“Business.”
Mercer smiled faintly.
“What kind of business?”
Marcus looked at him.
“A professional meeting.”
Mercer's smile disappeared.
“Open the suitcase.”
Marcus unzipped it.
Mercer began removing clothing.
Shirts.
Trousers.
The book.
The toiletry bag.
He handled everything slowly.
Marcus watched.
Officer Ryan Cole approached from the other side.
Cole was thirty-nine, lean, pale, and visibly more nervous than Mercer.
His eyes moved constantly.
Marcus noticed.
So did the hidden surveillance team.
Three FBI agents watched from separate positions inside the terminal.
One sat at a coffee shop.
Another stood beside a charging station.
The third appeared to be reading a newspaper.
None looked toward Lane Seven.
All were watching.
More importantly, the overhead cameras were feeding directly into an FBI-controlled server.
Mercer did not know.
He believed airport police owned the footage.
That was exactly what investigators wanted him to believe.
“What's this?” Mercer asked.
“A book.”
“I can see that.”
Marcus remained silent.
Mercer turned toward Cole.
Cole moved around the table.
His right hand disappeared beneath his jacket.
Marcus saw the movement reflected in the polished metal edge of the inspection machine.
He didn't react.
Cole bent over the suitcase.
His hand disappeared beneath a folded blue shirt.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
Then he stood.
His right hand was empty.
Mercer reached into the suitcase.
He went directly toward the blue shirt.
He pulled out a sealed plastic packet.
White powder inside.
He held it beneath the fluorescent lights.
“Well,” Mercer said.
Marcus looked at the packet.
The label was visible.
Small letters.
APD-24-1187.
Marcus recognized it instantly.
The number belonged to a narcotics seizure made six weeks earlier.
The evidence was supposed to be in a secured police warehouse.
It wasn't.
Mercer looked at Marcus.
“What do you think this is?”
Marcus said nothing.
Mercer smiled.
“Cocaine.”
People began slowing down.
A young woman near the conveyor belt lifted her phone.
An elderly couple whispered.
A businessman stopped walking.
Mercer held up the packet.
“Looks like you've got a problem.”
Marcus stared at it.
Then at Mercer.
“You have made a mistake.”
Mercer laughed.
“A mistake?”
“You planted the wrong evidence on the wrong man.”
For the first time, Cole looked frightened.
Mercer recovered quickly.
“What did you say?”
Marcus looked at his suitcase.
Then at Cole.
“You heard me.”
Mercer noticed the edge of Marcus's identification.
He reached down.
Pulled it free.
Opened it.
A gold FBI badge caught the light.
Mercer's expression changed.
Only for a moment.
Then he laughed.
“Fake.”
Marcus's eyes narrowed.
“Run the number.”
“I don't need instructions from a drug trafficker.”
“You should verify it.”
Mercer put the credential on the table.
“You're impersonating a federal officer.”
Cole looked toward him.
“Dale…”
Mercer ignored him.
Marcus remained calm.
“Cuff me.”
Mercer stared.
Marcus continued.
“Then explain why your partner put the packet in my suitcase.”
The atmosphere around Lane Seven changed instantly.
Cole stepped closer.
“Watch your mouth.”
Marcus looked directly at him.
“I watched your hand.”
Cole's face lost color.
Mercer grabbed Marcus's arm.
Marcus allowed himself to be turned.
He didn't resist.
He didn't struggle.
He didn't raise his voice.
Mercer placed one cuff around his wrist.
Then the second.
“Tight.”
Marcus said quietly:
“I want the marks documented.”
Mercer paused.
He hadn't expected that.
Guilty people usually begged.
Angry people usually fought.
Marcus sounded like a man documenting an investigation.
Mercer tightened the cuffs.
“You're not scaring anyone.”
Marcus looked toward the nearest camera.
“No.”
He smiled faintly.
“The cameras will do that later.”
Cole looked upward.
The black dome above Lane Seven faced them directly.
Then he looked toward the second camera.
Then the third.
His breathing changed.
“Dale…”
Mercer snapped:
“Don't lose your nerve.”
“He knew.”
“Everybody knows there are cameras.”
“No,” Cole whispered.
“He knew about the evidence.”
Marcus turned his head.
“Officer Cole.”
Cole froze.
“The packet you planted came from Evidence Lot 24-1187.”
Mercer's face hardened.
Marcus continued.
“It was seized six weeks ago from a vehicle on Peachtree Industrial Boulevard.”
Cole took one step backward.
“How would you know that?”
Marcus looked at him.
“Because I read the evidence file.”
Mercer tried to recover.
“You read the label.”
“The weight isn't printed on the label.”
Silence.
Marcus continued.
“The original seizure contained twelve packets.”
Mercer stared at him.
“The evidence room received eleven.”
Cole's face went white.
Marcus looked directly at Mercer.
“The missing packet weighed eighty-four grams.”
He nodded toward the packet.
“That one weighs eighty-four grams.”
Mercer suddenly understood.
This was not a traveler.
This was not a businessman.
This was not a random inspection.
This was a trap.
And they had already stepped into it.
The Sergeant's Mistake
Mercer recovered first.
He always did.
That was one of the reasons he had survived so long.
When confronted with evidence, he didn't panic.
He attacked.
“You've been investigating us.”
Marcus said nothing.
Mercer leaned closer.
“You walked into this airport knowing exactly what you wanted.”
Still nothing.
“You planted the camera.”
“No.”
“You planted the tracking device.”