Chapter 8 - The Sting
Midnight. The San Pedro docks were shrouded in a thick, chilling marine fog. The smell of salt and rusting metal hung in the air.
I walked alone down Pier 44, carrying a black messenger bag.
Marcus was waiting by a massive shipping container, surrounded by six armed men. Eleanor stood behind him, wearing a designer trench coat, looking terrified but greedy.
"Give me the bag, Richard," Marcus demanded, holding out his hand.
I stopped ten feet away. "It’s over, Marcus. You have the money. Just let me walk away."
Marcus laughed, pulling his gun and aiming it at my head. "You really are pathetic. You think I’d leave a loose end like you alive? Eleanor, get the bag."
Eleanor stepped forward and snatched the messenger bag from my hands. She unzipped it, reaching inside for the laptop.
Instead, she pulled out a heavy block of solid steel.
Marcus frowned. "What is this?"
"It's a distraction," I said, my voice cutting through the fog.
Suddenly, blinding floodlights illuminated the entire pier from all directions. The deafening sound of a helicopter rotor beat against the sky. Dozens of heavily armed FBI tactical agents swarmed out from behind the shipping containers, laser sights painting Marcus and his men in a sea of red dots.
"FBI! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! DROP THEM NOW!" a voice boomed over a megaphone.
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Marcus froze, the color draining from his face. He looked at me, pure hatred in his eyes.
"While you were busy framing me on the local news," I whispered, "Arthur's DOJ contact flew in early. They’ve had this pier surrounded for three hours. Checkmate, Marcus."
