Chapter 10
The evening traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge was locked in a dense, creeping gridlock. Rain had begun to fall, slicking the asphalt and reflecting the amber glow of overhead streetlamps. Miller’s black SUV sat idling in the middle lane, trapped between a massive delivery truck and a stalled commuter bus. In the back seat, Miller ripped open the "PREMIUM PARIS" shopping bag, pulling out the banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills. He searched for the primary ledger containing the encrypted flash drive Marcus had hidden inside the bag's lining. His fingers brushed against a small, cold metal device taped to the bottom of the packaging. Miller froze, lifting the device up to the dim dashboard light. It was a high-frequency federal GPS tracker, pulsing with a faint green LED.
"We’ve been compromised," Miller cursed, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. "The old man played us." He turned to his driver. "Get us off this bridge, cut across the median, do whatever it takes!" Before the driver could throw the SUV into reverse, the sharp, deafening blast of a flash-bang grenade echoed through the rainy night air, blinding the interior of the vehicle with a brilliant white flash and an ear-splitting concussion. Sirens wailed from all directions as three federal armored vehicles slammed into position, boxing the SUV in completely. Heavily armed federal marshals in tactical gear swarmed the vehicle, shouting synchronized commands through bullhorns.
"Driver, hands on the steering wheel where we can see them! Passenger, step out of the vehicle slowly with your hands on your head!" Miller stared through the rain-streaked windshield at the wall of tactical shields and assault rifles. He knew resisting arrest here meant certain death or a life behind bars. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed open the passenger door and stepped out into the cold rain, raising his hands high above his head. As federal agents forced him to his knees against the wet hood of the SUV, Agent Jenkins stepped forward, her raincoat glistening under the bridge lights. She looked down at Miller with a cold, professional smile, holding up the recovered "PREMIUM PARIS" shopping bag. "Mr. Miller, I believe you're carrying stolen federal evidence," Jenkins said smoothly. "And as of five minutes ago, Marcus Vance has just been placed under arrest in his Manhattan penthouse." The trap had snapped shut, perfectly and irrevocably.
