The man backed away.
Adrian remained on the ground.
He could feel warmth near his cheekbone.
Blood, probably a small cut.
Pike bent.
“Sir, roll onto your side.”
Adrian looked at him.
“Is your camera on?”
Pike hesitated.
“Yes.”
Wells stared at him.
Pike looked away.
Adrian rolled.
Wells grabbed the back of Adrian’s coat.
“Get up.”
Adrian rose with difficulty.
His dress uniform was dirty now.
Gray dust along one side.
The gold braid had scuffed.
A dark stain from coffee marked his lower coat.
He looked down.
That hurt more than expected.
Not because fabric mattered more than his body.
Because the uniform carried memory.
His father watching commissioning.
His mother pinning stars.
Soldiers saluting at promotions.
Names of people he had buried.
A uniform was cloth.
But human beings placed memory into cloth.
Wells saw him looking.
“Should’ve worn something less ridiculous.”
Pike turned toward him.
“Sarge.”
Wells ignored him.
Adrian spoke.
“You have now detained me.”
“You have my identification available.”
“You have refused to examine it.”
“You have requested a warrantless search.”
“I refused.”
“You responded by handcuffing me.”
Wells stared.
“You practicing your lawsuit?”
“No.”
Adrian’s voice lowered.
“I’m preserving sequence.”
Pike looked at him differently.
Wells did not.
He shoved Adrian toward patrol SUV.
Then every radio nearby crackled.
Static burst from Wells’s shoulder.
Pike’s.
The SUV console.
A dispatcher’s voice came through.
“All Route 23 and Interstate 16 units, stand by priority BOLO confirmation.”
Wells stopped.
“Priority communication from U.S. Marshals Service and Fort Eisenhower command liaison.”
Adrian closed his eyes briefly.
Of course.
He had been expected at the Macon federal courthouse security residence by 11:30.
His assigned marshal contact would notice delay.
The dispatcher continued.
“Confirm status and location of retired Major General Adrian Elijah Ross, Black male, fifty-one, traveling southbound in graphite Lincoln sedan, Georgia plate…”
She read his plate.
Pike looked at Wells.
Wells looked at Adrian.
The truck driver at pump four whispered:
“Holy hell.”
The radio continued.
“Subject is a protected federal judicial officer scheduled for federal court security intake at 0700. Any unit with contact advise immediately.”
No one moved.
Adrian could hear the buzzing canopy lights.
The distant highway.
A refrigerator compressor inside convenience store.
Wells’s grip loosened.
Not enough.
But Adrian felt it.
Pike whispered:
“Federal judicial officer?”
Wells pressed his microphone.
“Dispatch, Unit 23-4.”
“23-4.”
He looked at Adrian.
“I have a male detained matching description.”
There was a pause.
Then:
“23-4, confirm name.”