Plant? Dererick's voice rose dramatically. Everyone hear that? He just admitted there might be something to find. Why else would he say plant?
The crowd murmured. Whispers spread. The narrative was shifting before Marcus's eyes. Brad moved to the passenger side. "Derek, I see something, too.
Looks like a bag in the back. " "There's nothing in my car," Marcus said firmly. Kyle joined them, peering through windows. "Yeah, definitely something suspicious back there. " Mitchell approached. "Step aside, gentlemen. Let me conduct the search properly. " But Dererick didn't step aside.
His hand went to his jacket pocket. Marcus saw it. The movement. The intent. Dererick's fingers closed around something small.
Get away from my car. Marcus' voice cracked with desperation. Whoa. Derek jumped back, hands raised. Did everyone see that?
He just threatened me. Verbally assaulted me. I didn't threaten anyone. You were reaching into your pocket. Reaching into my own pocket.
Dererick's eyes gleamed. What do you think I was about to do? Why are you so paranoid? Marcus stopped talking. The trap was perfect.
Accuse Derek of planting evidence and sound crazy. Stay silent and let Derek proceed. No winning move existed. Mitchell pulled Derek back gently. Mr. Callahan, please let me handle this investigation.
Officer, I feel genuinely threatened," Derek said. His voice carried the crowd. "This man is clearly unstable, dangerous, even. " "Sir," Mitchell turned to Marcus. His hand stayed near his weapon. "Place your hands behind your head.
Interlace your fingers. You're arresting me for what? I'm securing the scene while I conduct my investigation. " Investigate what? I've done absolutely nothing wrong. You're being belligerent, interfering with a police investigation.
You threatened a witness. I didn't threaten anyone. Marcus's voice rose. Finally, the calm was cracking. The crowd saw it.
The angry black man, the aggressive suspect, the danger they'd been waiting for. Never mind that he'd been perfectly calm for 20 minutes. One moment of justified anger erased everything. "Hands behind your head. Final warning," Marcus complied.
His fingers interlaced behind his skull, his jaw trembled with suppressed fury. Mitchell patted him down roughly. More roughly than any protocol required, hands invasive, demeaning. "He's clean. No weapons. " Derek stepped forward, pulled out his lighter.
A silver Zippo initials DC engraved on the side. He flicked it open. The flame danced in the darkness. You know what? I'm tired of playing games.
He walked toward the Aventador. Derek. Mitchell's voice held a warning, but not a strong one. What are you doing? Teaching a lesson about respect.
Put the lighter away. Why? Derek turned the Zippo in his fingers. The car is probably stolen anyway. Insurance fraud.
We'd actually be doing society a favor. Marcus' eyes widened. You cannot be serious. Dead serious. Dererick's voice carried across the entire parking lot.
This is our neighborhood, our plaza, our rules. People like you don't belong here. He lifted his glass, splashed the remaining bourbon through the cracked window. The alcohol spread across the leather seats. The smell is sharp and immediate.
Derek, stop. Mitchell moved toward him, but slowly, not committed. More performance than intervention. Marcus jerked forward instinctively. Mitchell grabbed his arm hard, held him in place.
Don't, Mitchell warned. He's going to destroy my car. Then maybe you shouldn't have provoked him. The words hung in the air. The accusation is crystal clear.
Victim blaming in real time. Derek stood at the driver's window, lighter in one hand, flame flickering orange. Last chance. Admit you stole it. Make this easier on everyone.
I didn't steal anything, Marcus said. His voice was steady again, cold as ice. And you know it. Wrong answer. Derek dropped the lighter through the window.
The interior erupted instantly. Flames spread across the bourbon soaked leather, climbed the seats, reached for the dashboard. The fire moved faster than anyone expected. The crowd screamed, stumbled backward, but phones stayed up, still recording, always recording. Marcus lunged forward.
Mitchell's grip tightened, held him back with force. Let me go. My car. It's evidence now. You move and I arrest you for interfering with an active investigation.
Marcus stopped struggling. He stood frozen, watching the fire grow. Orange and yellow and white hot. 6 years of savings, 80our weeks. Every sacrifice his mother made.
