Leo Driscoll bought a crashed 2012 sedan at a county auto auction for $850 to salvage its engine.
The heavy groan of the garage door opening again sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through me. This time, it wasn’t a lone officer.
Through the bay entrance, I saw the flashing blue lights of a sheriff’s unit. Behind it, two black SUVs, unmarked but radiating authority, pulled up. Three figures emerged from the SUVs. Private, armed repossession officers, their vests bulky, their faces grim.
They fanned out, moving towards the garage. One of them held up a stack of papers. “Emergency asset seizure warrant, Mr. Driscoll! We’re here for the 2012 sedan.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. They weren’t waiting for the subpoena to expire. Moretti’s people had fast-tracked a direct seizure.
“Leo, they’re here,” Maya whispered, her hand tightening on my arm. She had just finished burning the full decrypted data onto a secure flash drive.
“Go,” I told her, my voice urgent. “Take Toby. Get out of here. If they find you with that drive, it’s over.”
I had a plan, a desperate, dangerous gamble.
“Where are you going?” Maya asked, her eyes wide with fear.
“To find Marcus,” I said, already moving. “This ends tonight.”
I grabbed the small, encrypted flash drive from her hand, its surface cool against my palm. As the bailiffs and sheriff’s deputy fanned out and started to enter the garage, demanding access to Bay Three, I slipped out the back door.
I moved through the narrow alley behind the shop, ducking past overflowing dumpsters and stacks of old tires. The sounds of raised voices and heavy footsteps from inside the garage faded behind me.
I climbed into my old pickup truck, the engine grumbling to life. The drive felt like a ticking bomb in my pocket. I knew what I had to do.
I drove, following the coordinates Maya had found for Marcus’s last known address. It was a rundown apartment building on the edge of the industrial district, close to the abandoned rail yards.
I parked a block away, killed the headlights, and got out. The night air was cold, damp with the smell of diesel and the distant tang of the ocean.
I walked towards the rail yard, a place of broken concrete and rusting metal. And there, idling in the desolate lot, was Marcus Brody’s beat-up pickup truck.
He stood beside it, a lone, stoic figure in the cold air, his hands jammed into his pockets. He wasn’t looking at me. His gaze was fixed on the dark, empty tracks stretching into the night.
He was waiting. For Moretti’s hitmen, or for federal agents. He was waiting for his fate.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours