Chapter 13 - Ashes and Blood
The rain turned the industrial district of Long Island City into a maze of slick, mirrored asphalt.
Marcus brought the black SUV to a halt beside a row of rusted chain-link fences.
Across the street stood the charred remains of Vance Auto Diagnostics.
The yellow police tape had melted against the blackened brick walls.
"Fire department ruled it an electrical fault two nights ago," Marcus said, turning off the engine.
"Two nights ago was the exact night I exposed Martin and stood up at the gala," I pointed out.
"A very convenient coincidence," Marcus replied, pulling a heavy tactical flashlight from under his seat.
We stepped out into the biting wind and pulled up the collars of our coats.
I ducked beneath the police tape and stepped into the ruins of the garage.
The stench of burned rubber, scorched oil, and wet soot filled the air.
My flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating collapsed hydraulic lifts and blackened engine blocks.
"Sal Vance was your cousin, wasn't he?" I asked Marcus quietly.
Marcus stopped in his tracks, his flashlight beam trembling slightly against a scorched workbench.
"Distant cousin," Marcus admitted, his voice tight. "We haven't spoken in six years. He was a degenerate gambler with debts all over Atlantic City."
"That makes him easy to buy," I noted.
"And very easy to silence," Marcus added grimly.
We moved deeper into the back office, where the roof had partially collapsed.
The metal file cabinets were pried open, their contents gutted and turned to gray ash.
I crouched near the corner of the office where the floorboards were surprisingly intact.
Something gleamed beneath a rusted metal tool chest.
"Marcus, help me move this," I instructed.
Together, we shoved the heavy iron chest aside.
Hidden beneath it was a small metal floor hatch, sealed with a circular padlock.
The padlock had a three-digit combination wheel.
I pulled the antique brass key from my coat pocket and looked at the number stamped on its spine: 714.
I spun the brass wheels on the padlock to 7-1-4 and pulled.
The shackle popped open with a loud, mechanical snap.
Marcus raised his flashlight as I pulled the heavy steel hatch upward.
Inside the concrete cavity was not money or tools, but a small fireproof lockbox.
I opened the latch and lifted the lid.
Inside lay a digital voice recorder and a laminated mechanic's work order dated the morning of my crash.
Across the bottom of the work order was a handwritten note in faded red ink:
*Brake pressure valve modified per order of Contract #88. Client: Sterling Senior.*
My breath caught.
My chest felt hollow, like all the air had been violently sucked from my lungs.
"Sterling Senior?" Marcus read over my shoulder, stunned. "Julian... your father died five years before your crash."
"My father is dead," I whispered, staring at the paper as rain dripped through the ceiling.
"Then who the hell signed this?" Marcus asked.
Before I could answer, the beam of a high-powered spotlight flooded through the shattered front windows of the garage.
Tires screeched outside on the wet pavement.
The violent sound of doors slamming open echoed through the hollow ruins.
May you like
"We've got company," Marcus whispered, drawing his sidearm from beneath his jacket.
***
