Chapter 3 - GHOSTS IN THE METAL
Marcus stared at the silver lighter in the damp grass. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He recognized that lighter. He had watched his father strike it a thousand times, lighting the cheap vanilla cigars he smoked on the back porch when he thought his kids were asleep. The deep scratch on the side was from the time Marcus, at ten years old, had tried to use it to pry open a stuck window.
"How do you have this?" Marcus demanded, his voice cracking. He took a step toward the bleeding man on the porch. "Where is he?"
Sean let out a breathless, painful chuckle. "Inside. Kitchen floor. Under the loose floorboard by the sink."
Marcus froze. "What?"
"Not your father," Sean grimaced, pressing a blood-soaked handkerchief against his ribs. "The cash. A hundred grand. I don't write checks for arena bets."
"I don't care about the money!" Marcus yelled, the wrench shaking in his grip.
Raleigh let out a low warning growl, his eyes fixed on the street behind them. A pair of headlights had just turned onto their block, moving entirely too slowly for the neighborhood.
"You're going to care," Sean said, his eyes suddenly sharp, cutting through his own pain. "Because you have exactly three minutes to buy a new life. Get the girl inside. Grab the bag. Then get me into your piece-of-junk Honda out back."
"I'm not helping you," Marcus spat. "You're a criminal. You just told me your people took my dad."
"I said the men who took over my syndicate took him," Sean corrected, his breath wheezing. "My uncle's men. And right now, my uncle's men are in that black SUV crawling down your street, looking to tie up the last loose end. The girl with the whistle."
Carrie tugged on Marcus's sleeve. "Marc. The car is stopping."
Marcus looked over his shoulder. The black SUV had killed its headlights. It was coasting to a silent stop three houses down. Four doors opened simultaneously in the dark.
"Why do they want Carrie?" Marcus asked, panic finally overriding his anger.
"Because that whistle," Sean pointed a bloody finger at Carrie's pocket, "was carved from a piece of the mahogany desk in my uncle's office. Your father was his accountant. He didn't just carve a toy, kid. He carved a key."
Marcus felt the world tilt. His father, the quiet, exhausted man who worked late hours at a supposed logistics firm, was a mafia accountant?
"Raleigh," Carrie whispered.
The massive dog looked up at her, waiting.
"Watch," she commanded softly.
Raleigh broke his stance and moved up the porch steps, planting himself squarely over Sean's bleeding body. The dog faced the street, baring his teeth, the scars on his muzzle pulling tight.
"Get the bag, Marcus!" Sean barked, wincing in pain. "Move!"
Marcus scrambled past the dog and into the house. The smell of copper and expensive cologne lingered in the hallway. He bolted to the kitchen, dropped to his knees, and jammed the wrench into the seam of the loose linoleum tile by the sink. It popped up with a crack. Underneath, nestled in the dust, was a thick canvas duffel bag.
He grabbed it, the weight of the paper bills confirming the reality of the nightmare. He sprinted back to the porch.
"Back door," Sean grunted, struggling to his feet with Raleigh pressing against his leg for support. "We take the alley."
They moved through the house in agonizingly slow seconds. Marcus led Carrie, who kept one hand on his back and the other near her pocket. Raleigh shadowed Sean, letting the wounded man lean on his thick shoulders.
They reached the detached garage in the back alley. Marcus shoved the key into his ancient Honda Civic. As the engine sputtered to life, a deafening crash echoed from the front of the house. The front door had been kicked off its hinges.
"Drive," Sean ordered from the backseat, clutching his side.
Marcus slammed the car into reverse, tires spinning on the gravel alleyway. As they shot out onto the cross street, Carrie reached into her pocket. Her fingers brushed the wooden whistle, feeling the intricate, smooth carvings she had memorized over the years.
"Sean," Carrie said quietly from the front passenger seat.
"What, kid?"
"If my dad carved this to be a key," she said, turning her sightless eyes toward the rearview mirror, "what does it open?"
Sean stared at the back of her head, the flashing streetlights illuminating the sweat on his pale face.
"It opens the lockbox at the central station," Sean said softly. "The one holding the ledger that puts my uncle on death row."
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Before Marcus could process the revelation, a blinding spotlight hit their windshield from the intersection ahead. A police cruiser blocked the road, lights flashing.
But it wasn't a standard police stop. The officer stepping out of the cruiser wasn't holding a flashlight. He was holding a shotgun.
