The sudden shout breached the heavy wall of Donovan’s sleep. His eyes fluttered open. The adrenaline of a veteran cop flooded his system, but he didn't move a muscle. He listened.
Mitchell grabbed his radio. "Dispatch, this is Unit 4. I have a 10-15 on Highway 9. Suspect is combative and refusing lawful orders. I need a backup unit, code three."
"Combative." The word was a death sentence. It was the magic word dirty cops used to justify brutality. Beside her, Donovan’s mind raced. He had been reviewing Mitchell’s Internal Affairs file just that morning. He made a split-second tactical decision: wait for backup to arrive to catch Mitchell red-handed on multiple body cameras.
Under the cover of his dark coat, Donovan reached out and gave Naomi's thigh two firm, deliberate squeezes. I am awake. I am here. Trust me.
Naomi didn't look at him, but the crippling terror vanished, replaced instantly by the formidable armor of a seasoned trial lawyer holding the ultimate trump card.
"Last warning, Naomi," Mitchell sneered, reaching a thick arm through the open window toward the interior door handle. "You unbuckle that seatbelt and step out, or I'm going to drag you out by your expensive hair."
Mitchell’s thick fingers grazed the interior handle, but Naomi was faster. With a swift, fluid motion, her finger flicked the master lock switch on the driver's side door.
Click.
Mitchell yanked the outside handle, but it held firm. His face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. "Are you resisting, lady? You're making a huge mistake!" he bellowed, violently pounding his fist against the reinforced glass of the Lexus.
"I am securing my safety until your backup arrives, Officer Mitchell," Naomi stated, her voice projecting clearly over the rain. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him. "I have calmly provided my documentation. I am not a flight risk, and I am not combative. I will await the presence of a supervisor."
"I am the law out here!" Mitchell spat, pacing like a caged animal. He drew his baton, tapping it menacingly against his palm. "When my guys get here, we're smashing this window and pulling you out. You're going to jail on a felony resisting charge."
Inside the car, Donovan took a slow, deep breath. His migraine was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, calculating rage. He silently reached into his coat pocket, feeling the familiar, heavy metal of his gold Chief of Police badge.