The agent in the burgundy shirt slowly lowered his hands. A grim, terrifyingly confident smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"He's smart," the agent said, nodding toward the panicking younger guard. "You should have listened to him. Because my field office is already pulling the live feed of that camera."
Before the older guard could formulate a pathetic excuse, the heavy thud of tactical boots echoed rapidly across the polished linoleum floor. Four heavily armed Airport Police officers, clad in dark, tactical navy gear, rushed the checkpoint. They had been monitoring the feed from the central control room, alerted by the subtle, specific hand signal the FBI agent had discreetly flashed to the camera before he even placed his bag on the belt.
The tactical officers immediately surrounded the conveyor belt, their hands resting cautiously on their holstered weapons.
"What the hell is going on here, Gary?" the lead tactical officer demanded, looking with deep suspicion at the bag of white powder clutched in the corrupt guard's shaking hand.
The older guard opened his mouth, desperately trying to spin a web of lies. "This passenger—"
"This passenger," the agent interrupted, his voice booming with the undeniable weight of federal authority, "is Special Agent Marcus Vance."