Chapter 7: The Discovery in the Garage
Outside in the driveway, Marcus had finally broken his silence. He stepped toward the perimeter agent nearest the garage door, his fists clenched at his sides. "I need my bike pump. It's inside. My tire's flat."
The agent—a younger man with a crew cut and a scar across his left eyebrow—didn't look at Marcus. "Stay back from the threshold, kid."
"I just need the pump," Marcus insisted, taking another step. "It's right by the workbench."
"I said stay back," the agent repeated, shifting his weight. "We have an active sweep in progress."
Toby grabbed Marcus by the elbow, pulling him back toward the sun-baked grass. "Man, leave it. They've got guns. Let them do whatever crazy federal stuff they're doing. We can use my dad's pump down the street."
"It's not about the pump," Marcus whispered, his eyes fixed on the gap beneath the metal garage door. A thin line of light cut across the concrete, and beneath it, protruding slightly from under the freezer chest, was the corner of a cardboard box that hadn't been there when they left for school that morning. It was an archival storage box, the exact same type his father brought home by the stack from the Library of Congress basement—stamped with a red confidentiality seal that Marcus had never seen on any of his dad's regular history books.
Marcus knew his father's habits better than anyone. Arthur Vance didn't bring classified documents home; he was too paranoid about compliance to risk his pension for a stack of old papers. But someone had put that box there. Or someone had forced his father to put it there.
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The garage side door clicked open with a metallic snap. Another agent stepped out, carrying a brown manila envelope tucked under his arm. He didn't look at the boys as he walked past toward the waiting SUV, his boots crunching on the tiny fragments of the destroyed Spalding basketball that still littered the driveway like gray confetti.
Marcus took a slow, deep breath, tasting the hot asphalt and the faint metallic tang of the agent's sidearm holster. The game was over. The driveway belonged to the government now.
