Chapter 2 - The Midnight Offer
Ryan stood frozen in the dark, watching Dale Hutchins pace the cracked concrete outside.
Dale was the son of an industrial scrap magnate who owned three classic car dealerships across New England. He treated local independent mechanics like dirt on his leather boots, attending liquidation auctions only to flip barn finds to billionaire collectors in Dubai.
Ryan took three deliberate steps back, set the breaker bar on the counter, and switched the overhead fluorescent lights back on.
The harsh tubes flickered and buzzed, flooding the garage with cold white light.
Outside, Dale startled, quickly tucking his phone into his shearling coat. He cleared his throat, plastered on a wide, practiced smile, and banged on the metal door with his knuckles.
Ryan pulled the deadbolt and slid the bay door open six inches. "We’re closed, Dale. Bring your brake jobs by on Monday."
"Come on, Ryan, don't be like that," Dale said smoothly, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe to prevent Ryan from closing it. "I was just driving by on my way from the diner and saw your shop lights on. Thought I’d check in on that charcoal briquette you dragged home."
"It's scrap metal," Ryan replied, wiping his greasy hands on a blue shop rag. "Nothing to look at."
Dale’s eyes darted past Ryan’s shoulder, immediately locking onto the freshly ground patch of titanium gleaming on the chassis. A microscopic twitch tightened the corner of Dale’s jaw.
"Look, Cole, we've had our fun ribbing you at the auction," Dale said, his tone softening into a conspiratorial whisper. "The truth is, my shop needs an old frame to mock up a demolition derby truck for my nephew. I felt a little bad about everyone laughing at you this afternoon."
"You did?" Ryan asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah, man. You work hard. Times are tough off Albany Avenue," Dale said, reaching into his inner pocket and pulling out a thick manila envelope. "I’ve got five thousand dollars in crisp hundreds right here. You made twenty-five times your investment in six hours. Hand me the auction receipt, let my tow truck hook it up, and you can pay off your landlord tonight."
He thrust the envelope forward, fanning the edge to reveal thick stacks of green bills.
Twenty-four hours ago, five thousand dollars would have saved Ryan from eviction. It would have paid off his overdue parts suppliers and kept the gas heating on through November.
Now, looking at the bundle of cash, all Ryan felt was contempt.
"Five grand is a lot of money for a demo derby frame, Dale," Ryan said calmly.
"I’m a generous guy when I want to be," Dale chuckled, trying to slip his foot past the threshold. "What do you say? Let's sign the title transfer on your bench."
Ryan stepped forward, his taller frame completely blocking the doorway. "The vehicle isn't for sale."
Dale's smile vanished instantly, replaced by the ugly, sneering arrogance he usually reserved for auction podiums. "Don't be an idiot, Cole. It's a pile of burned garbage. If you don't take the five grand tonight, you'll end up paying a scrap yard fifty bucks to haul it away."
"Then I'll pay the fifty bucks," Ryan said. "Get off my property before I call the Hartford police for trespassing."
Dale’s face flushed dark crimson under the amber streetlight. He jabbed a manicured finger toward Ryan's chest.
"You think you're clever, don't you?" Dale hissed, dropping every shred of his friendly routine. "You think you found something special. Let me give you a piece of advice, wrench-monkey: some things belong to people who can actually afford to keep them. You cross the wrong people in this business, and your shop won't be the only thing catching fire."
"Is that a threat?" Ryan asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy gravel.
Dale stepped back toward his idling pickup truck, shaking his head with a bitter sneer. "It’s a forecast, Cole. Check your insurance policy."
He slammed his truck door, threw the transmission into reverse with a squeal of tires, and roared into the night.
Ryan pulled the heavy metal bay door shut, dropped the hardened security bars into their steel brackets, and turned the double deadbolts.
May you like
He walked over to the burned wreck, resting his hand on the cold titanium bulkhead.
Dale had confirmed what Ryan already suspected: powerful people knew the Sovereign had survived. And they were already hunting it.
