“I don’t need a parade.”
“You’re getting one.”
She disconnected.
Jamal stood beside his BMW.
The irony was almost obscene.
Ten minutes earlier, Holloway had demanded proof it belonged to him.
Now Jamal did not want to touch it.
If Dale had eyes in the garage, leaving in the BMW might confirm identity.
If the footage went online, the vehicle was compromised anyway.
A black unmarked SUV entered the level.
Then another.
Jamal recognized both.
DEA.
The first man out was Assistant Special Agent in Charge Nathan Cole.
Behind him came Renee Calder.
She was forty-four, compact, controlled and furious.
She walked directly toward Jamal.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Weapon?”
“Returned.”
“Anything seized?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Phones intact?”
“Yes.”
She looked at his wrists.
Then toward Holloway.
“Who?”
Grant pointed subtly.
Calder walked toward him.
“Officer Holloway?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Group Supervisor Renee Calder, Drug Enforcement Administration.”
Holloway looked uncomfortable.
“I was responding to a call.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“He didn’t identify himself until—”
Calder raised one hand.
“Not interested in your narrative right now.”
Holloway stopped.
“I need your body-camera footage preserved.”
“It will be.”
“Dispatch audio.”
“Standard procedure.”
“Garage security.”
“That belongs to property management.”
“We’ll handle it.”
Calder looked at Grant.
“Sergeant?”
“Yes.”
“No media statements identifying Agent Reynolds as DEA.”
Grant nodded.
“Understood.”
Calder looked toward the civilians filming.
She knew that request might already be meaningless.
One of the women had uploaded her video while the confrontation was still unfolding.
The clip did not show Jamal clearly at first.
Then the camera zoomed.
It captured Holloway’s gun.
Jamal on his knees.
The words:
“I am a federal law-enforcement officer.”
Then Holloway:
“Yeah? And I’m supposed to believe that?”
The internet did the rest.
By 4:00 p.m., the video had twelve thousand views.
By 6:00, more than two hundred thousand.
Someone enhanced a frame.
Someone else identified Jamal through an old photograph from a public DEA award ceremony four years earlier.
By 8:15, his name appeared in the comments.
Jamal Reynolds.
DEA.
Seattle.
The operation was over before dinner.
At 7:40 that evening, Renee Calder sat across from Jamal in a secure conference room.
Between them lay the remains of nine months.
Photographs.
Target charts.
Phone records.
Surveillance reports.
The name Eric Bellamy circled near the top.
Three distribution managers.
Four courier cells.
Two suspected corrupt freight employees.
An informant identified only as CI-17.
Jamal looked at the board.
“When did Dale disappear?”
“5:12.”
“Phone?”
“Off.”
“Bellamy?”
“His known phones went dark at 5:26.”
“Warehouse?”
“Empty.”
Jamal leaned back.
“They moved that fast?”
Calder nodded.
“Our Portland surveillance team saw two vehicles leave a location twenty minutes after your video started circulating.”
“Who?”
“Unknown yet.”
“CI-17?”
“Safe.”
That was the only answer that mattered immediately.
Jamal exhaled.
“Move him.”