"That is enough!" Dalton roared, pulling his heavy steel handcuffs from his belt. "Both of you, hands behind your backs! Right now!"
Danielle and Dominique didn't fight. They didn't scream, pull away, or struggle. They stood side by side, putting their hands behind their backs with an eerie, mechanical calm that made Mark hesitate for a fraction of a second.
Metal clicked shut over Dominique’s wrists. Then over Danielle’s.
"You'll learn some respect tonight," Dalton growled, pulling Danielle’s chains tight.
As Mark pushed Dominique toward the exit, Dominique subtly shifted her hips. Her small, black leather credential case slipped from the rear pocket of her shorts and hit the wooden floorboards with a sharp, heavy thud.
The leather flap flipped open upon impact.
Under the bright halogen track lights of the bar, the polished gold shield gleamed brilliantly.
The Gold Shield
For three agonizing seconds, no one in the Pine Hollow Bar moved.
The gold eagle at the top of the shield caught the light. Surrounding it were the crisp, deeply engraved block letters that every police officer in America was trained to recognize instantly: FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.
Kyle was the first to see it. He froze mid-step, his mouth hanging slightly open as his eyes tracked down to the floor. "Sarge..." he whispered, the alcohol draining from his voice in an instant.
Mark released his grip on Dominique’s arm as if he had just touched hot iron.
Dalton stared down at the badge lying between his boots. His face went completely pale, the deep red flush vanishing into a sickly gray mask.
Dominique stood straight, her hands bound behind her back, her posture commanding the room. "Special Agent Dominique Carter. Federal Bureau of Investigation."
Danielle stepped beside her sister, her chin lifted high. "And Special Agent Danielle Carter. You are currently holding two federal officers under unlawful arrest after committing physical assault in front of fifteen eyewitnesses."
Dalton’s mind raced through a fog of bourbon and panic. The sheer impossibility of the situation slammed into his vanity. He had spent fifteen years treating the district like his personal territory, assuming every Black woman who walked into a neighborhood dive bar was without resources, influence, or power.
A dark, desperate fury took over his judgment. Instead of unlatching the cuffs, Dalton drew back his boot and kicked the leather credential case hard across the floor. It skidded under a nearby table, hitting the wooden baseboard.
The gallery gasped in unison.
"You think a piece of tin makes you untouchable in my town?" Dalton sneered, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and terror. "You threatened an officer. You're coming to the precinct."
"Good," Danielle said quietly.
Dalton blinked, caught off guard by her absolute lack of fear. "What did you say?"
"I said good," Danielle repeated, her voice perfectly even. "Every second you maintain this detention after viewing our credentials increases the mandatory minimum sentence under Title 18, Section 242 of the United States Code. Please, keep talking."