Chapter 8 - The Bleachers
I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the dark road ahead.
Agent Thomas drove in absolute silence, his hands resting easily on the steering wheel.
He wasn't an FBI agent.
He was the cartel’s absolute cleaner, sent to recover the missing ledger and eliminate all the loose ends.
Garrett had probably hired him to kill me, and Arthur had probably hired him to kill Garrett.
I was sitting in a car with a professional assassin.
We pulled into the abandoned parking lot of the old county high school.
The rusty metal bleachers loomed in the darkness, untouched since the late seventies.
“Show me where the drop site is, Eleanor,” he said, pulling a heavy flashlight from the glove compartment.
He also pulled out a suppressed handgun and casually checked the chamber.
I swallowed my fear and opened my passenger door.
The night air was freezing, biting through my thin dress.
We walked across the overgrown football field, our shoes crunching loudly on the dead grass.
“It's under the third row of the home section,” I lied, guiding him toward the most unstable part of the structure.
Agent Thomas crouched down, shining his light into the dark space beneath the metal seats.
“I don't see anything,” he muttered, stepping entirely beneath the heavy iron framework.
I quickly reached into my pocket and pulled out the small USB drive.
I tossed it over the top of the bleachers, letting it clatter loudly onto the gravel behind him.
Agent Thomas immediately spun around, aiming his weapon toward the sudden noise.
In that split second of distraction, I kicked the rusted support beam holding up the third section.
The ancient metal groaned violently and completely gave way.
Hundreds of pounds of iron and rotted wood collapsed downward in a terrifying crash.
Agent Thomas screamed as the heavy bleachers pinned him entirely to the frozen ground.
I didn't stay to see if he was still breathing.
I turned and sprinted back toward his idling vehicle.
I jumped into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, and threw the car into reverse.
I had the master ledger in my possession, and I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I drove straight to the heavily fortified FBI field office in the city, entirely bypassing the corrupt local police.
I walked into the bright lobby and slammed the leather folder onto the front desk.
“My name is Eleanor,” I told the shocked receptionist.
“And I am here to dismantle a cartel.”
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By dawn, I was sitting safely in an interrogation room, drinking terrible coffee.
A team of federal agents rushed in, thanking me profusely for handing them the most significant evidence of the decade.
