In the second car was Deputy Mark Dixon, a man whose personnel file was thick with complaints about “excessive force” and “unprofessional conduct.” He enjoyed the power trip of the badge a little too much.
The third car was manned by Tyler Reed, a twenty-eight-year-old rookie who did whatever the older guys told him to do without asking questions. These three weren’t just a patrol unit; they were a crew.
They had turned this stretch of the interstate into a personal ATM, shaking down out-of-state drivers for “cash bonds” to avoid trumped-up charges. This night was supposed to be another easy score.
But the woman in the Tahoe wasn’t following the script. Sarah handled the heavy vehicle with surgical precision, using the curves of the mountain road to her advantage.
She knew this road; she had memorized the topography before the mission. She used the Tahoe’s weight to hold the line on sharp turns, the speedometer needle hovering between 100 and 115 mph. The SUV’s suspension soaked up the uneven pavement, but the deputies were relentless.
Vance was screaming into his radio, his face turning a deep shade of purple. No one ignored his lights. No one ran from him.
