Page 21 of More Than a Hero (Baytown Heroes #12)
The traffic stop should have been routine. A North Heron County Sheriff’s Department deputy clocked the car—a sleek, dark sedan with blacked-out windows—barreling down the highway at nearly eighty miles per hour in a fifty-five zone.
But what should have been simple turned into chaos in an instant.
Pete heard the urgency crackle over the radio as multiple deputies joined the pursuit. What started as a single patrol car flashing its lights had escalated into a high-speed chase, sirens wailing.
He and Jeremy had been on their way to meet one of their informants when the call came in. Jeremy, hands steady on the wheel, flicked his gaze to Pete, already tracking the unfolding situation.
“If this idiot keeps heading south, he’ll hit the bridge,” Pete muttered, eyes scanning the dark highway ahead. “Between us, the CBBT, and Virginia Beach PD, he’ll have nowhere to go.”
Jeremy huffed a dry laugh, shifting in his seat. “What do you wanna bet he’s carrying drugs?”
They listened as the dispatcher’s voice cut through the radio again. Suspect has turned off the main highway. Now traveling at high speeds on rural roads.
Pete shook his head. “No way he’s local. He’s got no idea what he’s in for. These backroads? Hell, they’re more potholes than pavement. He won’t be able to keep up that speed for long.”
Jeremy keyed his mic. “North Heron, DTF Unit 17, we’re standing by near the southern end of the county.”
As they monitored the chase, the radio crackled again. The suspect had taken a sharp turn, heading straight for Baytown.
Pete and Jeremy locked eyes. In perfect unison, they growled, “Oh shit.”
A high-speed chase was bad enough, but Baytown was another level of danger entirely. No traffic lights, no wide highways. The town was just narrow streets and people out walking or riding bikes or in golf carts. A reckless driver plowing through town at these speeds was a disaster in the making.
Jeremy yanked the wheel to veer off the highway and gunned it toward Baytown.
Through the radio, they caught Baytown’s Police Chief Mitch Evans’s firm order to deploy the spike strips. A minute later, the radio crackled with an update. Driver attempted to evade—vehicle’s in a ditch. Foot pursuit in progress. One suspect in vehicle.
A beat of silence. Suspects in custody.
Pete exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair as Jeremy smirked. Pete grabbed the radio. “DTF Unit 17 en route.” Then, turning to Jeremy, he grinned, slow and knowing. “You asked what I’d bet?”
Jeremy raised a brow.
Pete leaned back against the seat, shaking his head. “I’d bet my last paycheck they’re carrying. Drugs, guns—something. But he’s carrying.”
Jeremy pulled the SUV to a stop near the wrecked vehicle, leaving enough space for the emergency responders still arriving on the scene. The flashing red and blue lights painted the ditch in erratic strokes, illuminating the sedan that had skidded off the road and landed on its side in the ravine.
Pete surveyed the wreck, his sharp gaze sweeping over the tilted frame. The car landed on the passenger side, which explained how the driver had managed to bail out and run, leaving his passenger behind.
The driver stood near the back of a deputy’s vehicle, handcuffed and mouthing off continuously.
The passenger, once pulled from the wreckage, was sitting on the grass nearby as the EMT checked him out.
He appeared young, and if his tears were anything to go by, he’d gotten into more than he’d planned.
Pete’s attention was diverted as a dog barked. “Good,” Pete muttered, spotting the familiar figure of Carly, the K9 handler, and her muscular black shepherd, Nero. “The K9 unit’s already here.”
Carly turned as they approached, her expression sharp and ready for business. “Took you long enough.”
Pete smirked. “I have a feeling Nero’s about to make our night a whole lot more interesting.”
She chuckled, patting the dog’s harness. “He’s locked in and ready to go.”
Jeremy and Pete followed as she led Nero to the trunk. A deputy popped it open, revealing an empty cargo space.
The suspect, now in cuffs and pinned against a patrol car, barked out a laugh. “Ain’t got no right to be searchin’ my shit. Y’all got nothin’ on me.”
The deputy holding him didn’t so much as blink. “Speeding. Evading law enforcement. Resisting arrest. That’s plenty.”
The man scoffed. “That ain’t nothing.”
Before Pete could respond, Nero let out a sharp bark and lunged toward the back door of the sedan, his paws scraping against the metal. The energy shifted instantly as every deputy tensed.
Jeremy and Pete moved in, wrenching the door open. A blast of stale air mixed with fast-food grease hit them. The back seat was a mess with discarded soda cans, snack wrappers, and crumpled receipts, but nothing obvious.
Yet Nero wasn’t letting up. He sniffed the seat, then abruptly sat on his haunches, ears pricked, muscles taut.
Carly’s voice was calm but sure. “He’s found something.”
Pete took the crowbar from a nearby deputy and wedged it between the seat cushions. With a sharp grunt, he pried them apart. The second he caught a glimpse of the plastic-wrapped bricks crammed inside, he let out a low whistle. He turned to Jeremy, a slow grin stretching across his face. “Bingo.”
The energy at the scene shifted again, this time with electric urgency.
“Start bagging it,” Jeremy said as the deputies moved in with evidence kits. “And get the forensics team out here.”
Carly held Nero back, but the dog was still restless, nose twitching as he pulled against his handler. Pete frowned. “There’s more?”
