“Still no.”
“Huracán.”
“I know what a Lamborghini is.”
“Good.”
“I’m saying no in two languages if necessary.”
Derek smiled.
“You speak Vietnamese.”
“I also speak patience.”
“Poorly.”
She glared.
Operation Black Glass received approval three weeks later.
The Lamborghini was not bait in the simple sense.
Federal law did not allow agents to create crimes merely to see who behaved badly.
Instead, the car became part of Derek’s existing undercover identity.
For six months, he posed as a wealthy broker interested in discreetly acquiring exotic vehicles with questionable ownership histories.
The identity put him in contact with a theft network.
That network hinted repeatedly that certain law-enforcement officers could “solve roadside problems.”
The more Derek listened, the uglier the structure became.
Unauthorized database searches.
Impound manipulation.
Confidential plate alerts.
Tow contracts.
Asset seizures.
Information sales.
Some corruption.
Some racism.
Often both.
Wade Mitchell’s name surfaced in a coded ledger twice.
Only initials.
W.M.
Could mean anybody.
Another officer, Sergeant Paul Trent, appeared more clearly.
Then Lieutenant Craig Bannon.
The task force spent months waiting.
They needed actual access logs.
Communications.
Money.
Intent.
The Lamborghini carried cameras because Derek’s undercover identity required protection.
It also contained an emergency module.
Violent impact plus failure to acknowledge a scheduled check-in triggered automatic uplink.
No one expected the first major trigger to be a police baton through the window.
Derek’s daughter heard about the stop before he reached home.
Of course she did.
At thirteen, Ava Hayes possessed the terrifying efficiency of a child raised with internet access and a father involved in work nobody explained properly.
She stood inside their kitchen when Derek entered just before nine that night.
Arms crossed.
Dark curls tied into a loose bun.
School sweatshirt.
Bare feet.
Expression inherited entirely from her mother.
“You said you were doing paperwork.”
Derek closed the door.
“I did paperwork.”
“You were on the interstate with eight FBI cars.”
“Technically six.”
“Dad.”
“Plus two state police units.”
“Dad.”
He stopped.
Ava pointed toward his shoulder.
“What happened?”
Derek had changed jackets, but bruising had begun near his collarbone.
“Seat belt.”
“From a crash?”
“No.”
She had already seen the video.
He knew.
A motorist had uploaded thirty-two seconds.
Mitchell smashing the Lamborghini window.
Derek exiting.
Gun drawn.
The clip ended before the badge reveal.
Twenty million views in five hours.
Ava’s eyes filled.
Derek sighed.
“Come here.”
She did not.
That was worse.
“What if he shot you?”
“He didn’t.”
“That is not the question.”
Derek looked toward the kitchen table.
Homework.
Half-eaten cereal.
One purple marker without a cap.
Life waiting exactly where he left it.
His wife Danielle had died four years earlier from an aneurysm.
No warning.
Morning coffee.
Headache.
Hospital.
Gone before midnight.
Since then, Derek had made promises to Ava he could not always keep.
I’ll be careful.
I’m coming home.
This assignment isn’t dangerous.
The last one had always been a lie.
Ava stepped closer.
“You had a gun.”
“Yes.”
“So did he.”
“Yes.”
“He pointed his at you.”