Chapter 4 - The Trap at Peachtree Industrial
The old Coleman Roofing warehouse on Peachtree Industrial Boulevard had been vacant for three years, ever since my father consolidated operations into our newer facility near the airport. It was a cavernous, drafty metal building filled with rusted scaffolding, stacks of unused asphalt shingles, and the lingering, nostalgic scent of hot tar and diesel fuel.
By 8:00 p.m., the autumn temperature had dropped sharply, turning the cavernous interior into a refrigerator. I stood near a halogen work light I had dragged out from the back, wearing a thick wool coat that hid my oxygen tank and the rigid medical brace supporting my ribs.
Sandra and Detective Miller were parked half a mile down the access road in an unmarked cruiser, monitoring a live audio feed wired into my lapel.
“Are you sure about this, Avery?” Detective Miller’s voice crackled softly through my hidden earpiece. “We can raid his apartment right now. We have enough for a warrant.”
“A warrant gets him a high-priced defense attorney and a bail hearing,” I whispered back, keeping my eyes fixed on the rusted metal roll-up door at the front of the warehouse. “I want a signed confession. I want him to sign over every single share of Veloce Holdings back to the estate, voluntarily and on tape, before he realizes the police are already holding the keys to his future.”
“Be careful,” Sandra chimed in. “Chase is erratic. If he suspects a setup—”
“He won’t suspect anything,” I interrupted. “Greed always blinds stupidity.”
Ten minutes later, the low, throbbing exhaust of a rented Mercedes SUV echoed outside the corrugated metal walls. Headlights swept across the cracked concrete floor as the vehicle pulled through the open bay door, parking directly beneath a swinging fluorescent fixture.
The driver’s door opened, and Chase stepped out.
He was wearing a designer puffer jacket, distressed designer jeans, and white sneakers that looked entirely out of place in a dusty warehouse. His hair was messy, and his eyes darted nervously around the empty building before locking onto me standing by the halogen lamp.
“Avery?” He scoffed, walking closer with an exaggerated swagger that couldn’t entirely mask the panic in his voice. “What is this nonsense? My mom said you wanted to talk settlement, but I didn’t think you’d pick a haunted house for the meeting.”
I adjusted my coat, leaning slightly on my walker to maintain the illusion that I was still physically fragile.
“Nice to see you too, Chase,” I said smoothly. “Careful where you step. The floor is slippery.”
He stopped ten feet away, crossing his arms and sneering. “Mom told me you were making a big deal out of nothing in court today. Said you’re trying to squeeze us out of the family business just because Richard lost his marbles at the end and left you everything.”
“Dad’s marbles were just fine, Chase. He just knew how to read a balance sheet—and a character assessment.” I reached into my tote bag and pulled out a manila folder, tossing it onto a wooden crate between us. “Take a look.”
Chase frowned, stepping forward and flipping open the folder. Inside were copies of the Cayman Islands corporate filings, the three-million-dollar loan documents, and Marcus Vance’s signed confession detailing the hit-and-run on I-85.
The color drained from Chase’s face so fast it looked like someone had turned off a light switch.
“What... what is this?” he stammered, his fingers trembling as he touched the paper.
“That is your future,” I said, my voice dropping an octave into a cold, steady register. “Forgery, wire fraud, conspiracy, and attempted murder. Marcus is currently singing a lovely tune down at APD headquarters. He told Detective Miller exactly how much you paid him, when you handed him the cash, and how you tracked my car from Harper’s office.”
Chase let out a high-pitched, hysterical laugh. “Marcus is a liar! He’s a junkie! No court in Georgia is going to take the word of a career criminal over—'’
“Over a signed confession backed by cell tower pings, toll-tag records, and bank transfers originating from your personal crypto wallet?” I stepped closer, letting the harsh halogen light catch the bruises still visible along my jawline. “You’re twenty-six years old, Chase. Maximum security at Telfair State Prison isn’t very friendly to guys who talk about alpha mindsets and wear designer sneakers.”
Panic finally shattered his arrogant exterior. He lunged forward, grabbing the edge of the wooden crate.
“You can’t do this!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. “Mom said we were going to take care of you! She said you were weak! You were supposed to just take your little condo and stay out of our way!”
“Your mother made a lot of assumptions,” I said calmly. “And so did you.”
I tapped the folder.
“Here are your choices, Chase. Option A: I let Detective Miller walk through that door right now, arrest you for felony racketeering and attempted murder, and watch you spend the next twenty-five years making license plates. Option B: You sign over every single share of Veloce Holdings back to the estate, relinquish all claims to my father’s assets, and catch a one-way flight to whatever country doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States before sunrise tomorrow.”
Chase stared at me, his chest heaving as reality crashed down upon him. He looked at the papers, then at the dark, empty shadows of the warehouse.
“I... I need my phone,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I need to call my lawyer—'’
“You have sixty seconds to decide,” I said, clicking the stopwatch function on my phone and holding it up for him to see. “Fifty-nine... fifty-eight...”
The sound of my digital timer echoed off the metal walls like a ticking bomb.
Chase’s eyes darted frantically around the room. He realized there was no escape, no clever pivot, no crypto loophole that could bail him out of this disaster.
“Give me the pen,” he choked out, his hands shaking so violently he dropped the ballpoint twice before managing to scribble his signature across the dotted line of the corporate transfer agreement.
I picked up the papers, checked the signature against the legal requirements, and slid them back into my tote bag.
“Pleasure doing business with you, stepbrother,” I said, turning away from him.
May you like
As I walked toward the exit, the front roll-up door clattered open, flooding the warehouse with the flashing red and blue lights of half a dozen police cruisers. Detective Miller stepped inside, flanked by four armed officers, their badges gleaming in the strobe of the cruiser lights.
Chase didn't even try to run. He slumped against the wooden crate, burying his face in his hands as the cold steel cuffs clicked around his wrists.
