Chapter 6 - The Airport Lockers
The engine of my truck screamed as I threw it into reverse, the tires kicking up a spray of wet gravel against the bank's concrete pillar.
Miller’s words echoed in my head like a siren—*the whole back wing is up in flames... accelerant trail leading straight from your father's old workshop*. They hadn't just abandoned the house; they had planted a final, destructive calling card to destroy every scrap of evidence buried in the lower vault before the municipal inspectors could unseal it.
I checked the rearview mirror. Liam stirred in the back seat, waking up to the red glare of dashboard lights.
"Daddy? Are we moving again?" his small voice asked, thick with sleep.
"Just a quick stop, buddy," I lied, keeping my voice steady as I wrenched the steering wheel hard toward the interstate. "Go back to sleep."
I wasn't heading back to Elm Street. The fire trucks were already handling the blaze, and Miller had a crew of deputies swarming the perimeter. If Harper was dumb enough to leave a polaroid with a terminal boarding pass, she hadn't vanished into thin air yet. International flights out of the regional airport didn't board until 2:00 AM, and international customs meant a mandatory two-hour security hold for anyone carrying high-value assets or disputed luxury items.
I slammed my foot down on the gas, the old Ford surging forward into the damp autumn night.
The airport terminal was a ghost town at 1:15 AM. Fluorescent lights hummed against polished linoleum floors, casting long, hollow shadows across empty check-in counters. I parked illegally in the loading zone, killed the engine, and sprinted through the sliding glass automatic doors, the locker key from Box 14B clutched tightly in my fist.
Terminal B, Level 1. Row 4, Locker 12.
I rounded the corner past the baggage claim carousels, my eyes scanning the banks of stainless-steel storage lockers set into the cinderblock wall. There it was. Row 4, Locker 12, bearing a small red sticker left by airport security.
I didn't need to try the key. The locker door was cracked open by an inch.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I stepped forward and pulled the heavy steel door wide. Inside sat a heavy leather duffel bag bearing my grandfather's initials. I unzipped it, revealing stacks of banded hundred-dollar bills, three velvet jewelry cases, and a thick stack of secondary property deeds spanning three different counties.
They hadn't just stolen my inheritance; they had emptied every hidden safety stash my grandfather accumulated over forty years of timber trade.
"Looking for something, Mr. Parker?"
May you like
A sharp click echoed behind me—the unmistakable sound of a heavy slide locking into place on a service firearm.
I froze, my hand still inside the open duffel bag.
