Lorson was a heavily built man with a ruddy complexion and expensive taste, evidenced by the shiny Rolex Submariner strapped to his thick wrist, a watch entirely out of place on a local police left tenant's salary. He was completely oblivious to the federal storm brewing beneath his feet. The heavy double doors of the bullpen violently slammed open. Silence immediately washed over the chaotic room of ringing phones and clacking keyboards. Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Nobody move. Hands away from your keyboards. Arthur's voice boomed across the open plan office carrying absolute unquestionable authority. Six tactical FBI agents flooded into the room, their weapons drawn and leveled at the ceiling, forming a secure corridor directly toward Lawson's glass ward office. Dozens of local detectives froze, their hands instinctively shooting up into the air as the sheer overwhelming force of the federal government took control of their workspace.
Lawson dropped his phone, his face straining of color as Arthur marched directly into his office, followed closely by Weaver. "What the hell is the meaning of this?" Lorson demanded, feigning outrage as his hand slowly drifted toward the top drawer of his mahogany desk. "Keep your hands exactly where I can see them, James," Arthur commanded, his hand resting comfortably on his hip near his concealed holster. Unless you want to add attempting to shoot a federal agent to your rapidly growing list of federal indictments, "You have no jurisdiction here," Lawson spat, standing up slowly, his eyes darting frantically toward the hallway, looking for an escape route that simply did not exist.
"I am a commanding officer in this precinct." You are a bagman for Dominic Russo. Arthur corrected coldly, stepping up to the desk and slamming a copy of the federal arrest warrant onto the polished wood. Gregory Stanton just gave you up. He sang like a bird.
He told us everything about the highway robbery scheme, the Cayman Island shell accounts, and the 10% kickbacks. Lawson's arrogant facade completely shattered. The mention of Stanton's name was the final nail in his coffin. He sagged against his desk, the heavy gold Rolex catching the fluorescent office lights. "Turn around and place your hands behind your back," Arthur ordered.
Stepping around the desk and grabbing Lorson by the shoulder. He spun the corrupt left tenant around, forcefully securing his wrists with heavyduty steel handcuffs. The distinct ratcheting sound echoed through the silent bullpen broadcast to every detective in the room. As Lorson was being secured, a tactical tech agent immediately seized Lorson's smartphone from the desk, plugging it into a portable decryption device. "Agent Pendleton," the tech called out, his eyes locked on his monitor.
"We have a problem." Lawson received an encrypted text message 3 minutes ago from a burner number associated with Russo's top enforcer, Vincent Moreno. The message reads, "Heard noise on scanner about Oakbrook stop. Status on the silver package. Weaver cursed under his breath.
Russo's people monitor police scanners. They know Stanton made the traffic stop and they are waiting for confirmation that he secured the cash from the Ferrari." Arthur looked down at Lorson, who was now sweating profusely in his restraints. A dangerous, brilliant idea began to form in Arthur's mind. The sting operation wasn't dead.