Chapter 2 - Ambush at the Bay
The December wind cut like broken glass the moment I led Noah and Ellie through the front door of Melissa’s sprawling suburban home. Behind us, my father was still shouting through the foyer, his voice bouncing off the high entryway walls, demanding I come back inside and "be a man about this."
I didn’t look back. I buckled Noah into his booster seat in the back of my F-250 and made sure Ellie was wrapped in her thick down jacket.
"Dad?" Ellie's voice was small, trembling as the truck's diesel engine rumbled to life. "Are we going home?"
"In a little bit, honey," I said, adjusting the rearview mirror so I could catch her eye. "First, I have to go check on the shop. Someone tripped the alarm."
"Aunt Melissa is mean," Noah sniffled from the shadows of the backseat, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "I don't ever want to go back there."
"You never have to, buddy," I promised, my jaw aching from how hard I was clenching my teeth. "Never again."
I tapped the hands-free dial on the steering wheel console and called Marcus Vance. Marcus wasn't just my attorney; he was an old friend of my late wife, a bulldog litigator who specialized in commercial real estate and property disputes. He answered on the third ring despite the holiday hour.
"Jared? It’s almost ten on Christmas Eve. Tell me your shop didn't catch fire."
"Worse. My shop was just broken into five minutes ago," I said, accelerating onto the expressway, the wipers batting away a sudden spray of freezing sleet. "And Melissa just pulled the final straw. She fed cat food to Noah and Ellie at dinner."
There was a dead pause on the line. When Marcus spoke again, his professional, measured cadence had vanished, replaced by pure venom. "She did what?"
"You heard me. But there’s more. She smirked when my alarm notification popped up on my phone. She knew about it, Marcus. She knew someone was hitting my bays tonight."
"Where are you now?"
"Five minutes out from the shop. The kids are in the back."
"Do not go in there alone, Jared! I’m calling the county dispatch right now. I know the watch commander on duty. Pull into the diner across the street and wait for marked units. If they're in your bays, they're after the Snap-on diagnostic rigs or the title safe."
Marcus hung up. My stomach curdled. The title safe held the duplicate titles to fourteen customer vehicles currently under repair, my business operating licenses, and, most critically, the original signed indemnity contract Melissa had signed five years ago—an agreement where she acknowledged that the suburban house belonged exclusively to my holding LLC until she paid back a $120,000 promissory note.
I pulled the truck into the gravel lot of the 24-hour diner directly across from Apex Auto Solutions. The shop sat dark under the yellow hum of streetlights, its chain-link gate slightly ajar. Bay 3's pedestrian door hung open by two inches, a black gap in the corrugated metal wall.
"Stay down in your seats, kids. Lock the doors from the inside. If anyone comes near this truck who isn't wearing a police uniform, you hold down that horn. Understood?"
"Dad, please don't go over there," Ellie begged, clutching her brother's hand.
"I’m just watching from the edge of the lot, El. I promise. I’m waiting for the police."
I stepped out into the freezing air, keeping the truck locked behind me. I didn't cross the street, but I moved into the shadow of the diner's neon sign, keeping my eyes fixed on the shop gate.
Two minutes later, two men emerged from Bay 3. They weren't moving like professional thieves hauling heavy equipment. They were carrying a flat, olive-drab steel lockbox and two heavy red plastic fuel jugs.
My heart hammered against my ribs. They weren't just stealing my files; they were planning to burn the place down.
Under the harsh mercury vapor light above the bay door, one of the men pulled down his wool mask to spit on the pavement.
It was Derek.
Derek Howell—Melissa’s deadbeat, live-in boyfriend of eight months. The same Derek who had three prior convictions for petty larceny, drove an unregistered Camaro, and lived rent-free in the house I owned, drinking my beer and lecturing me on "crypto investments" whenever I came over to fix the plumbing.
Before Derek could unscrew the cap on the first fuel jug, two county sheriff cruisers roared around the industrial park corner without sirens, their high-beam spotlights cutting through the falling sleet like laser beams.
"Sheriff's Office! Put your hands on your heads! Down on the ground right now!" the loudspeaker blared.
Derek dropped the fuel canister instantly. The gasoline splattered across the wet concrete. His partner—a skinny kid I didn't recognize—bolted toward the back fence, but a third cruiser swept in from the alley, cutting off his escape. Within ninety seconds, both men were face-down on the freezing gravel, their hands cuffed tightly behind their backs.
I crossed the road slowly, my boots crunching on the icy gravel as Deputy Henderson, an officer who regularly brought his patrol car to my shop for brake maintenance, walked over to me.
"Merry Christmas, Jared," Henderson muttered, shining his flashlight on the dropped lockbox. "You want to explain why your sister’s deadbeat boyfriend is standing outside your shop with forty gallons of unleaded and your private paperwork safe?"
I stared down at Derek, whose face was mashed into the wet grit. He glared up at me, his eyes bloodshot and full of impotent rage.
"She told me you'd be trapped at the dinner table until midnight," Derek spat, spraying spit and gravel. "You think you run everything, Jared? You don't own us!"
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"You're right, Derek," I said quietly, leaning down just enough so he could hear me over the wind. "I don't own you. But I own the roof over your head. And starting tonight, you're sleeping on a concrete slab."
***
