Chapter 8
The interrogation room smelled of stale coffee and cheap disinfectant. The fluorescent light overhead flickered with a maddening low hum, casting long, distorted shadows across the bare metal table. Marcus sat with his hands cuffed to an eyelet bolted directly into the center of the wood-grain surface.
The heavy steel door swung open with a loud metallic squeak. Director Sterling walked in, carrying a thick manila folder that he dropped onto the table with a heavy thud. He didn't sit down immediately; instead, he paced slowly around Marcus, his polished shoes clicking against the linoleum floor.
"You've caused a tremendous amount of administrative paperwork today, Mr. Vance," Sterling said, using Marcus's middle name as if it were a mild insult. "Do you have any idea how many compliance protocols had to be rewritten because an auditor decided to play hero with a vintage pickup truck?"
Marcus kept his eyes fixed on the flickering light above. "Property theft disguised as municipal eminent domain isn't a compliance issue, Director. It's organized crime with a government stamp."
Sterling stopped pacing and leaned over the table, placing both palms flat on the surface. "Organized crime is a matter of perspective. We are building a secure logistics corridor through these counties. Properties must be acquired. If a few hundred families lose their homes to clerical loopholes, it's an acceptable margin for regional development."
"Development funded by shell companies registered in your wife's maiden name," Marcus countered smoothly.
Sterling’s expression didn't change, but his jaw muscles tightened visibly. "You're playing a very deep game, Marcus. But you're forgetting one fundamental truth: you don't exist anymore."
Before Marcus could respond, the security monitor mounted in the corner of the room crackled to life. The screen flickered from static to a live feed of the classic blue Chevrolet sitting abandoned in the municipal impound lot downtown.
A figure in a dark hoodie stood next to the truck, holding a small handheld programmer directly against the driver's side door lock.
May you like
Sterling stared at the monitor, his confidence instantly evaporating. "Who is that? I thought we locked down the impound lot!"
Marcus smiled faintly in the dim light. "You locked down the wrong truck."
