“Do not deactivate.”
Then Mercer.
“Yours?”
“Battery failed.”
Cross’s eyes dropped.
Voss noticed.
“Okay.”
He said nothing more.
That silence was worse than accusation.
The federal team did not arrest Mercer.
People online later claimed they had.
They did not.
They preserved scene.
Requested Cedar County supervisor.
Contacted state investigators because local law enforcement was involved.
Photographed damage.
Obtained bystander contact information.
Requested original phone videos voluntarily.
Seized nothing from deputies without lawful process.
The hammer remained where Mercer dropped it until county supervisor arrived.
Sheriff Halbrook appeared forty minutes later.
He was sixty-one.
Tall.
Silver hair.
Politician’s smile.
That smile vanished when he saw Bugatti.
Then returned when he saw cameras.
He walked directly toward Voss.
“What exactly is FBI doing in my county?”
Voss answered:
“Responding to our agent’s emergency alert.”
Halbrook glanced at Nia.
Recognition?
Maybe.
Nia watched carefully.
The sheriff looked at her badge.
Then her car.
Then Mercer.
“How did this happen?”
Mercer said:
“Suspicious vehicle.”
Cross stared at pavement.
Halbrook lowered voice.
“Why is windshield smashed?”
“Attempted access.”
“With a sledgehammer?”
“The door was locked.”
Halbrook’s jaw tightened.
For first time, Nia saw something real beneath his public face.
Not outrage at civil rights.
Not concern for Mercer.
Fear of exposure.
Very brief.
Gone.
He looked toward tow truck.
“Why is Danner here?”
Mercer said:
“Standard rotation.”
Nia almost smiled.
She knew enough to know that was probably false.
But she stayed silent.
Voss noticed too.
Halbrook turned toward Nia.
“Agent Grant, I’m sorry this got out of hand.”
She removed sunglasses.
Looked at him directly.
“Out of hand?”
His smile faltered.
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
He glanced around at phones.
Not ideal.
“We’ll review.”
“Good.”
“You’ll have full cooperation.”
Voss said:
“We’ll contact your counsel.”
Halbrook looked at him.
“Counsel?”
“Preservation requests are coming.”
The sheriff’s expression hardened.
“This is one traffic stop.”
Voss answered:
“Maybe.”
Nia watched that word land.
Maybe.
Halbrook understood implications.
The FBI had already been looking.
He did not know how much.
Neither did Mercer.
Neither did Danner.
That uncertainty would drive every mistake they made over the next seventy-two hours.
Nia left in a federal vehicle.
Her Bugatti went nowhere until a manufacturer-certified transport service arrived.
Not Danner.
The tow driver looked offended.
No one cared.