Chapter 7 - Industrial Road
The snow had turned into a fine, stinging sleet by the time I pulled my truck off Route 66 and onto Industrial Road. The area was a desolate stretch of corrugated metal warehouses, rusted shipping containers, and overgrown gravel lots that sat pitch-black under the amber glare of sodium vapor streetlights.
Unit C sat near the back of the complex, a long, low-slung building with a chain-link fence topped by barbed wire surrounding a paved loading dock.
Parking two blocks away behind a row of abandoned delivery vans, I cut my headlights and killed the engine. The cab fell into an eerie, freezing silence, broken only by the ticking of the cooling metal under the hood.
I checked my watch: 12:42 a.m. Marcus hadn't arrived yet, but waiting wasn't an option anymore. Every minute I sat here was a minute those men had to regroup and figure out their next move against my family.
I slipped out of the truck, pulling my heavy coat tighter against the wind, and jogged low across the snowy gravel until I reached the chain-link perimeter fence. Using a gap where the bottom wire had rusted loose from its moorings, I squeezed through into the property, keeping to the deep shadows cast by a stack of empty pallets.
The loading dock doors at the back of Unit C were tightly shut, but a side service door stood slightly ajar, a thin ribbon of yellow light spilling out onto the concrete pavement.
I crept up to the opening, pressing my back against the cold corrugated metal wall. Inside, I could hear raised voices echoing off the concrete floors.
"I told you to get those papers signed and bring them back!" a sharp, frantic voice barked—a voice I hadn't heard on the phone earlier, carrying an unmistakable edge of manic desperation. That had to be Richard Vance.
"The husband answered the door, boss!" Arthur's voice whined back defensively. "The guy went completely feral. He threw me off the porch before I could even blink. We couldn't force our way in with neighbor lights popping on everywhere."
"Feral?" Richard scoffed loudly. "He's a suburban dog trainer! You let a guy who teaches German Shepherds chase you off a suburban lawn?"
"He's got nothing left to lose now," another voice muttered. "If the feds seize the primary accounts tomorrow morning and Miller goes to the police with that burner phone, we're all doing twenty years in a federal penitentiary."
I peeked around the edge of the doorframe.
Inside was a massive, dimly lit warehouse floor. Desks covered in computer monitors, financial ledgers, and stacks of cash were clustered near the center. Standing near a folding table was Richard Vance—a thin, sharp-dressed man in his late forties with slicked-back dark hair and an expression of pure, unadulterated panic. Arthur and two other heavies stood nearby, nursing bruises from our encounter on my front porch.
My hand slipped into my pocket, fingers wrapping around the burner phone.
I needed evidence. If I could get inside, grab the ledger or download the digital transfer logs from their central terminal, I could hand the entire operation over to Marcus on a silver platter and end this nightmare once and for all.
I took a slow, deliberate step across the threshold, my boots silent against the concrete floor.
Suddenly, a heavy metal shelving unit behind me shifted slightly as my coat brushed against a dangling chain.
Clink.
The sound was tiny, but in the hollow acoustics of the warehouse, it sounded like a gunshot.
All three men froze mid-conversation. Richard Vance whipped his head around, his eyes locking directly onto the doorway where I stood in the shadows.
"Who's there?" Richard yelled, his hand diving inside his jacket and pulling out a heavy, matte-black automatic pistol.
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There was no turning back now.
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