All right, he thinks. Let’s see what’s what.
He picks up his round campaign hat, steps outside, and tugs it on. It looks routine—maybe the driver needed a break, or to check the GPS, or heard something funny from the engine—but Hancock knows no traffic stop is ever routine. Last year he pulled over an RV with Kentucky plates that was weaving back and forth on this same stretch of highway, and the little old lady said she was just tired and needed a cup of coffee.
Maybe she was tired, but a quick search revealed about a hundred pounds of plastic-wrapped weed hidden in the RV’s rear storage unit.
He approaches the Wrangler and presses four fingers on the Jeep’s rear, leaving his fingerprints behind. If something untoward were to happen in the next few minutes, at least his fellow troopers would have forensic proof that he had stopped this Jeep.
Not being paranoid, he thought. Just being careful.
Careful highway patrolmen live to go home at end of shift.
A Tennessee highway patrolman is pulling his cruiser right up behind my Jeep Wrangler, and thoughts and options are rattling through my mind like an avalanche of rocks and stones.
Relax, I think, just relax. Keep the hands on the steering wheel. Act calm and courteous. These guys are professionals, and they have a sixth sense if anything appears odd or unusual.
My goal now is to get a ticket for whatever Tennessee state law I may be violating and get going, but above all, don’t let him search the Jeep. I’m not sure what the law here is concerning driving with two concealed firearms, but I’m sure it’s not a laugh and a lollipop and being sent on one’s way.
I lower the window and put my hands back up on my steering wheel.
The highway patrolman comes up and stands at a distance from the door, so I have to crane my neck to look at him. He’s a male, early thirties, and his lean face is impassive. He has on dark-green trousers and a light-tan shirt with dark-green pocket flaps. With his round campaign hat firmly on his big head, he looks like he could be an Army drill instructor in his spare time.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he says. “Are you all right? Is there a problem?”
“No, sir, no problem,” I say, giving him a sweet smile. “I’ve been driving for a while and just needed a moment to stretch my legs. Sorry if I shouldn’t have parked here.”
He peers in, sees my duffel bag in the rear, maps in the seat next to me.
“Are you traveling by yourself, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
He steps back, and I think, All right, that seems to be it, and then he leans back in.
“Could I see your license and registration, please?”
Hancock sees the woman is in her midthirties, dark hair, tanned skin, and she’s smiling and being cooperative, but something just doesn’t seem right to him. He can’t put his finger on it, but something just seems…off.
He had been ready to send her on her way, but now he wants to dig a bit.
“License and registration?” she repeats. “Certainly. My registration is in my glove box, my license is in my purse.”
“Very well, ma’am,” he says, stepping back and putting his hand on his holstered .357 Glock Model 31 with fifteen rounds. “Take your time.”
Which is a very polite way of saying no fast movements, keep your hands visible, and if this Jeep had been filled with skinny tattooed meth heads, that’s exactly what he would have said.
So why is he talking this way to this single woman?
Because his gut tells him to do it.
He keeps a close eye on her hands as she opens a large black leather carrying bag, and she takes out a small purse, snaps it open, and passes over her Virginia driver’s license and an Armed Forces identification card.
He puts them aside and watches very, very carefully as she opens the glove box—always being ready in case something comes out besides a slip of paper—and yes, out comes a little green plastic folder, and from that, she pulls out the Jeep’s registration.
Now it makes sense, as he examines the two IDs and the registration, all in the name of Amy Cornwall. There have been lots of vehicle stops where Hancock had to wait while the driver dug and dug through a pile of papers, napkins, and ketchup containers, looking for his or her registration, like some impatient and deranged archaeologist.
At least this gal has her act together.
He holds up the paperwork and says, “Just give me a couple of minutes, ma’am, check things out, and then I’ll get you on your way.”
From my side-view mirror I watch him amble back into his cruiser, and right now, lots of options, plans, and arguments are bouncing around my increasingly overwhelmed mind.
The biggest problem facing me is if I’m listed in the National Crime Information Center system as an Army deserter. That only happens after I’ve been AWOL for thirty days or more, but with that damn Afghanistan investigation hanging over my head like a hundred-pound sack of cement, that might have changed. I’ve also blown off a meeting with a CID investigator and pissed off my CO—Lieutenant Colonel Denton—so who knows if I’m in the system or not. Having angered the official Army police and my commanding officer might just have put me in the NCIC system last night.
And if I am…that hunk of a highway patrolman is going to come back and arrest me after he runs my identification.
I will not allow that to happen.
CHAPTER 31
I KEEP on staring back at the man who unwittingly now has my future and that of my kidnapped family in his hands.
All right, I keep thinking, suppose I’m not in the NCIC system, but he’s a suspicious sort, and he may want me to consent to a search of the Jeep. If he does that—and unless I tell him first—he’s going to find my Ruger .357 revolver and my 9mm SIG Sauer pistol.
That will certainly get his attention, and not in a good way.
I keep my hands on the steering wheel.
I didn’t have to give him my Armed Forces identification, but I wanted to appeal to his patriotic nature. Sometimes it works, and I’ve heard stories of off-duty guys and gals using their uniforms and ID to get free upgrades at hotels and airline counters. Considering what we get paid and how we’re treated, that’s a perk I can’t argue with.
But it doesn’t look like I’m getting any perks today.
I keep staring at the rearview mirror. It looks like the bulky highway patrolman is talking into a cell phone. Looking for guidance from a supervisor? Did a BOLO come up on me in the NCIC system already?
A cold chunk of lead has just formed in my chest.
I will not be detained today.
I will not be arrested today.
I will not be delayed.
I keep my left hand on the steering wheel and slide my right hand into my open dispatch case, put my hand around the smooth metal of the Ruger revolver.
A hateful decision, but one I’ve just made.
I don’t know this cop, but I do know he won’t keep me from my mission.
Hancock is running Amy Cornwall’s driver’s license through the NCIC system via the cruiser’s computer, and she comes up clean. No outstanding warrants or summonses.
Fine.
His personal cell phone rings, and he glances at the number, recognizes his home number.