Chapter 4
The heavy thud of Vance’s boots retreating toward the cruiser echoed against the asphalt as Marcus dropped the black trash bag back into the green bin. He didn't run toward the alley immediately; instead, he walked deliberately toward the front door of his house, unlocking it with steady fingers. The interior was pitch black, smelling faintly of coffee and old paper. He stepped inside, closing the heavy oak door with a quiet click that sounded entirely too fragile against the impending storm outside.
Through the narrow sidelight window, he watched the blinding sweep of dual headlights turn the corner of his cul-de-sac. Two unmarked black SUVs rolled past his driveway with tactical precision, their tires crunching softly on the gravel. Federal marshals. Vance hadn't been exaggerating.
Marcus moved through the dark hallway without turning on a single light, navigating by sheer muscle memory. He reached the kitchen and slid open the pantry door, pressing a concealed panel at the back of the bottom shelf. A heavy steel lockbox slid out on silent ball-bearing rails. Inside sat a secure satellite phone, a passport under a completely different name, and a Glock 19 with three fully loaded magazines.
He didn't pick up the gun. Instead, he grabbed the satellite phone, punching in a ten-digit sequence that hadn't been used in over three years.
"Talk to me," a gravelly, exhausted voice answered on the first ring.
"They found the drop site," Marcus said softly, pressing his forehead against the cool kitchen wall. "Miller pulled me on a fake loitering charge. Vance tipped me off about the federal dispatch."
A long pause hung over the line, broken only by the distant sound of static and heavy breathing. "Vance? The old-timer with two years left to pension? He's compromised, Marcus. They all are."
"He gave me his locker key," Marcus countered, his eyes narrowing in the darkness. "He told me Miller's former partner didn't retire. He was pulled from the river."
The person on the other end let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "And you believed him? Marcus, Vance is the one who signed the autopsy report for the internal affairs director who tried to blow the whistle on the precinct fund. If Vance gave you a key, it's because he wants you to walk into a controlled environment."
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Marcus stared at the locked pantry door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The front doorbell rang—a sharp, authoritative chime that vibrated through the floorboards.
"Federal agents," a deep voice bellowed from the porch. "Open up or we breach!"
