Chapter 9 - The Federal Trap
The cold linoleum floor pressed hard against Marcus’s cheek, the taste of copper and dust filling his mouth as a heavy combat boot pinned his shoulder blade down with crushing weight. The 9mm pistol was kicked violently across the room, skidding to a halt near Eleanor Kensington’s polished leather shoes. Eleanor reached down, picked up the firearm by the very edge of the trigger guard with a linen handkerchief, and laid it neatly on the bedside table.
"Such a disappointment," Eleanor murmured, looking down at Marcus as the federal marshals zip-tied his wrists behind his back with brutal efficiency. "You had a promising career, Marcus. If you had simply taken the payout your captain offered this morning, you could have started over in a different state."
"You won't get away with this," Marcus choked out against the floor, his face pressed into the tiny shards of safety glass. "The whole system isn't yours. Internal Affairs, the courts—someone will dig deeper."
The lead marshal yanked Marcus upright by his collar, hauling him roughly to his feet. Marcus’s tactical hoodie was torn at the shoulder, and a thin line of blood trickled down his jawline from where he had hit the floor. He caught Clara’s terrified gaze from the hospital bed. She was sobbing uncontrollably, her hands frantically pulling at the IV lines taped to her arms until a nurse rushed forward to sedate her with a swift injection to the port.
"Clara!" Marcus yelled, straining against the zip-ties as two marshals shoved him toward the shattered doorway. "Clara, stay with me!"
The nurse pushed the plunger down completely, and within three seconds, Clara’s eyes rolled back, her head slumping against the pillow as she slipped into a chemically induced sleep. Eleanor watched the entire scene with clinical detachment, turning her back on Marcus as the marshals dragged him out into the brightly lit corridor.
They didn't take him to the local precinct. They didn't book him into county jail. Instead, they loaded him directly into the back of an unmarked federal transport van with blacked-out windows, the heavy metal doors slamming shut with a final, echoing thud that sounded like a coffin lid sealing.
The van engine roared to life, and the vehicle began to move, navigating the maze of underground service tunnels beneath the Kensington campus. Marcus sat in the pitch-black cargo hold, his wrists burning from the tight plastic ties, his mind racing through every piece of evidence he had seen, heard, and touched over the last twenty-four hours.
The safe behind the bookshelf, the audio files, the surrogacy contract, the bank transfer receipts—it was all too clean. It was a closed loop designed to swallow them both whole.
After twenty minutes of winding motion, the van came to a sudden, jarring halt. The rear doors swung open, flooding the dark interior with harsh white light. Standing outside was not a federal marshal, nor was it Captain Miller.
It was Detective Vance from Internal Affairs, holding an unsealed manila envelope and a set of standard steel handcuffs.
"Get out, Marcus," Detective Vance said quietly, stepping aside to reveal an abandoned loading dock behind the municipal courthouse downtown.
Marcus stumbled out of the van, his boots hitting the wet concrete. He glared at the IA detective, his muscles coiled to strike despite the zip-ties. "What kind of game are you playing?"
"It's not a game," Detective Vance muttered, pulling a pocketknife from his tactical vest and swiftly slicing through the plastic ties binding Marcus's wrists. Marcus rubbed his chafed skin, staring at the detective in stunned silence.
May you like
"Captain Miller isn't running this precinct anymore," Detective Vance whispered, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the empty alleyway. "An hour ago, the federal attorney's office issued an immediate arrest warrant for Kensington herself. But she didn't wait for them. She’s already moving Clara out of the state on a private medical jet."
---