Carly nodded. “Let him work.”
She loosened the leash just enough for Nero to guide them. The shepherd sniffed along the floorboards, then suddenly twisted toward the back door and started pawing at the panel.
Jeremy didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the crowbar and jammed it into the seam, using brute force to pry it open. A second later, another set of plastic-wrapped bricks tumbled onto the ground.
Pete exhaled. “Son of a bitch.”
The team worked efficiently, cataloging each find. Pete jogged back to his SUV and grabbed the field testing kit. He didn’t need to test every package—just enough for confirmation. The moment the reagent turned blue, he exchanged a look with Jeremy.
“Cocaine,” Pete muttered.
The methodical process of bagging, labeling, and logging began. Photographs were taken, and body cameras recorded every step. No one was taking shortcuts. Pete and Jeremy had seen too many cases fall apart over a sloppy chain of custody.
The tow truck from Baytown rolled up just as the last of the drugs were secured. As the car was lifted from the ditch, they found more hidden compartments—stacks of cash beneath the driver’s seat and another stash of drugs crammed behind the dashboard.
They worked alongside Baytown officers, state police, and even a DEA agent out of Virginia Beach for hours, processing what was quickly shaping up to be a major bust.
“The driver keeps swearing he didn’t know what was in the car,” a deputy said. “Claims he borrowed it from a friend.”
Pete snorted. “Yeah, sure. We’ll dust for prints.”
“What about the kid?” Jeremy asked, his tone shifting slightly.
“Sixteen. A juvenile. Local.”
Pete let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. “Once everything is processed, we’ll question them both.”
By this time, the sun was lowering, and Pete and Jeremy also needed to get everything back to the sheriff's department.
All the evidence bags were loaded into the back of their SUV in front of witnesses.
The DEA agent shook their hands and said he would check in with them tomorrow.
The two state police officers did the same.
Now, with a convoy of deputy cruisers in front and behind them, they drove to the sheriff's department.
Once there, the unloading process was much the same.
Everything was cataloged and placed in a secure, locked holding area for potentially dangerous evidence.
The haul was substantial—too damn big for comfort.
He barely had time to roll the stiffness from his neck before the ESDTF Captain Terry Bunswick strode into the room, his presence commanding as ever.
Right behind him was Colt, the county sheriff, his rugged features etched with the weight of responsibility.
The two men, along with the sheriff from Acawmacke County, shared leadership of the Eastern Shore Drug Task Force, and if they were both here in person, Pete knew this bust had already made waves.
“This has already hit the news,” Terry announced grimly, his voice edged with frustration.
Pete let out a slow breath and shook his head, glancing at Jeremy, who sat at the desk beside him. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.
Jeremy barely looked up as he addressed their superiors. “Please tell me you’re not going to make us do an interview.”
Terry shook his head. “No, not at all. The media relations officer is handling that. But we need a picture of the haul.”
Pete exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “Fine. Just don’t expect me to be in it.”
“Agreed.” Terry crossed his arms, his expression darkening.
“The Virginia Beach newspaper, as well as the local publication, wanted a full spread—with the drugs laid out and officers standing behind. But I told them no way in hell. I’m not putting my people on display like that.
Once this hits national news and the TV stations, I don’t want any of you becoming the next target for some cartel looking to make an example. ”
Pete nodded, a weight lifting from his chest. It wasn’t paranoia… it was reality. Drug gangs didn’t take kindly to law enforcement seizing their product. “Appreciate that, Captain,” he said, offering a grateful chin lift toward Colt. “You too.”
Colt gave a firm nod, the silent understanding between them heavy with unspoken truths.
They kept the media away from the evidence room.
Instead, the confiscated bags were stacked on a table against a blank wall.
Pete and Jeremy moved to the back of the room with other officers, blending into the shadows as the reporters were ushered in.
Before cameras flashed, Colt took the lead, setting strict boundaries on what they could and couldn’t do.
Pete didn’t let his guard down for a second, watching the reporters like a hawk. He didn’t trust them. Not because they were the enemy but because information had a way of slipping through cracks, and if the wrong people got their hands on it, someone could end up dead.
Terry answered questions in clipped, practiced tones, offering nothing of real substance. “The investigation is ongoing,” he said more than once. That was all the press was getting.
As soon as the reporters left, the tension in the room eased. Jeremy and Pete stayed behind with the evidence officer, ensuring every last bag was logged and secured before finally heading back to their desks.
The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Pete tapped at his keyboard, the familiar monotony of report writing setting in.
He hated paperwork. Almost as much as he hated dealing with the press.
He thought about the aborted trip to talk to their local informant.
“We never even got to talk to Jacko,” he murmured, his eyes still on the screen.
Jeremy, leaning back in his chair, cracked his knuckles. “We can still try tomorrow. Talk to him and the two arrested today.”
Pete nodded, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. Sounds like a plan.” He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath. It had been a hell of a day. And something told him tomorrow wouldn’t be any easier.
Jeremy nudged him. “You seeing Angie tonight?”
Pete hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Might just give her a call.”
Jeremy’s grin was unmistakable. “Cora and I are practically living together at this point.”
Pete didn’t say anything at first. He’d never been the type to rush into things, but the idea of coming home to Angie wasn’t something that sent him running. In fact, he couldn’t think of anything better.