Adrian stood upright, balancing his weight evenly despite the pain in his shoulder and jaw. "Officer Ross," Adrian said, turning his eyes to the younger officer, "my name is Adrian Cole. My brother, Malcolm Cole, is being remembered inside St. Matthew’s right now."

Ross glanced toward the chapel entrance, where a black plastic bulletin board held removable white letters near the door: MALCOLM EDWARD COLE — FAMILY SERVICE — 9:00 A.M.

Prescott scoffed. "Anybody can read a sign on a wall."

"Then call the funeral director," Adrian said evenly. "Or call my sister-in-law, Patrice. There are ninety people inside who can verify who I am in ten seconds, without you kneeling on my back in the dirt."

Inside the chapel, the soft, rich tones of an organ began to play the opening notes of a hymn. Outside, several early arrivers stood on the porch, looking down at the patrol car with growing alarm and confusion. Unknown to Officer Prescott, seated inside the third row of the chapel was Lieutenant Colonel Maya Reeves, Adrian’s executive officer, who had attended in civilian clothes out of personal respect. When she noticed that the general had failed to walk in five minutes before the service, she quietly slipped out the side doors to investigate.

Lieutenant Colonel Maya Reeves stepped out onto the wide stone steps of St. Matthew’s Chapel, squinting slightly against the bright morning light. She was dressed in a simple navy dress, having left her decorated dress blues in her quarters at Fort Belden per General Cole’s strict command that his family’s grief remain entirely unburdened by military protocol. Yet, despite her civilian attire, her posture was unmistakably military.

As she glanced toward the overflow parking lot, her eyes locked onto a scene that made her blood run cold. Two municipal police officers were standing beside a marked squad car. One of them was shoving an older Black man in a charcoal suit against the rear chassis of the vehicle.

Maya’s breath caught in her throat. Even from forty yards away, she recognized the tall, straight spine and square shoulders of four-star General Adrian Cole, the Commander of Army Materiel Command and one of the highest-ranking officers in the United States Armed Forces. He was currently restrained in heavy steel handcuffs, his jacket twisted, his face marked with dirt, and his glasses resting crookedly on his nose.

"What in God's name..." Maya whispered, taking the steps three at a time as she broke into an immediate, disciplined march across the parking lot.

Down by the cruiser, Officer Prescott was thoroughly unbothered by the growing audience on the church steps. He was convinced he had apprehended a perpetrator caught in the act of vehicle burglary. "You don't give orders here, old man," Prescott growled, reaching into Adrian's inner jacket pocket without permission to retrieve his wallet. "We’re going to find out who you really are, and then we’re taking you down to central booking."

"My identification is in the leather billfold," Adrian said, maintaining absolute calmness in his delivery. "You will find my driver's license in the front slot."

Prescott flipped open the worn leather wallet. He pulled out an ordinary Virginia driver's license. "Adrian Cole," Prescott read aloud, his tone arrogant and mocking. "Well, Mr. Cole, let's see what else you're carrying." Prescott dug deeper into the leather folds, pulling out a small brass-trimmed card and a second silver-bordered identification badge.

The silver badge was a Department of Defense Officer Identification Card. It bore a crisp digital photograph of Adrian Cole wearing a formal military service uniform adorned with four silver stars on each shoulder strap. Across the top, in bold red block lettering, were the words: UNITED STATES ARMED FORCES — ACTIVE DUTY GENERAL (O-10).

Prescott stared at the card for a long, silent second. His thumb brushed over the silver stars on the plastic laminate. For a moment, his brow furrowed in confusion, but his mind, heavily biased by his initial assumptions, refused to process the reality of what he was holding. He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh.

"Look at this, Ross," Prescott said, holding the high-security military ID up between two fingers. "The guy's carrying fake federal credentials. A fraudulent four-star general badge! That’s a federal felony on top of trespass and resisting!"

Officer Ross stepped closer, leaning over Prescott's shoulder to examine the card. Unlike Prescott, Ross had served four years in the Army National Guard before joining the Westfield Police Department. He recognized the intricate holographic seals, the micro-printed DOD security threads, and the unmistakable official format of a flag officer’s credentials.

Ross’s face instantly lost all color. The color drained from his lips, and his eyes widened in sheer panic as he looked up from the card to the man standing cuffed before them.

"Prescott..." Ross stammered, his voice dropping an octave, trembling visibly. "Prescott, stop. Stop right now."