Apex Secure Storage was a massive, fortress-like facility on the industrial outskirts of Atlanta, favored by wealthy clients for its anonymity and heavy security. Riggins, Kessler, and their corrupt superior, Sergeant Miller, arrived in two separate vehicles at 5:30 a.m. The rain had slowed to a miserable drizzle.
They used a cloned keycard to bypass the main gate and drove their vehicles directly up to unit 402: a double-wide garage with reinforced steel doors.
"Hurry up! Get the vans backed up to the door!" Miller barked. He was a balding, stocky man who was sweating profusely, furious that his early morning had been interrupted by a crisis. "If this guy is who you say he is, we grab the duffels and scatter."
Kessler punched the digital code into the keypad. The heavy steel door rolled upward with a loud mechanical grinding noise. Riggins drew his service weapon, sweeping the interior out of pure paranoia.
The unit was supposed to be packed to the ceiling with shrink-wrapped pallets of cash, seized Rolex watches, and stolen narcotics. Instead, it was completely empty.
There was no money. There were no pallets. There was only a single folding metal chair sitting dead center on the concrete floor. On the chair was a ruggedized military laptop.
Riggins lowered his gun, his jaw dropping. "Where is it? Where's the money?"
Kessler felt his knees go weak. He stumbled backward, barely catching himself on the bumper of the van. "He beat us here. He took it. He took everything."
Suddenly, the screen of the laptop flared to life, casting a harsh blue light across the empty concrete walls. The internal speakers crackled, and a calm, deep voice echoed through the garage:
"Good morning, detectives."
Miller drew his weapon, aiming it at the laptop as if he could shoot the voice. "Hayes, you're a dead man! You hear me? You're dead!"
"I don't think so, Sergeant," Edmund's voice replied evenly. "You see, when you stole my $250,000 yesterday, you made a critical tactical error: you assumed I was a civilian."