Chapter 7 - The Midnight Trap
By Tuesday night, the storm had fully arrived in Grand Rapids. Rain poured from the dark sky in violent sheets, hammering against the tin roof of my repair shop.
I stood inside the dark service bay with Uncle Patrick. The only light came from the red standby lamps on the battery chargers and the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the tall frosted windows.
"Are you sure about this?" Patrick asked, checking his heavy flashlight.
"It's the only way," I replied, pulling a small digital recording unit out of my coat and clipping it to the inside of my work collar. "George Vance's crew is bringing a shipment of stolen heavy generators from a construction site in Chicago tonight. Walter promised them we'd hide the units in our back bay until the serial numbers are shaved off."
"If Walter catches us filming this, he'll kill us both," Patrick warned.
"He won't catch us," I said. "Chloe is monitoring the front entrance from her car with the camera."
At 1:15 AM, the double steel doors at the back of the shop creaked open. The headlights of a heavy semi-truck cut through the darkness, illuminating the rain-slicked concrete floor.
The truck backed into the bay, its air brakes hissing loudly.
The driver's door opened, and a tall, burly man stepped out, wearing a yellow rain slicker. It was George Vance—Sandra's husband, the chief county inspector himself.
A second later, my father stepped out from his office, carrying a clipboard and an umbrella.
"You're late, George," Walter shouted over the sound of the idling truck engine.
"The highway patrol had a checkpoint near Kalamazoo," George barked back, walking to the rear of the trailer and throwing the doors open. Inside were six industrial diesel generators, worth at least fifty thousand dollars each, all bearing official state construction stamps. "Is your kid still at the hospital with your wife?"
"Brandon's home crying with his teacher wife," Walter sneered, waving his hand dismissively. "The boy has no spine. He thinks money grows on trees. He doesn't have the guts to double-check my logs."
Hide behind an engine crane ten feet away, I raised my smartphone, recording every second of their conversation in high-definition video.
"Here's the cash for this week's clearance," George said, reaching into his heavy coat and pulling out a thick, duct-taped package. He tossed it to my father. "Three hundred thousand. Sandra said your shop books are clear for the quarter."
Walter caught the package, grinning widely. "Clean as a whistle, George. My boy signs the maintenance certifications every Friday without even reading them. If the state ever inspects these generators, Brandon's name is the only one on the title logs."
My hands shook with rage, but I kept the camera steady, capturing Walter's face, George's face, the stolen equipment, and the duct-taped package of cash in perfect focus.
"All right, unload them quick," Walter said, turning toward the office. "I want this truck out of here before—"
Suddenly, Walter stopped.
His eyes traveled across the bay floor, locking onto a puddle of water near the engine crane.
Footprints. Wet, muddy boot prints leading straight from the back door to my hiding spot.
May you like
Walter's expression shifted from smug satisfaction to pure, lethal paranoia.
"George," Walter whispered, reaching into his waistband and pulling out a heavy steel crowbar. "We got company."
