Marcus simply observed in silence.
From the opposite side of the inspection table, Officer Ryan Cole slowly approached. Cole, thirty-nine years old, was thin, pale, and clearly far more agitated than Mercer's aged demeanor. Cole's eyes darted around, occasionally glancing at the passengers passing by.
Marcus took note of all those little details.
And he wasn't alone. The FBI's undercover surveillance team was also holding its breath, watching every slightest movement. Three elite agents had been strategically positioned throughout the station. A female agent was sipping a latte at the café across the street. A man in business attire was leaning against a nearby phone charging station. The third sat on a waiting bench, seemingly engrossed in reading the morning newspaper. None of them directed their gaze directly toward Lane Seven. But all their senses were on high alert.
More importantly, the dome-shaped camera system above the ceiling was no longer transmitting signals to airport security. Instead, it was streaming data directly, in the sharpest 4K resolution, to a server completely controlled by the FBI.
Mercer was completely unaware. He was convinced that the airport police owned and controlled the entire camera system. He still believed in his absolute power in this territory. And that's exactly what the FBI wanted him to believe.
"What is this?" Mercer grumbled, gesturing towards the novel on the table. "A book," Marcus replied. "I have eyes, I see it's a book," Mercer snapped, deliberately creating tension.
Marcus maintained an eerie silence. His silence seemed to be eroding Mercer's patience. The man nodded, signaling to Cole.
Like a pre-programmed machine, Cole moved around the table, taking a position that blocked the view. His right hand swiftly slipped under his uniform jacket.
From his position, Marcus couldn't see Cole's hand directly. But he'd anticipated that. His keen eyes locked onto the gleaming metal rim of the X-ray scanner beside him. That metal rim acted as a kind of hazy convex mirror. Through the reflection, he saw Cole's hand pull out a small object.
He didn't react at all. He just let them finish their act.
Cole bent down over the suitcase. His hand disappeared beneath his neatly folded blue shirt. Three seconds. Four seconds. Five seconds.
Then Cole straightened up and cleared his throat softly. His right hand was completely empty.
At that very moment, Mercer reached into the suitcase. He aimed directly at the blue shirt. His arm pulled out a sealed, transparent plastic bag. Inside was a white powder.
Mercer held the plastic bag high, letting the light from the fluorescent lamp shine through it, creating a dramatic scene reminiscent of a cheap action movie. "Well, well," Mercer drawled, a malicious grin spreading across his face.
Marcus stared at the packet of powder. Immediately, he noticed the barcode sticker on the edge of the packet. The tiny letters caught his eye: APD-24-1187 .
Marcus's professionally trained brain analyzed the sequence of numbers in less than a tenth of a second. He recognized it. It was the storage number of a batch of drugs seized six weeks ago. This evidence should have been lying dormant in the police department's heavily guarded evidence storage. But here it was, in the hands of a corrupt police officer.
Mercer stared directly into Marcus's face, waiting for panic, tears, or pleas—things he considered the sweetest reward for his power. "What do you think this is?" he asked, his voice laced with provocation.
Marcus remained motionless, like a statue.
Mercer chuckled sarcastically: "Cocaine. It's definitely cocaine."
The atmosphere around Lane Seven began to change. The hurried passengers suddenly slowed down. A young woman standing near the baggage claim area timidly raised her phone to film, but quickly lowered it upon seeing the threatening gaze of the police. An elderly couple whispered amongst themselves. A businessman stood still, shaking his head in dismay.
Mercer shook the packet of white powder in front of Marcus. "Looks like you're in big trouble."
Marcus's gaze shifted from the packet of powder to Mercer's triumphant face. His voice lowered, but rang out coldly, like a blade cutting through the air: "You just made a mistake."
Mercer burst out laughing. "A mistake? Are you threatening me?"