That had not stopped him.
Keller stepped closer.
“What are you doing here?”
Nia looked toward the fuel pump.
“Buying gas.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Atlanta.”
“You came from Atlanta.”
“Then I'm going back.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Don't get cute.”
Nia said nothing.
Inside the convenience store, nineteen-year-old clerk Dylan Laam looked through the front window.
His father had warned him about Officer Keller.
Not directly.
Nobody in McKetric County said certain things directly.
Kareem Laam had owned the station for sixteen years. He had seen drivers pulled aside, searched, questioned, sometimes handcuffed. He had seen cash counted on cruiser hoods.
He had also learned that cameras could stop working when the wrong officer requested footage.
Three months earlier, Kareem had installed a second security recorder in a locked cabinet beneath the office floor.
Keller knew about the visible cameras.
He did not know about the second system.
Dylan watched Nia.
Then Keller.
He reached beneath the counter and pressed the silent save switch his father had added.
Outside, Keller nodded toward Nia’s coat.
“You carrying anything I need to know about?”
“Yes.”
His hand moved closer to his holster.
“What?”
“My phone.”
Keller stared.
Nia continued.
“And identification.”
“That all?”
“No.”
“What else?”
“I have a licensed firearm.”
Keller’s expression changed instantly.
“Where?”
“Secured under my jacket.”
“Hands up.”
“They're already visible.”
“Higher.”
Nia raised them.
Keller closed the distance.
“What are you doing with a gun?”
“Carrying it legally.”
“You got a permit?”
“Yes.”
“Georgia permit?”
“Federal authorization.”
That should have changed his approach.
Instead Keller looked irritated.
“Federal?”
Nia immediately regretted using the word.
Not because it exposed her completely.
Because she saw something flicker in his expression.
Recognition?
Fear?
It was gone too quickly to be certain.
Keller stepped close enough for her to smell coffee and chewing tobacco on his breath.
“What kind of federal?”
“I can show you credentials.”
He looked at her coat.
“Don't move.”
Nia stayed still.
Keller looked through the passenger window.
Her handbag.
A slim black evidence-style case on the rear floorboard.
The case was part of the operation.
Inside were eighteen thousand dollars in marked currency.
The federal team believed officers associated with Keller had unlawfully seized cash from motorists at least nine times during the previous eighteen months.
Most victims were traveling with legitimate money.
A contractor carrying payroll.
A church treasurer.
A used-car dealer.
A grandmother helping her son buy machinery.
None recovered everything.
Two complained.
Their cases disappeared.
Tonight the money existed to answer one question.
Would Keller create his own reason to take it?
Nia said calmly:
“My credentials are in the left interior pocket.”
Keller looked back at her.
“What credentials?”
“I told you. Federal.”
“FBI?”
Nia did not answer.
That was when she knew.
His reaction was wrong.
Most officers, hearing possible federal credentials during a roadside interaction, became more cautious.
Keller became angry.
“Who told you to come here?”
Nia felt the operation change beneath her feet.