Chapter 4 - A CONTRACT SIGNED IN SMOKE
The ink on the emergency restructuring agreement was barely dry when the first crisis struck.
At 2:00 AM on a Friday, thirty miles east of Sacramento, the second prototype of the Apex Hauler—an eighteen-wheel autonomous transport truck loaded with forty thousand pounds of simulated ballast—veered across three lanes of Interstate 80 and slammed into an abandoned weigh station.
The alert hit Victoria's smartphone while she was attending an exclusive charity gala in Pacific Heights.
She abandoned her champagne glass on a marble pedestal, ignored three city council members waiting to speak with her, and took her private town car directly to the scene. Rain was lashing against the tinted glass in torrential sheets as the car arrived at the wreckage.
Flashing blue and red lights cut through the mountain mist. Highway patrol cruisers had blocked off two lanes, and the smell of scorched diesel and fried circuitry hung heavy in the damp air.
Standing in the center of the debris field, rain dripping from the brim of a dark ballcap, was Jamal.
He had arrived forty-five minutes before her in an old, battered Ford F-250 that looked like it had survived three tours in an industrial warzone. He was already under the crumpled hood of the giant autonomous truck, an industrial work lamp clamped to the radiator support, his hands deep in the wiring loom.
Victoria stepped through the mud, her four-inch Christian Louboutin heels sinking into the gravel. Her silk trench coat was instantly soaked, but she didn't care.
"What happened?" she demanded over the howl of the storm. "The telematics system reported a catastrophic steering failure. Dr. Vance says the mechanical linkages you adjusted in building four must have locked up!"
Jamal didn't pull his head out from under the hood. "Julian Vance doesn't know the difference between a tie-rod and his own rear end," he grunted.
"Don't deflect, Jamal!" Victoria shouted, stepping closer, fury and fear fighting behind her eyes. "This truck was running on public highway asphalt! If there had been a family in the next lane, this company wouldn't just be bankrupt—I would be in federal prison!"
Jamal pulled himself out from under the mangled front end. Rain plastered his black t-shirt against his broad chest, outlining the thick corded muscles of his shoulders. In his right hand, he held a severed section of armored hydraulic line.
He shoved the sheared end of the braided steel cable two inches from Victoria’s face.
"Look at it," Jamal commanded, his voice dropping below the roar of the wind, cold and deadly.
Victoria blinked away rain droplets, peering at the frayed steel. "It snapped under pressure."
"Steel braids don't snap in a straight, microscopic line, Victoria," Jamal said. "Look at the edge. That's an ultrasonic clean cut. Point-four millimeters deep. Just enough to hold pressure while the truck sat in the garage, but guaranteed to rupture the second the power steering pump pulled forty pounds of boost on an incline."
Victoria felt the blood freeze in her veins. "Sabotage?"
"Murder," Jamal corrected. "Someone didn't want this truck reaching Reno. And they didn't just want the project dead. They wanted the blame pinned on the new head of prototyping. They wanted me in handcuffs, and they wanted your company broken into pieces so someone could buy the autonomous patents at a bankruptcy auction."
Victoria looked from the severed line to the dark woods lining the interstate. The luxury, the boardroom posturing, the pristine spreadsheets—all of it seemed to dissolve into the wet, dangerous darkness of the California highway.
She looked at Jamal. His face was unreadable, his eyes fierce and calculating. For the first time in her life, Victoria Sterling didn't feel like a titan of industry.
She felt like a target.
"Who?" she whispered, her voice trembling slightly against the freezing rain.
Jamal tossed the severed line into the bed of his truck. He took off his dry canvas jacket, stepped toward her, and draped the heavy, warm fabric over her shivering shoulders. The scent of motor oil, cedar, and raw heat enveloped her instantly.
May you like
"That's what you and I are going to find out, Ms. Sterling," Jamal said, his hand lingering for half a second on the lapel of the coat, his knuckles brushing the soft skin of her neck. "Now get in my truck before you catch pneumonia. Your driver already left to take photos for the insurance company, and I don't trust him as far as I can throw him."
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