Recognition.
He had spent years interviewing people after moments like this.
Black executives.
Latino contractors.
Teenagers.
Doctors.
College students.
A retired judge.
A nurse coming home after a night shift.
People describing the instant a question stopped being a question.
Somebody like you.
A car like this.
Derek’s voice became quieter.
“Somebody like me?”
Mitchell smiled again.
“You heard me.”
“Yes.”
“I did.”
Mitchell reached through the broken window.
“Unlock the door.”
Derek did not move.
Mitchell’s hand went toward the interior latch.
Derek spoke sharply.
“Do not reach inside the vehicle.”
Mitchell paused.
Then pulled the handle anyway.
The door opened.
Hard.
It struck the mechanical stop.
Derek remained seated.
Seat belt fastened.
Hands still visible.
Mitchell stepped back.
“Out.”
“What is the reason for the stop?”
“Possible stolen vehicle.”
“Did you run the registration?”
“I said out.”
“Did dispatch report a Lamborghini stolen?”
Mitchell grabbed Derek’s left forearm.
Nolan stepped forward.
“Sergeant—”
“Back me up.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re narrating.”
Mitchell yanked.
The seat belt held Derek in place.
The movement pulled his shoulder painfully against the restraint.
Derek did not resist.
“I’m belted.”
“Then unbuckle.”
“You’re holding my arm.”
Mitchell released him.
“Unbuckle.”
Derek moved slowly.
One hand.
Visible.
He pressed the seat-belt release.
The belt retracted.
Mitchell immediately grabbed the front of his jacket.
Derek’s entire body tightened.
Training fought instinct.
Instinct said create distance.
Control the wrist.
Shift his balance.
Derek could have done it.
Mitchell was heavier, but slower.
Derek had spent years learning how to survive hands-on encounters.
He also knew exactly what the resulting report would say.
Subject became combative.
Officer perceived threat.
Physical struggle ensued.
Derek did nothing.
Mitchell dragged him upward.
Derek stepped onto the shoulder.
Broken glass fell from his trousers.
Traffic roared three feet away.
Nolan moved between Derek and the active lane.
That mattered too.
Derek noticed.
Mitchell shoved him toward the rear quarter panel.
“Hands on the car.”
Derek turned.
“If this is a stolen-vehicle investigation, verify the vehicle.”
“You don’t give orders.”
“I’m asking you to perform the first basic step in the investigation you claim you’re conducting.”
Mitchell pushed harder.
Derek’s palms met the Lamborghini’s roof.
Hot metal.
He could feel heat through his skin.
Mitchell kicked Derek’s feet wider.
Derek looked over one shoulder.
“Careful.”
Mitchell laughed.
“You worried about your pants?”
“I’m worried about traffic.”
Nolan said:
“He’s right, Sergeant. We’re too close to lane one.”
Mitchell snapped:
“Move the patrol car if you’re scared.”
“I didn’t say I was scared.”
“You act like it.”
Nolan’s jaw tightened.
Derek saw that.
The younger officer was nearing a decision.
He did not know it yet.