But Dale Mercer wasn't one to give up easily. He'd been in the underworld behind the police badge for too long, too familiar with the rules of survival. When faced with danger, his first instinct wasn't to panic, but to fight back.
"You investigated us," Mercer hissed through clenched teeth. Marcus said nothing. His silence was the most powerful answer. Mercer leaned forward, pressing his face close to his. "You walked into this airport with a script already written." Still no reply. "You installed the hidden cameras yourself." "No," Marcus calmly replied. "You secretly planted a tracking device." Marcus remained silent. Mercer smirked maliciously. "That's the truth. You're a fraud."
Standing at the corner of the table, Officer Cole could take it no longer. He clutched his head, whispering, "Dale... stop. Enough." Mercer spun around, his eyes bloodshot: "Shut up!" Cole turned to Marcus with a pleading, terrified look. "Who are you?" Marcus looked him straight in the eye. "You already know the answer."
Mercer yanked the handcuffs, roughly dragging Marcus away. "Follow me." "Where?" "The airport security office." "Okay," Marcus replied calmly.
He deliberately maintained absolute cooperation. This was extremely important in legal strategy. Every move he made was being monitored and recorded. Every word, every blink, every hesitation. He didn't want any cunning lawyer later having grounds to argue in court that "their client was provoked or resisted arrest."
Mercer led him through the security corridor reserved for staff. As they walked, dozens of passengers held up their phones. A young woman standing nearby trembled and whispered to her friend, "Is that really an FBI agent?" An older man replied, "I don't know, but the police seem panicked." Marcus heard every word. But he didn't care. He continued walking, his steps steady and firm.
Inside the airport police office, the air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and sweat. Mercer removed Marcus's handcuffs and immediately locked the thick steel door.
Marcus slowly rubbed his wrists, which were marked with red lines, then calmly sat down in the only swivel chair in the middle of the room. Cole stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as if trying to create a protective shield. Mercer began pacing around the room like a wild beast trapped in a cage.
"Do you think this is funny?" Mercer snarled. "Not at all." "Do you think just because you're holding that tattered federal insignia, you have the right to barge into my territory and accuse me of drug trafficking?" "I didn't accuse you," Marcus calmly replied. Mercer burst into a bitter, maniacal laugh. "You just did that!" "I only reported exactly what happened."
Mercer slammed a stack of papers down on the table in anger. "This is what happened!" He flipped open the pages. "You're a smuggler. You're transporting cocaine." Marcus glanced at the crumpled paper. "That report is incomplete." "How do you know? You haven't even read it!" "I know." Mercer froze, frowning in disbelief. "Why?" "Because your police department was completely unaware of my presence here."
Cole looked up sharply. "What does that mean?" Marcus leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped together on his stomach. "It means... no one outside this room is to be told my true identity." Mercer's expression shifted from anger to confusion. "Then why did you tell us?" "I didn't." "You showed off that badge yourself!" "You pulled it out yourself."
A suffocating silence enveloped the room. Mercer glanced at Cole. Cole quickly averted his gaze from his senior. Marcus sat there, silently observing the internal struggle unfolding.
Their sinister partnership is beginning to crack from within. That's the nature of corruption: it can never survive when trust is threatened. Trust in the underworld depends entirely on complicit silence. Once one begins to doubt that the other might compromise with the authorities to save their own life, loyalty instantly becomes a luxury.
Mercer placed his hands on the table and leaned toward Marcus. "Now you'll have to sign a statement." "No." "You'll say that the cocaine is yours." "No." "You'll say that you don't know how it got into your suitcase." "No."
Mercer gritted his teeth, veins bulging on his forehead. "You're making things incredibly difficult." Marcus stared directly into the pit of guilt in his eyes. "You brought this upon yourselves." Bang! Mercer slammed his hand down on the table. "Do you know how many people I've arrested in my career?" "No." "Hundreds!" Marcus smirked slightly. "And how many of them were actually convicted?"
Mercer paused. A fleeting moment of hesitation. And Marcus caught it. That hesitation was his fatal weakness. "That's none of your business," Mercer mumbled. "Now it is my business."
Mercer stomped toward the door. He turned the doorknob, then turned back to utter one last threat: "You'd better think carefully." Marcus remained motionless. "I've thought very carefully." The steel door swung open and slammed shut with a dry, sharp sound.
Only Cole remained in the room. For almost a minute, the young officer didn't utter a word. The only sound was the low hum of the air conditioner. Then Cole spoke, his voice hoarse: "You should have shown your badge from the start." Marcus looked at him, his voice tinged with bitter understanding. "Would that have changed what you intended to do?" Cole didn't answer. "Would you have let me go?" Marcus pressed. Another deathly silence. "...No," Cole whispered. Marcus nodded slowly. "That's exactly what I thought."
Cole's face showed signs of mental exhaustion. "We've been informed by our superiors that you're carrying 'the goods'." "Who informed you?" "I can't say." "Why?" "Because..." Cole ran his hand across his sweat-drenched face. "Because this is much bigger than just the two of us." Marcus studied the fear etched on Cole's face. "Then tell me." Cole shook his head frantically. "If I speak, my career and my life are over." "If you don't speak, you're already over."
Marcus's words crushed Cole's last vestiges of resistance. He looked down at his shoes, trembling as he confessed, "Dale received that package this morning." Marcus said nothing, encouraging him to continue. "He told me to select passengers in Lane Seven." "Why Lane Seven?" "Because the surveillance camera angles there are terrible, there are blind spots." Marcus's eyes pierced Cole's soul. "I've been there before."
Cole snapped up, bewildered. "What?" "The camera angle there used to be terrible." Marcus emphasized the past, leaning forward. Cole was stunned to realize. "You... you fixed it?" "No," Marcus paused perfectly. "But someone did."
Cole recoiled, bumping into the wall and sliding down. All hope of escape was extinguished. Just then, the door burst open. Mercer entered, his face grim and menacing. "Let's go," he ordered. Cole struggled to his feet. Marcus remained seated, as steady as a rock. "Where?" "The interrogation and detention area." "Are you really going to arrest me?" "Yes." "For what charge?" "Illegal possession of cocaine." Marcus nodded, appearing to understand. "Very well. Enter the evidence code into the system."
Mercer looked slightly confused. "It's already been entered." "Not at all." Marcus stared intently into his constricted pupils. "You didn't enter it because you thought no one would ask about it." Mercer's face contorted with rage. "Get up and leave!"
Marcus slowly rose to his feet. As they escorted him down the hallway toward the detention room, the tracking device hidden in the lining of his briefcase began emitting its first Ping signal. Outside, in a specialized van covered in antennas, the FBI operations team received the signal.