Chapter 13 - Blood on the Grease
The south side of the city was an industrial wasteland of abandoned factories and rusting shipping containers. Redline Auto sat at the end of a dead-end street, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
It was raining again—a cold, miserable drizzle that reminded me too much of the night Anna died.
Collins and I parked a block away and approached on foot. The heavy garage doors were shut, but a side door was propped open, the sound of a whining power drill echoing from within.
"Stay behind me," Collins whispered, drawing her weapon.
We slipped through the side door. The garage smelled of motor oil, stale beer, and ozone. A massive hydraulic lift held a rusted pickup truck in the air. Beneath it stood a man covered in grease, using an impact wrench on a tire. He was huge—easily two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle covered in prison tattoos.
Marcus Vance.
Collins stepped into the light, pointing her gun directly at his chest. "Marcus Vance. Police. Step away from the vehicle and put your hands where I can see them."
Vance didn't flinch. He slowly lowered the wrench, wiping his greasy hands on a dirty rag. He looked at Collins, then his eyes shifted to me. A slow, ugly smirk spread across his face.
"Daniel Hart," Vance said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
"You know who I am?" I asked, stepping out from behind Collins.
"Of course I do. The old bitch called me from a burner phone in her holding cell this morning. Said you were causing problems." Vance dropped the rag onto a workbench. "Said she'd double my original payout if you accidentally ended up in the local landfill."
"Get on the ground! Now!" Collins shouted, stepping forward.
Suddenly, the deafening roar of an engine filled the garage. From the shadows in the back, a second man—whom we hadn't seen—revved a forklift and drove it straight at us.
"Move!" Collins screamed.
We dove in opposite directions as the steel prongs of the forklift smashed into the tool chest where we had just been standing, sending heavy metal wrenches flying like shrapnel.
Vance grabbed a heavy steel crowbar from the bench and charged at me. I barely had time to react. I rolled backward as the crowbar slammed into the concrete floor, sending sparks flying.
I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears. I wasn't a fighter. I was an architect. But as I looked at the man who had murdered my wife, adrenaline replaced fear.
Vance swung again, aiming for my head. I ducked, feeling the wind of the steel bar pass inches from my face, and drove my shoulder directly into his gut. We crashed into a stack of spare tires, tumbling to the greasy floor.
He was incredibly strong. He pinned me down, his massive hands wrapping around my throat, squeezing the life out of me. Black spots danced in my vision.
"Should've just signed the papers, rich boy," Vance spat, his saliva hitting my cheek.
Across the garage, gunshots rang out. Collins had shot the forklift's front tires, sending the machine crashing down and trapping the second attacker.
I gagged, my hands desperately grasping for anything. My fingers brushed against a heavy socket wrench on the floor. With the last ounce of my strength, I grabbed it and smashed it directly into the side of Vance's knee.
He roared in agony, his grip releasing. I scrambled out from under him, gasping for air.
Before Vance could stand, Collins was there, the barrel of her Glock pressed firmly against his forehead.
"Give me one reason, Marcus," she breathed, her eyes blazing with fury. "Give me one damn reason."
Vance raised his hands, panting heavily. "Okay! Okay, back off!"
I stood over him, my chest heaving, the socket wrench still gripped tightly in my hand. "Fifty thousand dollars. You took fifty thousand dollars to kill the mother of an eight-year-old girl."
Vance let out a dry, hacking laugh. "You think Evelyn paid me fifty grand just to cut a brake line? You're an idiot."
"What are you talking about?" I demanded.
"Evelyn didn't hire me to kill your wife," Vance sneered, blood dripping from his nose. "She hired me to clean the car up afterward so the cops wouldn't see what really happened. She didn't have the brakes cut. The brakes were perfectly fine."
May you like
I froze. "Then how did she crash?"
Vance looked at me with a sickening mix of pity and malice. "Because your brother was in the passenger seat, Daniel. Michael grabbed the wheel and ran her off the road."
