Chapter 8: The Weight of Proof
The security guard—a thick-necked man with a jagged scar curling around his jawline—shone his flashlight directly into my eyes, forcing me to throw an arm up to block the glare.
"Hands where I can see 'em," the guard growled, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. "Mr. Vane’s office said someone was sniffing around these unit logs. Didn't figure it'd be the golden-dress girl herself."
My mind raced. Marcus was parked fifty yards outside, but he couldn't hear what was happening inside the insulated metal shell of the unit. If this man called the local precinct or Preston’s private security detail directly, our location would be compromised within ten minutes, and the board would be destroyed before sunrise.
"You must be new," I said, forcing my voice to drop into a low, measured cadence that carried absolute authority. I lowered my arm slowly, keeping my hands open and visible at my sides.
The guard paused, his brow furrowing. "What?"
"If you call Preston Vane right now," I said, stepping half an inch closer while keeping my footing balanced, "he’s going to ask you whose signature is on the primary lease for this storage unit. Because if it’s not his name, and it’s not his father’s corporate trust... whose liability insurance do you think covers whatever happens inside this building if federal marshals execute a search warrant?"
The guard’s hand hovered over his taser, his eyes darting briefly toward the paperwork clipboard clipped to his chest pocket. "Corporate handles all the leases. I just watch the gate."
"Corporate is currently answering federal subpoenas in three different states," I lied smoothly, infusing every syllable with chilling certainty. "Your boss is going to prison before the end of the week. Do you really want your badge tied to the destruction of federal evidence under an active grand jury subpoena?"
The man hesitated. In that micro-second of hesitation, I lunged—not toward him, but past him, grabbing a heavy canvas strap hanging from a nearby shelving unit and yanking it hard. A cascade of empty plastic storage bins tumbled off the top shelf, crashing down directly between us and scattering across the concrete floor.
The guard swore loudly, stumbling backward over the plastic tubs as his flashlight beam spun wildly against the corrugated ceiling.
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the heavy oak menu board by its carved handle, hauled it up against my chest, and sprinted out the side service door into the cold night air.
"Hey! Stop right there!" the guard shouted behind me, recovering his footing.
I burst into the alleyway where Marcus’s sedan idled with its headlights off. The rear door flew open before I even reached it.
"Get in! Get in!" Marcus yelled, slamming the gearshift into drive as I hauled the blood-stained oak board into the backseat, tumbling in right behind it.
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The sedan surged forward, tires spitting gravel and mud as we tore out of the alley just as the guard’s flashlight beam illuminated the end of the lane. Marcus whipped the car onto the highway ramp, merging seamlessly into the late-night truck traffic.
In the backseat, breathless and shivering with adrenaline, I ran my fingers over the gold calligraphy and the dark stain at the base of the wood. We had the proof. Now, we had to make sure the world saw it.
