Scanned it.
A pause.
A small green light flickered on the device.
No alarm. No flag.
Nothing.
“Purpose of travel?”
“Visiting family in Lucerne,” I said smoothly, my voice even, almost disinterested. “Short weekend.”
The lie rolled off my tongue easily.
The older officer didn’t look at the passport.
He looked at me.
His gaze lingered longer than necessary—studying, dissecting, searching for something just beneath the surface.
“Step out of the vehicle, ma’am.”
My stomach dropped.
Just slightly.
“Why?” I kept my tone light. Curious.. “The others didn’t have to.”
“Routine check,” he replied without inflection. “Please exit the car.”
I unbuckled slowly.
Took my time. Opened the door. Stepped out.
Hands visible.
Posture relaxed—at least on the outside.
The younger officer moved in first, performing a quick but thorough pat-down. Professional. Efficient.
Searching for weapons, contraband, anything that could justify escalation.
He found nothing.
Meanwhile, the older officer circled the Fiat, flashlight sweeping across the underside, checking the chassis, the wheel wells, the trunk.
Looking for anything.
Anything at all.
I stood still.
Breathing measured.
Heart pounding so loudly it felt like it might betray me.
Then—a third officer appeared.
