I stepped onto the pavement, reached into my coat, and pulled out my badge. “Special Agent Chelsea Brooks, FBI,” I said. “Take your hands off my husband. Now.”
Mercer froze.
But he did not apologize.
And the way he looked at me in that moment told me this stop was not a misunderstanding, not poor judgment, and not the first time he had done something like this.
So why would a patrol officer risk assaulting an innocent doctor in front of an FBI agent—and what was he so sure his department would protect him from afterward?
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