Chapter 13 - The Idling Sedan
Malik kept his body low as he scrambled between the bumpers of the parked delivery vans, his eyes locked on the idling sedan across the asphalt lot. The amber neon sign of the all-night diner buzzed rhythmically, casting a sickly pink glow over the wet pavement.
He reached the chain-link fence, finding a gap where the wire had been peeled back years ago and patched over with rusted twine. Slipping through the tear, he scraped his forearm against a sharp wire end, but he barely felt the sting as he hit the gravel driveway behind the diner.
The sedan was an older model, its engine humming with a steady, muffled rumble. The driver’s seat was empty, but the keys were still dangling from the ignition switch, catching the faint reflection of the neon sign. On the passenger seat sat a cheap paper cup of black coffee and a worn leather briefcase identical to the one Marcus kept under his bed.
Malik didn't hesitate. He pulled the back door open, slipped inside, and dropped down onto the floorboards behind the front passenger seat, pulling his knees up tight against his chest.
Just seconds later, heavy boots crunched across the gravel outside.
"Check the diner alley," a harsh voice barked—not Vance, but one of the local patrol officers working with Miller’s extraction team. "He couldn't have crossed the fence without leaving a trace."
"The perimeter is tight," another voice replied from further down the road. "Nobody leaves this block without an ID badge."
Inside the car, Malik held his breath, pressing his face against the fabric of the rear seat. His fingers still gripped the tarnished silver key and the black flash drive. Through the floorboards, he could feel the low, steady vibration of the engine humming beneath him—the mechanical heartbeat of a machine that was about to carry him either toward freedom or straight into another trap.
A moment later, the driver’s side door swung open with a heavy creak. The interior light flickered on, bathing the dashboard in a warm yellow glow.
Heavy, tired footsteps climbed into the front seat, followed by the heavy sigh of a man who had been running on empty for days. The gearshift clicked into reverse, and the sedan lurched backward out of the stall.
Through the gap between the front seats, Malik caught a glimpse of the driver’s side profile in the rearview mirror. It wasn't a federal agent. It wasn't Vance, and it wasn't Miller.
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It was Marcus.
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