The retaining bolts shrieked as they sheared off, and the entire fiberglass tub lifted upward, exposing the naked aluminum chassis and the front suspension components. Riker leaned in, tapping a heavy metal flashlight against the framework. Clink, clink, clink, thud. He stopped. He tapped it again.
Thud. It was a dense, hollow sound, completely out of rhythm with the rest of the metal. Riker's eyes went wide. Sarge, he yelled, his voice cracking with desperate excitement. I got something.
Passenger side deep in the firewall recess. There's a bolted steel plate. Looks totally aftermarket. It's a hidden compartment. Kesler practically sprinted to the front of the car, pushing Hayes out of the way.
He shined his light into the dark recess. Sure enough, flush against the firewall was a matte black steel plate secured by four heavy-duty Torx screws. It looked completely out of place against the polished aluminum of the McLaren skeleton. A sickeningly triumphant grin spread across Kesler's face. He turned to look at Nia, who was still sitting perfectly still on the barrier.
"Well, well, well, Miss Caldwell," Kesler sneered, tapping the pry bar against his palm. "Looks like your little tech nerd disguise just fell apart. Let's see how much cartel cash you're hauling." "Bring me the cordless drill," Kesler commanded, not taking his eyes off the hidden plate. Hayes scured to the Tahoe and returned with a heavy 20-volt drill and a set of bit extractors.
The three men huddled around the front of the ruined supercar like vultures over a carcass. The highway was dead quiet, save for the whining shriek of the drill as Kesler forced the bit into the hardened Torx screws. Sparks showered in the dark, bouncing off the expensive paintwork, leaving tiny burn marks in the clear coat. It took them 10 agonizing minutes to strip the screws and pry the heavy steel plate away. Kesler tossed the metal aside.
It hit the pavement with a heavy clang. All right, Riker, shine the light in there. Let's see what we got. Inside the dark rectangular recess sat a seamless matte black box roughly the size of a thick hardcover book. It had no obvious hinges, no keyholes, and no markings.
A thick bundle of braided wires ran from the back of the box, splicing directly into the McLaren's main battery harness. On the front face of the box, a single tiny LED light pulsed a steady rhythmic green. Next to the light was a small circular glass aperture. The three cops stared at it. The triumphant atmosphere suddenly vanished, replaced by a tense, palpable confusion.