless except for the steady rise and fall of breathing.
Norman rapped his knuckles against the glass.
"Driver, roll down your window."
The window descended with a hydraulic whisper.
And Norman got his first clear look at the man inside.
Black male.
Mid-30s.
Clean-shaven with a jawline that could have been cut from granite.
He wore a plain black compression shirt that did nothing to hide the kind of build you didn't get from a gym membership.
Shoulders like bowling balls.
Forearms corded with muscle.
Posture so rigid it looked painful.
But it was the eyes that made Norman's stomach tighten.
They were dark, calm, and focused with the kind of intensity that made you feel like you were being assessed, cataloged, and dismissed all at once.
Both of the man's hands rested on top of the steering wheel at 10 and 2, fingers relaxed, palms down.
He didn't turn his head to look at Norman.
He stared straight ahead through the windshield as if the officer didn't exist.
"License and registration," Norman said.
His voice came out harder than he intended.
"My documents are in the center console," the man said.
His voice was low, controlled, each word measured like ammunition.
"I'm going to reach for them now."
He moved with the kind of deliberate slowness that should have been reassuring, but somehow wasn't.
His right hand lifted from the wheel, fingers spread to show they were empty, then descended to the console.
The motion was so smooth, it looked rehearsed.
He retrieved a black leather wallet and a registration card, then returned his hand to the wheel before extending the documents toward Norman with his left.
Norman snatched them, shining his flashlight on the license.
Patrick Taylor.
Age 36.
Fayetteville address.
The photo matched.
Same hard face.
Same unsettling stare.
Norman flipped to the registration.
Everything current.
Everything legal.
Which only made him more suspicious.
"You know why I pulled you over, Mr. Taylor?"
"No, officer."
Taylor's gaze remained fixed forward.