Chapter 5 - The Line in the Sawdust
“Don’t take another step,” I said, stepping out from behind the assembly table into the beam of their flashlights.
The two men stopped. Both wore dark work jackets, baseball caps pulled low, and work gloves. The taller one lowered his flashlight beam to my chest, letting the glare illuminate the heavy steel square resting in my right hand.
“Shop’s closed, Cole,” the tall one said, his voice flat, local, and utterly unbothered. “Leave the keys on the bench and walk out the front door with the lady. Nobody needs an ambulance tonight.”
Behind me, Claire’s voice cut through the dark, cold and sharp as a razor. “Marcus Vance hired you. Tell him breaking and entering adds a felony charge to his fraud indictment.”
The shorter man gave a dry, humorless snicker. “Nobody knows who Marcus Vance is, miss. We’re just here to clean out some outdated municipal trash before the morning shift.”
He took a step toward the central table where seven years of our work lay spread across the oak slab.
Something primal snapped inside me.
This shop was my sanctuary. It was where I had rebuilt my sanity after Melissa walked out. It was where Claire had brought me coffee every morning for seven years. It was where we had poured our sweat and soul into keeping the history of this city alive.
I closed the distance in three long strides.
Before the short man could raise his crowbar, I hooked the heavy corner of the steel square under the crook of his elbow, levering his arm upward while driving my boot hard into the side of his knee. The joint buckled with a sickening pop. He hit the concrete with a strangled cry, dropping the crowbar with a clatter.
The tall man lunged forward, swinging his bar toward my ribs.
I ducked beneath the arc, the rush of displaced air brushing my neck. I drove my shoulder straight into his sternum, slamming him backward into the lumber rack. Hundreds of board feet of kiln-dried cherry rattled violently on their steel pegs.
He swung a wild left hook that caught me across the cheekbone, splitting the skin. The taste of copper flooded my mouth. I ignored the pain, grabbed his jacket collar, and twisted him face-first into the cast-iron table of the industrial planer.
“Touch one piece of paper in this building,” I snarled into his ear, pinning him down with my forearm against his throat, “and I will run your hand through that blade.”
“Ethan, stop!” Claire screamed.
I froze, my chest heaving, the red haze of violence slowly clearing from my vision.
Claire was standing by the office doorway, holding my framing nailer with both hands, the heavy compressor hose trailing behind her. The safety tip was leveled directly at the short man groaning on the floor.
“Police are on their way,” Claire announced, her voice unwavering. “And the shop’s exterior surveillance cameras stream directly to an off-site cloud server. Your faces are already backed up in three states.”
The tall man beneath my arm went limp. “Alright. Alright. Let me up.”
Ten minutes later, the distant wail of sirens echoed through the brick alleys of Scott’s Addition.
The two men were hauled away in the back of Richmond police cruisers, their crowbars bagged in brown evidence paper. A patrol officer took our statements while a young paramedic pressed an antiseptic gauze pad against the cut on my cheek.
Claire stood beside the ambulance gurney, her arms wrapped around herself, watching the police tape flutter in the cool dawn breeze. The adrenaline had faded, leaving her trembling in the early morning chill.
I thanked the medic, waved him off, and walked over to her. I slipped my jacket off and draped it over her shoulders.
She looked up at the cut on my face, her eyes glistening. “You could have been killed over old blueprints, Ethan.”
“They weren't blueprints,” I said quietly, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her into my chest. “They were your future.”
May you like
She buried her face in my shoulder, her fingers gripping the fabric of my shirt with bruising strength. “What if it’s not enough? What if Marcus still convinces the board?”
“Then we force his hand,” I said, looking out at the rising sun painting the brick warehouses in shades of amber and rose. “He thinks he’s playing a game of municipal paperwork. It’s time we play by his rules.”
