Chapter 2 - The Thirty-One Mile Drive
Thirty-one miles. Under normal circumstances, driving from the industrial yards on the south side of the city to my upscale suburban neighborhood took forty-five minutes in evening traffic.
Abraham Yates did not drive under normal circumstances.
Inside the soundproofed office behind the freight forwarding warehouse, the small black receiver sat on a heavy mahogany desk, emitting a low, pulsing chirp that had not sounded once in twelve years. When the audio feed clicked open—transmitting the faint sound of my voice, the metallic scrape of the chain, and Brandon’s mocking laughter—Dad hadn't panicked. He hadn't raised his voice.
He had simply stood up, pulled his weathered canvas jacket over his shoulders, and looked at Marcus Vance—no, not that Marcus, but his long-time lieutenant, a man named Paulie whose knuckles had been broken in a Baltimore loading dock thirty years ago.
"Car, Paulie," Dad had said.
"Boss, the zoning board meeting with the city commissioner starts in twenty—"
"Cancel it." Dad’s gray eyes didn't flicker. "Emily used the toggle."
Paulie stopped talking. He didn't ask questions. He didn't check his watch. He reached into his coat, pulled out a heavy black satellite phone, and dialed a twelve-digit code that bypassed local cell towers entirely.
Within ninety seconds, three matte-black utility vehicles idling behind the freight terminal rolled out onto the interstate. They weren't police cruisers, and they weren't civilian trucks. They were heavy-duty transport haulers owned by Yates Logistics—vehicles equipped with reinforced steel bumpers, encrypted radio channels, and men who answered to a single name.
Dad sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, staring straight through the windshield as the rain began to spit against the glass. His right hand rested on his knee, opening and closing rhythmically.
"How far out?" Dad asked.
"Twenty-eight miles, Mr. Yates," Paulie said from the wheel, pushing the heavy diesel engine past eighty miles per hour in a 65 zone. "We got state police dispatch on the scanner. They're tied up on a three-car pileup on the east loop. Local precinct is completely clear of our sector."
"Good." Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out an old silver pocket watch, snapping the case open with his thumb. "Brandon always did think he was the smartest man in the room. He figured because I drove a rig for forty years, I didn't know how to own the road."
"He thought you were soft, boss."
May you like
"Everybody makes that mistake once," Dad said quietly. His voice carried a cold, flat certainty that made the temperature in the cab feel like it had dropped twenty degrees. "Let's see how much he likes the aftermath."
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