Chapter 3 - The Four AM Drop
The rain had turned into a thick, clinging fog by the time we reached the outskirts of Route 40.
I sat in the back of an unmarked black surveillance van, wearing a plain heavy coat over a concealed body wire and a Kevlar vest. In my lap sat an identical power adapter bag, weighted with lead blocks to match the exact heft of the real equipment.
Beside me, Agent Vega adjusted my earpiece. "Ethan, remember: your only job is to confirm the laptop is in his vehicle. Once you see the case or the machine, use the code word 'Catalog.' As soon as you say that word, drop to the ground. Our team will move in."
"Understood," I said, my pulse drumming steady in my ears.
"And Ethan?" Vega paused, looking me in the eyes. "If this guy realizes you're not Brandon, or if he reaches into his jacket for anything other than cash, drop immediately. You're an analyst, not a field operative."
"Got it."
Through the van's tinted windows, I looked out at the diner parking lot. It was an old, twenty-four-hour joint with flickering neon signs that cast long, pink shadows across the wet asphalt. Only two other cars were parked near the edge of the lot—a rusty delivery van and a dark silver sedan idling quietly under a broken streetlamp.
My earpiece chimed. "Target vehicle confirmed. Silver sedan, license plate registered to a defunct rental company. One occupant inside. Ethan, you're clear to proceed."
I pulled the van door open, stepped out into the freezing damp air, and began walking across the empty asphalt.
Every step sounded impossibly loud in the quiet night. The weight of the dummy adapter bag swung at my side. Fifty yards away, inside the silver sedan, a silhouette shifted behind the rain-streaked windshield.
I walked straight toward the driver's side window.
The window rolled down four inches with a soft mechanical whine. Inside sat the man from the surveillance photo—tall, sharp-featured, with pale eyes that scanned the empty parking lot before settling on me.
"You're not Brandon," the man said. His voice was low, accented, and utterly devoid of emotion.
I stopped three feet from the door, keeping my hands visible. "Brandon had a panic attack when he saw the blue lights in his rearview mirror on the highway. He thought the state police were following him for speeding. I'm his brother. I brought the rest of the gear."
The man’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "He didn't mention a brother."
"He doesn't mention a lot of things," I replied smoothly, adopting a tired, annoyed tone. "Like the fact that he owes sixty grand to loan sharks and had to sell family property to pay his mortgage. Look, do you want the power supply and the hardware dongle or not? I want my eight hundred dollars so I can go back to sleep."
I held up the heavy nylon bag.
The man stared at me for three agonizing seconds. The silence hung in the air, heavy enough to crush a building. In my earpiece, I could hear Dana’s faint, shallow breathing from the surveillance van.
Slowly, the driver reached into his passenger seat and lifted a heavy, dark object.
Through the rain-streaked window, I saw the distinctive, thick casing of my government laptop. The asset tags had been partially scraped off, but the reinforced corner bumpers were unmistakable.
It was intact. Unopened.
"Hand it over," the man said, lowering his window further.
I stepped closer, extending the bag toward him with my left hand while peering past his shoulder to confirm the secondary serial number stamped on the bottom of the machine.
"I see the item," I said clearly into the cold air. "It's the complete catalog."
"Down! Down! Down!" Vega’s voice roared through my earpiece.
I didn't wait. I let go of the bag, threw my body flat onto the wet asphalt, and covered my head.
Instantly, the night exploded into blinding light and deafening noise.
Two flashbang grenades detonated simultaneously on either side of the silver sedan, filling the parking lot with brilliant white flashes and concussive booms. Heavy black SUV doors slammed open across the street, and dozens of heavily armed tactical agents surged into the lot, lasers painting the fog red.
"FBI! DON'T MOVE! GET YOUR HANDS ON THE STEERING WHEEL!"
The driver tried to throw the sedan into reverse, the tires screaming against the wet pavement. But an armored tactical vehicle surged out from behind the diner, slamming violently into his rear bumper and pinning the silver car against the curb.
Agents smashed the driver's side window, dragged the man out onto the pavement, and had him zip-tied in under five seconds.
I lay on the cold ground, the rain soaking through my jeans, listening to the tactical team clear the vehicle.
Agent Vega appeared above me, extending a hand to pull me up. "You okay, Cole?"
I wiped water from my face and stood up, my legs a little shaky. "Is the device secure?"
A forensic agent emerged from the passenger side of the silver car, holding my laptop inside a heavy RF-shielded metallic box. He gave us a thumbs-up. "Uncompromised. It never powered on. The hardware seals are intact."
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A massive weight, heavy as a mountain, lifted off my chest. I let out a long, ragged breath into the cold air.
"Good job, analyst," Vega said, offering a rare, genuine smile. "Now let's go back to the office and figure out what we're going to do with your brother."
