The Man in the Rain
The rain had been falling over Columbus, Ohio, since before sunrise.
It turned the streets into sheets of gray glass and covered the parking lot of the 7-Eleven on East Broad Street with a thin layer of silver water. Cars passed in the distance, their headlights blurred by the downpour. Commuters hurried beneath umbrellas, heads lowered against the cold morning.
At pump six, a black sedan sat quietly beneath the gray sky.
Beside it stood Marcus Reed.
He looked like an ordinary man stopping for gasoline.
Forty-two years old, tall and athletic, with deep-brown skin, short black hair, and a carefully trimmed beard, Marcus wore a black leather jacket over a dark shirt, black jeans, and weatherproof boots.
Nothing about him suggested federal authority.
That was exactly how he wanted it.
His FBI credentials were hidden inside an inner pocket of his jacket. A compact communications device had been concealed inside his phone case. Beneath his collar, almost invisible against his skin, was a tiny microphone.
Three unmarked vehicles were positioned within two blocks of the gas station.
Their occupants were federal agents.
But Marcus had ordered them to remain hidden.
Not yet.
The operation depended on patience.
Across the street stood a storage facility that had been under surveillance for six months. Investigators believed it was being used as a transfer point for stolen medical equipment, illegal weapons, and cash payments to corrupt public officials.
The network was larger than anyone had originally suspected.
Private contractors were involved.
Smugglers were involved.
Members of local law enforcement were involved.
And someone inside the Columbus Police Department had been warning the organization every time the FBI prepared to make a move.
Marcus had come to discover who.
He replaced the fuel nozzle and glanced through the rain toward the convenience store.
A man in a gray hooded jacket stood near the coffee machine.
He appeared to be studying the paper cups.
But his eyes kept moving toward the parking lot.
Marcus recognized him immediately.
Elliot Crane.
Owner of the storage facility.
Suspected smuggler.
Possible financial intermediary.
And, according to surveillance photographs, a man who had been seen meeting known members of the organization.
Crane was not supposed to be there.
That made his presence important.
It also made the situation dangerous.
Marcus touched his phone.
“Target visible.”
A voice answered through his hidden earpiece.
“Confirmed,” Agent Lena Morales said. “We have eyes on him. Maintain position.”
Marcus watched Crane.
Then something changed.
A patrol car entered the parking lot.
Marcus turned his head.
The cruiser did not stop near the store.
Instead, it passed pump three, turned sharply, and stopped directly behind Marcus's sedan.
The patrol car blocked him in.
Marcus's eyes narrowed.
The driver's door opened.
Officer Daniel Keller stepped into the rain.
And suddenly, the operation became something very different.
Officer Keller
Daniel Keller was thirty-eight years old.
Broad-shouldered.
Rigid.
His dark hair was cropped short, and his expression suggested that he had arrived angry before he had even left his patrol car.
He approached Marcus with one hand resting near his duty belt.
Marcus kept both hands visible.
“Morning, officer.”
Keller ignored the greeting.
“ID. Now.”
Marcus looked toward the fuel pump.
“I'm buying gas.”
“I didn't ask what you were doing.”