Chapter 9: The Boys on the Curb
Sitting on the curb across the street, Toby and Marcus watched the front door of number 14 with a quiet, suffocating dread. The neighbors on either side had closed their garage doors ten minutes ago, retreating into the cool interiors of their air-conditioned homes as if pretending nothing was happening could make the federal convoy vanish from the cul-de-sac.
"My mom's text just came through," Toby said, staring down at his phone screen. "She says we're not allowed to cross the street. She called Mr. Henderson, and he told her the FBI is raiding your house for tax fraud."
"It's not tax fraud," Marcus said quietly. He was picking at a scab on his knuckle, not looking at his phone. "My dad doesn't even have enough money to commit fraud. He drives a nine-year-old Civic with a broken muffler."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know." Marcus looked at the ruined basketball pieces scattered around the white driveway line. The rubber bladder was completely exposed now, like the entrails of some small animal caught in the road. "My dad's been getting letters from Washington for three months. Thick envelopes with no return address. He burns them in the backyard fire pit every Sunday night after dinner."
Toby whistled softly through his teeth. "Man. That's some spy-movie stuff. You think he's like... an actual secret agent?"
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"My dad falls asleep while watching the History Channel," Marcus said, though there was a small, cold knot in his stomach that told him he didn't really know his father at all. "He forgets his reading glasses every time we go to the grocery store. He's not James Bond, Toby. He's just an old man who likes books."
A second black SUV pulled up behind the first, its engine purring with a low, expensive hum. Two more men in black suits stepped out, carrying heavy metal tool cases that looked like they belonged to bomb disposal technicians rather than archivists.
