You don't belong in that leather seat, kid—get your greasy rags out of a $1.2 million custom car before I have you thrown off this lot, showroom manager Marcus Bennett sneered at seventeen-year-o...
The image of Marcus’s smug face across the street burned in my mind as I watched the last of our inventory being loaded onto Miller’s trucks. He wasn’t just cutting off our supplies; he was trying to bleed us dry, publicly. But the sabotaged brake lines… that was a different game entirely. That was personal, deadly.
I immediately walked back into the office, my footsteps heavy, and pulled up the vehicle schedule log on the computer. I had to know who was assigned to the ’69, who was meant to drive it onto the highway that afternoon.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, scrolling through the entries. Routine maintenance, safety checks, detailing. Then I saw it, highlighted for that very afternoon:
“Vehicle: 1969 Custom V12 (Flagship)”
“Purpose: Town Safety Certification – Parade Lead”
“Driver: Sheriff E. Croft”
A cold dread washed over me, deeper and more profound than any fear for myself. Sheriff Eli Croft. My lifelong friend. He was scheduled to test-drive the flagship vehicle, not for a casual spin, but for the town’s annual parade leadership procession. It was a high-speed approval, testing the car’s performance under demanding conditions.
Marcus didn’t target me. He targeted Eli.
The realization hit me with sickening clarity. If Eli drove that car, the brake failure wouldn’t be a minor incident. It would be a fatal crash, or at best, a catastrophic high-speed accident. The immediate fallout would be a state investigation. Driscoll Motors would be shut down permanently for gross mechanical negligence. Every technician’s license would be in jeopardy. The software theft, the fraudulent loans, all of it would be buried under the scandal of a prominent town figure’s death or serious injury, directly linked to our shop’s alleged incompetence.
Marcus hadn’t just wanted to destroy my business; he wanted to annihilate it, and frame me for a deadly accident in the process. He wanted to ensure that the theft of the software was never discovered.
My hand flew to the phone, fumbling with the receiver. I had to reach Eli, immediately.
I dialed his direct line at the Sheriff’s Department. Each ring echoed with the terrifying image of Eli in that car, hurtling down the highway, the brakes failing.
“Croft here,” Eli’s familiar, steady voice answered.
“Eli, it’s Arthur,” I blurted out, my voice tight with urgency. “Listen to me very carefully. Are you at the garage? Are you near the ’69?”
“I just walked in, Arthur,” Eli said, a hint of confusion in his tone. “Was just about to grab the keys. Why? What’s going on?”
My breath hitched. He was there. Right there. Minutes away from getting behind the wheel.
“Step away from the keys, Eli,” I commanded, my voice sharp and unyielding. “Do not touch that car. Do you hear me? Do not, under any circumstances, get in that vehicle.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end, then Eli’s voice, now serious, “Arthur, what in God’s name are you talking about?”
“It’s sabotaged,” I explained, trying to keep my voice even, though my heart hammered in my chest. “The brakes. Marcus engineered it to fail at highway speeds.”
I could almost hear Eli’s intake of breath. The implications hung between us, heavy and terrifying. Marcus wasn’t just a thief; he was a murderer in waiting.
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