Chapter 6 - The Abandoned Warehouse
Inside the stifling, grease-stained office room of the auto body shop, Clara Evans was tied to a sturdy metal chair with thick electrical cord biting painfully into her wrists. Her face was pale, a dark bruise forming along her cheekbone where Victor Cole had struck her in the alley.
Victor stood over her, a heavy iron wrench dangling lazily from his right hand. He was unshaven, his eyes bloodshot and wide with manic energy.
“Where is the money, Clara?” Victor hissed, leaning down until his foul breath washed over her face. “You’ve been stashing cash somewhere. I saw you buying groceries last week like you owned the place.”
“I don’t have any money, Victor,” Clara whispered, her voice cracking from thirst and terror. “I work minimum wage. Every dime went toward rent and medicine for Leo. Please... just let me go back to my kids. They’re alone—they don't know where I am.”
Victor laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the bare concrete walls. “Your kids? Those brats are going to state care by noon anyway. Half the city is online calling you a deadbeat mom right now. Nobody cares about you, Clara. Nobody is coming.”
He raised the wrench, stepping closer. “Now, where’s the cash?”
Before Victor could swing, the heavy metal door at the front of the warehouse groaned open with a loud, screeching shriek of rusted hinges.
Victor froze, turning his head toward the outer garage. “Who’s there?!” he bellowed.
“Detroit Police! Drop the weapon and put your hands where I can see them!” Rachel’s voice rang out through the facility, crisp, commanding, and absolute.
Victor’s face twisted into a snarl of pure rage. He turned back to Clara, grabbing her by the collar of her sweatshirt and yanking her upright along with the chair. He pressed the heavy iron wrench directly against the side of her temple.
“Step back, cop!” Victor screamed toward the office doorway, his voice cracking with hysteria. “One step closer and I bash her skull right here on the floor!”
Rachel stepped into the doorway of the office, her service pistol raised and locked firmly on center mass. Her stance was wide, balanced, and utterly immovable.
“Let her go, Victor,” Rachel said, her voice terrifyingly calm. “It’s over. The entire neighborhood knows you took her. Backup is outside. You’re surrounded.”
May you like
“I’m not going back to prison!” Victor yelled, spittle flying from his lips as he pressed the iron tighter against Clara’s head. Clara closed her eyes, tears streaming down her bruised cheeks, bracing herself for the blow.
Rachel didn't blink. She sighted down the barrel of her weapon, calculating the angle, the distance, and the split-second margin of error.
