There's a secured compartment under here. Looks like it needs a key or something. Mercer strode over, his eyes bright with anticipation.
He'd been promising drugs since the moment he'd pulled Marcus over, and now he finally had a locked container that might vindicate his increasingly desperate search. Step back, he ordered Danner. Let me see what our friend's been hiding.
Mercer knelt beside the driver's seat and examined the secured compartment. It was built into the floor beneath the seat cushion with a metal cover that required either a key or some kind of electronic release. He'd seen plenty of hidden stash boxes in his career, but this one looked more sophisticated than the usual drug dealer setup.
"Probably got his whole supply locked up in there," Mercer muttered, running his fingers around the edges of the compartment. "These dealers are getting smarter about hiding their product." "Sarge, maybe we should wait for a warrant before..."
Danner started. "We're already searching under reasonable suspicion. This compartment is part of the same vehicle."
Mercer pulled out his tactical knife and wedged the blade into the seam. "Besides, if it's locked, there's definitely something illegal inside." Marcus watched from several feet away, his hands still cuffed behind his back.
The metal restraints cut into his wrists every time he moved, but he forced himself to stay calm while Mercer pried at the compartment with growing determination. Everything about this search violated proper procedure, but arguing would only make things worse. The compartment's locking mechanism finally gave way with a sharp crack.
Mercer lifted the cover and reached inside, his face eager with anticipation. his fingers closed around something made of leather. "Got it," he said, pulling out a black rectangular case.
"Let's see what kind of drugs our friend keeps in his fancy lock box." But when he flipped open the case, his triumphant expression froze. Inside was a gold badge mounted on dark blue fabric.
Below it sat a federal identification card with Marcus's photograph and official seal. The words Federal Bureau of Investigation gleamed in raised letters across the top of the credentials. Mercer stared at the badge without moving.
The metal caught the sunlight and reflected it back into his face like an accusation. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. The confident swagger that had driven his search vanished in an instant.
"Oh my god," Danner breathed, leaning over to see what Mercer was holding. "Sarge, those are FBI credentials." "They can't be real," Mercer said, but his voice had lost all its authority.
He turned the credential case over in his hands as if looking for some sign it was fake. "Drug dealers don't carry FBI badges." "Because I'm not a drug dealer," Marcus said quietly.
"I'm Special Agent Marcus Vance with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Those are my official credentials, and this is my assigned government vehicle." The roadside fell silent except for the distant hum of traffic.
Danner stepped back from the destroyed SUV, his face pale as he took in the wreckage surrounding them. broken equipment, scattered papers, and torn interior pieces stretched across 15 ft of pavement. Every damaged item now carried the weight of federal property destruction.
"These could be fake," Mercer said, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself rather than anyone else. "You can buy badges online. Fake IDs are easy to make.
"Look at the holographic security features," Marcus instructed calmly. "Check the raised seal and the embedded microprinting. Those credentials came directly from FBI headquarters in Washington.
Danner moved closer and examined the badge over Mercer's shoulder. The identification card contained multiple security elements that would be impossible to counterfeit with ordinary equipment. The photograph matched Marcus exactly, and the federal seal showed no signs of tampering.
"Sarge, these are real," Danner said quietly. "We need to uncuff him right now." "And we don't need to do anything yet," Mercer snapped, his embarrassment quickly turning into defensive anger.