Chapter 7 - The Master Restorer
Harrison Vance looked frantically at his four private security guards, his eyes wild with desperate rage.
"Don't just stand there!" Harrison shrieked, his voice turning shrill. "Hook up the winch! Drag the car out! I'll pay you double!"
The lead security guard, an experienced former state trooper with graying hair, looked at Inspector Martinez’s official state badge, then at the pink title document resting on the workbench.
He unclipped his radio, looking at Harrison with cold disgust. "Mr. Vance, this vehicle carries a certified state reconstruction title. If my men touch that chassis without a federal seizure warrant, we’re committing armed grand larceny. Our contract is terminated."
"You coward!" Harrison screamed, but the four guards turned on their heels, walked back to their Escalades, and reversed out of the driveway without looking back.
Dale Hutchins backed away slowly, clutching his injured wrist, before turning and sprinting toward his Porsche like a frightened rabbit.
Harrison stood completely alone in the center of the garage, his expensive overcoat trembling in the cold draft.
"You will never build it, Cole," Harrison hissed through clenched teeth, his face a mask of bitter venom. "You’re a grease monkey working out of a ghetto garage. You don't have the tools. You don't have the money. You don't have the engine. It will rot in this dirt until you starve."
"Get out, Harrison," Eleanor said softly, pointing toward the street. "Before the marshals arrive to collect your passport."
Harrison glared at Ryan one last time with pure, burning hatred, then turned and trudged out into the autumn drizzle.
When the street finally fell silent, Ryan exhaled a long breath, feeling the weight of the last twenty-four hours settle into his bones.
"He was right about one thing, Mrs. Vance," Ryan admitted, turning back to the bare titanium chassis. "I don't have the funds to rebuild this car. Sourcing a bespoke 6.0-liter V12 and fabricating carbon-fiber bodywork costs millions."
Eleanor smiled warmly, walking over to the workbench where the Mylar blueprints were spread out.
"Mr. Cole, when my husband passed away, he left me thirty-five percent of the Vance family shipping fleet," Eleanor said, resting her hand on the titanium frame. "I spent twenty-four years believing that car was an instrument of shame that destroyed our family's honor. But seeing it here... seeing what Arthur Finch and those craftsmen created... it isn't shame. It’s a masterpiece."
She looked up at Ryan with fierce determination. "I am establishing a restoration trust with an initial deposit of two million dollars. You will be the lead master builder, with complete mechanical authority and a fifty percent equity stake in the finished vehicle."
Ryan’s breath caught in his throat. "Mrs. Vance, that's..."
"There is only one condition," Eleanor interrupted gently.
May you like
"What's that?"
"You call Arthur Finch," she smiled. "Tell that stubborn old Englishman to pack his tool chest and take the first Concorde replacement flight to New York. The Sovereign needs its creators."
