Chapter 7 - The Sting at the Clinic
Tuesday morning dawned grey and raining—perfect weather for surveillance. I sat in the passenger seat of an unmarked surveillance van parked across the street from the medical plaza, wearing a tactical windbreaker and an earpiece dialed directly into Marcus’s tactical frequency.
At 9:45 AM, a black SUV with dark tinted windows pulled into the clinic’s underground parking structure. Two men in plain clothes stepped out. They didn't look like medical patients; they moved with the hyper-aware, rigid gait of ex-private military contractors. One of them carried a heavy DSLR camera with a telephoto lens; the other kept his right hand tucked unnaturally close to his waistband.
"We have two suspects in the lower deck," I whispered into the mic. "Moving toward the elevator bank. Suspect B is likely armed."
"We see them," Marcus's voice crackled back from the tactical command post inside the clinic lobby. "Let them commit to the floor."
The two operatives took the elevator to the third floor, expecting to find a vulnerable woman in a waiting room. Instead, as the stainless-steel elevator doors slid open, they were greeted by four U.S. Marshals in full tactical gear, weapons leveled at chest height.
May you like
"Federal agents! Hands on your heads! Do it now!"
The armed operative flinched, his hand twitching toward his waistband, but a red laser dot instantly fixed on the bridge of his nose. He froze, slowly raising his hands. Within ninety seconds, both men were face down on the polished linoleum, disarmed and cuffed. Another piece of Arthur’s empire had just been dismantled.
