Isaiah continued.
“Because if it failed before the stop, that is a policy issue.”
“If it failed during the stop, that is a different issue.”
Carter’s face tightened.
“And if you turned it off…”
Isaiah paused.
“That is another issue entirely.”
Carter swallowed.
Isaiah turned toward Higgins.
The young officer looked almost sick.
“General, I—”
“Not here.”
Higgins stopped.
Isaiah looked toward Shaw.
“I need to return home.”
“Of course.”
“My daughter arrives this afternoon.”
Shaw nodded.
“We’ll take you.”
“No.”
Everyone stared.
Isaiah pointed toward the road.
“I was running.”
Shaw blinked.
“You want to finish?”
“Yes.”
“General, with respect—”
Isaiah looked toward him.
Shaw stopped.
Isaiah said:
“I’ve been sitting in a patrol car for twenty minutes.”
“My house is less than two miles away.”
“I would like to finish my run.”
Higgins stared as though the man had lost his mind.
Isaiah began jogging.
Slowly at first.
His wrists hurt.
Hip hurt slightly from the cruiser.
But the rhythm returned.
Left.
Right.
Breath.
Fog.
Road.
Behind him, three police vehicles remained at the curb like pieces of a problem no one knew how to move.
Margaret was waiting outside 442.
She still held her phone.
When Isaiah turned onto Willow Creek Lane, she stepped into the driveway.
“My God.”
Isaiah slowed to a walk.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
“Those idiots arrested you.”
“Temporarily.”
“That is an arrest.”
“Technically, detention.”
Margaret stared.
“Do generals always talk like lawyers?”
“Only when neighbors bring banana bread.”
She almost laughed.
Then her eyes filled.
“I told them you lived here.”
“I heard.”
“I should have done more.”
Isaiah stopped.
“No.”
“They wouldn’t listen.”
“That is not your failure.”
Margaret looked toward his wrists.
Red marks visible.
Her expression hardened.
“What happens now?”
Isaiah looked toward the house.
“I make coffee.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
He sighed.
“Unfortunately, probably not.”
At 7:12, Colonel Andrew Anderson arrived.
He did not knock politely.
He opened the front door with the emergency key Isaiah had given him three days earlier.
“Sir?”
Kitchen.
Isaiah sat at the island holding an ice pack against one wrist.
Anderson entered.
Forty-six.
Career Army.
Usually impossible to surprise.
He stared at his commanding general in running clothes.
“You were arrested.”
“Detained.”
“Sir.”
“I know.”
Anderson dropped a secure folder onto the counter.
“Pentagon Ops nearly initiated a protective response.”
“That would have been excessive.”
“You disappeared before a secure check-in.”
“I was busy.”
“In a police car.”
“Yes.”
Anderson stared.
Then, against every rule of military bearing he had ever learned, laughed.
Isaiah glared.
Anderson tried to stop.
Failed.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You don’t look sorry.”