General Monroe gave a single, curt nod. "Uncuff the female officer. Boon stays in restraint." He turned back to his daughter, his eyes softening as he looked at the swelling red mark along her jawline. "Zariah, we need to extract you now. The perimeter is compromised. The local precinct chief is already calling headquarters trying to figure out why federal black-budget vehicles are on his turf."
"No," Zariah said firmly. She held up her worn leather notebook. "Not yet. The drop hasn't happened."
"Zariah, you've been living on this bench for eight months," the General pressed, a tinge of paternal desperation cracking through his military exterior. "You've collected enough data to dismantle their entire ring. You don't need to put yourself in harm's way anymore. Let the Marshals handle the arrests."
"They don't have the final ledger, Dad," Zariah insisted, holding the notebook tighter against her chest. "The precinct chief isn't coming here to check on his officers. He's coming here because today at 8:00 AM is the monthly payoff delivery for the narcotics syndicate operating through this park. Travis wasn't clearing this bench because of an anonymous noise complaint. He was clearing it to clear the sightline for his Chief's courier."
The words hung in the crisp morning air like heavy smoke. Travis, still kneeling on the ground, went completely rigid. His eyes widened in absolute horror as he realized Zariah hadn't just been sitting there as a helpless target—she had been documenting every single element of his precinct's dirty secret for nearly a year.
"You..." Travis whispered, his voice cracking with sheer disbelief. "You were watching us..."
Zariah looked down at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. "I wasn't just watching you, Travis. I was counting every dollar."