is a very polite way of saying no fast movements, keep your hands visible, and if this Jeep had been filled with skinny tattooed meth heads, that’s exactly what he would have said.
So why is he talking this way to this single woman?
Because his gut tells him to do it.
He keeps a close eye on her hands as she opens a large black leather carrying bag, and she takes out a small purse, snaps it open, and passes over her Virginia driver’s license and an Armed Forces identification card.
He puts them aside and watches very, very carefully as she opens the glove box—always being ready in case something comes out besides a slip of paper—and yes, out comes a little green plastic folder, and from that, she pulls out the Jeep’s registration.
Now it makes sense, as he examines the two IDs and the registration, all in the name of Amy Cornwall. There have been lots of vehicle stops where Hancock had to wait while the driver dug and dug through a pile of papers, napkins, and ketchup containers, looking for his or her registration, like some impatient and deranged archaeologist.
At least this gal has her act together.
He holds up the paperwork and says, “Just give me a couple of minutes, ma’am, check things out, and then I’ll get you on your way.”
From my side-view mirror I watch him amble back into his cruiser, and right now, lots of options, plans, and arguments are bouncing around my increasingly overwhelmed mind.
The biggest problem facing me is if I’m listed in the National Crime Information Center system as an Army deserter. That only happens after I’ve been AWOL for thirty days or more, but with that damn Afghanistan investigation hanging over my head like a hundred-pound sack of cement, that might have changed. I’ve also blown off a meeting with a CID investigator and pissed off my CO—Lieutenant Colonel Denton—so who knows if I’m in the system or not. Having angered the official Army police and my commanding officer might just have put me in the NCIC system last night.
And if I am…that hunk of a highway patrolman is going to come back and arrest me after he runs my identification.
I will not allow that to happen.
CHAPTER 31
I KEEP on staring back at the man who unwittingly now has my future and that of my kidnapped family in his hands.
All right, I keep thinking, suppose I’m not in the NCIC system, but he’s a suspicious sort, and he may want me to consent to a search of the Jeep. If he does that—and unless I tell him first—he’s going to find my Ruger .357 revolver and my 9mm SIG Sauer pistol.
That will certainly get his attention, and not in a good way.
I keep my hands on the steering wheel.
I didn’t have to give him my Armed Forces identification, but I wanted to appeal to his patriotic nature. Sometimes it works, and I’ve heard stories of off-duty guys and gals using their uniforms and ID to get free upgrades at hotels and airline counters. Considering what we get paid and how we’re treated, that’s a perk I can’t argue with.
But it doesn’t look like I’m getting any perks today.
I keep staring at the rearview mirror. It looks like the bulky highway patrolman is talking into a cell phone. Looking for guidance from a supervisor? Did a BOLO come up on me in the NCIC system already?
A cold chunk of lead has just formed in my chest.
I will not be detained today.
I will not be arrested today.
I will not be delayed.
I keep my left hand on the steering wheel and slide my right hand into my open dispatch case, put my hand around the smooth metal of the Ruger revolver.
A hateful decision, but one I’ve just made.
I don’t know this cop, but I do know he won’t keep me from my mission.
Hancock is running Amy Cornwall’s driver’s license through the NCIC system via the cruiser’s computer, and she comes up clean. No outstanding warrants or summonses.
Fine.
His personal cell phone rings, and he glances at the number, recognizes his home number.
“Hey, hon,” he answers, “what’s up?”
His wife, Lucille—whom everyone calls LuLu—says, “God, Clay, I’m sorry to bother you, but the pharmacy just called. The cough syrup for Kimmy’s ready to be picked up. You think you can swing by when your shift’s over?”
“Sure, Lu, I can do that,” he says, keeping an eye on the black Wrangler and the driver.
Something is wrong.
He keeps his eyes on