Chapter 13: The Departure
The doors of the black SUVs closed with a heavy, muffled thud that echoed off the brick walls of the neighboring houses. There were no sirens, no flashing lights, and no theatrical farewells. The convoy simply shifted into reverse, backed out of the narrow Oak Creek driveway with smooth, practiced efficiency, and turned down the corner toward the highway leading back to Washington.
Toby walked over slowly, staring at the twenty-dollar bill in Marcus’s hand. "Did... did he just pay you for the ball?"
Marcus didn't answer immediately. He looked at the dark patch on the asphalt where the Spalding had exploded into pieces less than an hour ago, the gray rubber dust already settling into the porous concrete like permanent stains.
"Yeah," Marcus said softly, his voice trembling slightly. "He paid for the ball."
"So your dad's okay?" Toby asked, his eyes wide. "What were they doing in there?"
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"They were looking through old books," Marcus said, turning toward the front door of the house, which stood slightly ajar where the technicians had forced the lock. "Just old books."
The house was quiet when they walked inside. The smell of peppermint tea and old paper hung in the hallway, but the living room was changed. The baseboard beneath the bookshelves was stripped away, leaving a dark, empty gap where forty years of federal secrets had rested quietly behind the drywall. Marcus walked over to his father's desk, picking up the half-empty cup of chamomile tea that was now ice cold, and set it down on the coaster with a steady hand.
