"What do you want?" Greg asked, his voice suddenly dropping its arrogant edge, replaced by a hollow, cornered exhaustion. "You want a cut? I can pay you. I can get cash. Just give me the drive back."
Marcus leaned forward, his eyes locking onto the small black flash drive sitting innocuously on the scratched wood of the table.
"I don't want your filthy money," Marcus growled. "But we are going to settle this tonight. Face to face. No cops, no lawyers. Just you, me, and the envelope."
Sarah reached out, grabbing Marcus’s wrist in a panic. She shook her head wildly, terrified at the prospect of being anywhere near Greg again. Marcus gently patted her hand, holding her gaze with quiet reassurance.
"Where?" Greg asked quickly.
"The old lumber yard off Highway 9," Marcus said. "Ten o'clock tonight. You come alone. If I see a single squad car, or if your brother tries to play cowboy, I mail this drive to the IRS, the FBI, and the state Attorney General all at once."
"I'll be there," Greg snapped, and the line went dead.
Marcus ended the call and slid the phone back across the table to Sarah.
"Are you insane?" Sarah whispered, her voice trembling with fresh tears. "He won't come alone! He has guys that work for his construction firm—rough guys. Thugs. If he gets that drive back, I have no proof. I go to jail, and Leo goes back to him!"
"He's not getting the drive back," Marcus said calmly.
Marcus picked up the flash drive. He looked at Tiny.
"Tiny, take this back to the office. Boot up the secure laptop. I want three exact digital copies made onto encrypted drives. Then I want you to print every single page on this thing. Put the printed copies in the safe."
"You got it, boss," Tiny grunted, scooping up the tiny black drive and marching toward the back office.
Marcus turned his attention back to Sarah. "We don't play defense in this club, Sarah. We play offense. Greg thinks he can use his brother to insulate him from the local cops. He's right. But he’s arrogant enough to think he’s the only one with connections."
Marcus pulled his own phone from his leather vest and dialed a number he hadn't used in three years.
He waited for three rings before a crisp, professional voice answered.
"Agent Miller."
"Miller, it's Marcus," the biker said, his tone shifting from menacing to completely professional.
A heavy sigh came through the speaker. "I thought we agreed you wouldn't call this number unless the sky was falling, Marcus."
"The sky isn't falling, but a seven-year-old kid is about to be robbed of his dead father's life insurance, and the local precinct captain is helping cover it up," Marcus said bluntly. "Wire fraud. Quarter of a million dollars. I have the digital paper trail, forged signatures, and the corrupt bank manager’s emails."
There was a long pause on the line. When Miller spoke again, the weary tone was gone, replaced by sharp attention.
"Where's the physical evidence?"
"Secured," Marcus replied. "I'm setting up a meet with the primary suspect tonight at ten. Old lumber yard on Highway 9. He thinks he's buying the drive back from me. He’s going to talk on the record. I need a state investigative team there, sitting in the dark, ready to bag him."
"If you're playing games with me, Marcus..."
"No games. You bring the cuffs, I'll bring the confessions," Marcus promised. "Ten o'clock."