Every night he chose work over sleep. Every moment of doubt, he pushed through. Gone in 90 seconds. Derek laughed high and wild and triumphant. That's what you get.
That's what happens. Brad and Kyle high-fived him. The three of them backed away from the intense heat. Still laughing, still filming each other. Thompson finally radioed for the fire department.
His voice shook. Even now, he looked uncomfortable. Maria kept filming from the boutique entrance. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her hands stayed perfectly steady. A woman in the crowd finally found her voice.
This is wrong. Someone needs to stop them. Her husband grabbed her arm, pulled her back. Let's just go now. But they just burned his car.
It's not our problem. Come on. They left. 10 others followed their lead. The spectacle was getting too real.
The remaining crowd stayed for the show, for the content, for the story they'd tell later. Marcus stopped fighting Mitchell's grip. He stood perfectly still, watched the fire consumes $400,000. One tear rolled down his cheek. Just one.
Then his face went blank. His hand moved slowly to his pocket, found his phone. Derek saw it, smirked with satisfaction. Go ahead, call your lawyer. My dad owns half this city.
This will be buried by morning, and so will you. Marcus pulled out his phone. His thumb moved deliberately across the screen. I'm not calling my lawyer. He pressed the dial, raised the phone to his ear.
The crowd leaned in, sensing something different. Something is shifting. Two rings. Three. A voice answered, "Deep authoritative command in every syllable. " Marcus's voice came out quiet, but in the silence, everyone heard every word.
"Dad, it happened again. " Derek's smile faltered. "Dad, what's that supposed to mean? " Marcus kept the phone to his ear. His voice stayed calm. Each word is deliberate. I kept my promise.
I stayed calm. I documented everything. I have 30 witnesses and multiple videos. The voice on the other end spoke deep. Measured.
Marcus listened. Yes, sir. Prestige Plaza Space 47. He paused. The car you told me not to buy yet.
It's gone. Who the hell are you talking to? Dererick's voice rose. The confidence cracking. Marcus ignored him completely.
No, sir. I'm not hurt physically, but they need to be held accountable. All of them. Mitchell shifted his weight. Something in Marcus' tone.
The formality mixed with intimacy. The word sir came naturally. His hand slowly released Marcus's arm. Dad, there's Officer Mitchell here. Badge number.
Marcus read it directly off the uniform. 77432. Mitchell's face went pale. How do you put him on? The voice commanded loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.
Marcus held out the phone, extended it toward Mitchell. He wants to speak with you. Mitchell stared at the phone like it was a live grenade. His hand trembled as he took it. He brought it to his ear.
Yeah. Who is this? The voice spoke. 5 seconds. That's all it took.
Mitchell's face drained of all color. His knees actually buckled slightly. Sir. Yes, sir. I didn't know.
I had no idea who. Another 10 seconds of listening. His eyes went wide. Yes, sir. Immediately, sir.
I understand completely, sir. Right away, sir. He handed the phone back to Marcus. His entire body shook. He stepped away from Marcus like he'd been touching something sacred he shouldn't have touched.
Derek watched, confusion, turning to anger. Mitch, what the hell? Don't let him manipulate you with some phone trick. Mitchell spun on him. Derek, shut your mouth right now.
Just shut up. What? He's just some random I said shut up. The authority in Mitchell's voice silenced the entire parking lot. Derek opened his mouth, closed it, looked around for support.
Headlights appeared at the plaza entrance. Three black SUVs, Cadillac Escalades, tinted windows. They moved with purpose. No sirens, but the presence was unmistakable. Federal, official, powerful.
They entered the parking lot in formation. Tactical surrounding the scene from three angles. The vehicles stopped, engines cut simultaneously. Six men in dark suits emerged, earpieces visible, hands near their jackets. Federal agents, the real kind, and from the center vehicle, the rear door opened.
A tall black man stepped out. 65 years old, gray at the temples, impeccable dark suit, American flag pin on his lapel. He moved with the confidence of someone who'd walked into hostile rooms his entire life and commanded them. The crowd recognized him instantly. "Oh my god, is that that's the attorney general?