Feel later.
Think now.
Holloway kept the gun aimed at him.
“Where exactly is the weapon?”
“Right hip.”
“Any others?”
“No.”
“Who do you work for?”
Jamal hesitated.
One second.
That one second represented nine months of work.
An entire federal task force.
Confidential informants.
Wire authorizations.
Controlled buys.
Surveillance teams.
A courier who had agreed to cooperate in exchange for protection.
A trafficker named Eric “North” Bellamy who believed Jamal was a logistics consultant willing to wash cash through transportation investments.
The larger organization moved fentanyl and methamphetamine through Washington, Oregon, Nevada and California using legitimate freight companies as camouflage.
Three people had already died from drugs traced to one distribution cell.
Jamal had spent months becoming somebody else.
To the organization, he was Jay Reynolds.
Former logistics manager.
Divorced.
Gambling problem.
Debt.
Flexible morals.
Enough desperation to be useful.
Enough competence to be trusted.
His real profession existed only to a tiny number of people involved in the operation.
Saying DEA loudly in a public garage could destroy all of that.
But there was now a police officer pointing a loaded handgun at his chest.
Jamal made the calculation.
“Drug Enforcement Administration.”
Holloway laughed again.
“Of course.”
Jamal stared at him.
“I can prove it.”
“I bet you can.”
“Federal credentials, inside left jacket pocket.”
Holloway’s pistol remained level.
“You expect me to reach in there?”
“Yes.”
“Not happening.”
“Then call a supervisor.”
“I don’t take orders from suspects.”
“I’m trying to keep you from making this worse.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s not.”
“It sure sounds like one.”
The two women were openly recording now.
A teenage boy had appeared near the elevator bank.
His phone was raised too.
Jamal heard himself becoming a spectacle.
That mattered.
Not personally.
Operationally.
He had been inside the Galleria twenty minutes earlier meeting a man named Marcus Dale, a mid-level courier associated with Bellamy’s network.
The meeting had been exploratory.
A handshake.
Three ambiguous sentences.
A suggestion that “product” might need transportation.
The real negotiation was scheduled for 9:30 that night.
If Dale or anyone associated with Bellamy saw Jamal kneeling at gunpoint telling a uniformed officer he worked for the DEA, the investigation was dead.
Jamal’s undercover phone vibrated.
Once.
Twice.
Holloway heard it.
“What’s that?”
“Phone.”
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
“You expecting somebody?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I can’t discuss that with you.”
Holloway laughed.
“You’re in handcuffs in about thirty seconds and you think you control the conversation?”
Jamal looked at him.
“I am telling you this once more. I am a federal agent involved in an active investigation. You need to contact your supervisor and verify my identity before you expose me further.”
Holloway lowered the pistol slightly.
Not enough.
“You federal guys have a number?”
“Yes.”
“What number?”
“I’m not shouting a deconfliction contact across a parking garage.”
“You’re really committed to this story.”
Jamal felt something inside him go cold.
He knew the difference between caution and ego.
Holloway was no longer trying to determine whether Jamal was who he claimed.
He was trying to prove Jamal was lying.
That difference could get somebody killed.
“Officer Holloway.”
The use of his name made Holloway’s expression change.
Jamal had read the nameplate.
Holloway seemed to interpret it as something more.
“How do you know my name?”
“Your chest.”
Holloway looked briefly down.
Realized.
His embarrassment transformed into irritation.
“Stand up.”
Jamal rose slowly.
“Turn around.”
He did.