King and Maxwell (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 6)

“We would prefer if this took place outside.”

“Then we have a difference of opinion. But since you’re military police and neither of us is in the military, I’m not seeing how you get us outside against our wishes when we are breaking no laws that would allow you to execute a citizen’s arrest.”

“You the lawyer?” said the other uniform. “You sound like one,” he added when Sean nodded.

The sergeant laid a hand on top of his sidearm.

“That would be a career-ending mistake, Sergeant,” said Sean. “And neither you nor I would want that.”

“Then I guess we do this the harder way.”

“What way would that be?” asked Michelle warily.

The sergeant slipped his phone out and sent a text.

Five seconds later the door to the Panera burst open and in walked three men in suits.

“Sean King and Michelle Maxwell?” said the lead man.

“Who wants to know?” replied Sean.

Three Homeland Security badges were shoved in their faces.

“Let’s go,” barked the lead agent.

As Sean and Michelle were yanked from their seats, the sergeant said, with a smile, “That’s the harder way.”

The forty-minute ride in an SUV with blacked-out windows landed them at a facility in Loudoun County, Virginia, that was surrounded by large stands of trees. They were hustled through the front doors, taken past security after their weapons were confiscated, and led down a hallway.

Sean said, for the umpteenth futile time, “What the hell is this about?” And for the umpteenth time he received not a single answer.

They were taken to a small, bare conference room and told to sit. The door was closed and locked behind them.

Sean looked around the space.

Michelle said, “DHS? Why are they involved? Isn’t the DoD enough of an eight-hundred-pound gorilla?”

Sean put a finger to his lips and pointed to a small listening device poking out above the molding next to the ceiling.

A few minutes later the door opened and a man entered. He was about Sean’s height, around fifty, still trim, with thick legs that stretched his pants to near capacity. He wore no jacket. Against his white dress shirt was a shoulder holster with no pistol in it.

He was holding a file. He sat across from them and read from the file for so long that Sean was about to say something when the other man looked up.

“Interesting stuff,” said the man. “I’m Jeff McKinney, by the way. DHS Special Agent Jeff McKinney to be precise.”

“And I’m an especially pissed-off private citizen,” replied Sean.

“Make that two,” said Michelle.

McKinney sat back. “Coffee, water, tea?”

“Answers and apologies would do just fine,” answered Sean. “With the apologies preferably up front.”

“Apologize for what? Doing our job?”

Sean shook his head. “Not gonna cut it, McKinney. I don’t think Homeland’s job is to jerk law-abiding citizens out of their chairs at a public place without telling them why or reading them their rights. So we’ve technically been kidnapped. Unless you’ve added felonies to your official duties, you’ve got a massive lawsuit coming your way. I’ll want to spell your name right. Is it M-c or M-a-c?”

McKinney smiled and tapped the file. “Let’s talk Tyler Wingo.”