The door closed.
Metal against metal.
Don Manuel sat behind, handcuffed, calm.
Like I'm waiting for the bus.
Sergio sat behind the wheel.
Ricardo, by his side.
Central, here Molina. A detainee for disobedience, disturbance of order and resistance. Road to police station.
The radio replied:
"Received.
There was a little pause.
One doubt.
Because three minutes earlier, an operator had received a strange call from someone who claimed to speak on behalf of the National Agency asking about director Rivas.
She thought it was a joke.
I wasn't so sure now.
In the back seat, Don Manuel looked forward.
Sergio watched him in the rearview mirror.
“Comfortable? I'm sure he's not used to going on patrol.
Don Manuel did not answer.
Ricardo asked:
Did you get him ID?
“Nothing. No wallet, no mobile. Suspect.
Lie.
The mobile was in the interior pocket of Don Manuel's vest.
Sergio hadn't found him.
Don Manuel knew that.
And he said nothing.
I was waiting.
Sergio looked at him again.
People like you always think you can get away with it. Not today.
Don Manuel spoke for the first time since they started.
“Agent Molina, when we get to the police station, check my prints very carefully.
Sergio let out a laugh.
“We will do that. And when they get out clean, the charges will still fall.
Don Manuel lay down.
His voice no longer sounded like a helpless man.
It sounded like a door closing.
“When those fingerprints come out on screen, you’ll need a union representative and an excellent attorney.
Richard was shaken awkward.
“Molina, drive.
The radio sounded again.
—All units, federal link requests urgent contact with police station for possible priority...
Ricardo stretched his hand and lowered the volume to zero.
—Interference.
Sergio nodded.
Because young agents trust their bosses.
That was his second mistake.
They arrived at the police station eight minutes later.
Sergio pulled Don Manuel out of the car in one fell swoop.
He took him down the main hall, passing with other officers who barely looked.
For them it was routine.
One more detainee.
One more Saturday.
But Agent Marta Salas, on guard duty at reception, looked at Don Manuel’s face and felt something strange.
Not fear.
No anger.
Calm.
A calm too great for an unjustly handcuffed man.
“Inspector,” he asked, “what are the charges?”
Richard didn't stop.
