Chapter 17 - Iron on the Asphalt
The heavy iron doors of Bay Seven groaned as they were hoisted into the ceiling.
The roar of the Kenworth W900 was a deafening, chest-shattering vibration that shook the very concrete of the warehouse floor. Marcus Jr. was in the passenger seat, his eyes wide with adrenaline, holding a heavy tire thumper across his knees. Arthur sat behind the massive steering wheel, his weathered hands gripping the worn black leather rim like it was an extension of his own bones.
Julian sat in the middle, the leather satchel containing the evidence strapped securely across his chest.
Sarah Jenkins was already safely on the Chicago ‘L’ train two blocks away, carrying decoy copies in her briefcase to draw away any foot surveillance. But the true, unredacted originals—the ones that would destroy Victor Vance and put a corrupt judge behind bars—were sitting in the cab of the Kenworth.
"Air pressure is at one-twenty, Artie," Marcus Jr. shouted over the thunderous scream of the turbocharged Caterpillar diesel engine. "Transmission is locked in low gear."
"Hang on," Arthur said calmly.
He slammed his foot down on the clutch, slammed the heavy twin-stick shifter into second gear, and dropped the hammer.
The eighteen-wheeler surged forward, its massive drive tires biting into the wet asphalt with a violent screech of burning rubber. The truck burst through the warehouse bay doors like a runaway freight train, crashing through the sheet of falling rain into the center yard.
Across the street, the two black SUVs reacted instantly.
Their high beams flashed on, sirens wailed from hidden grilles, and both vehicles accelerated aggressively across the intersection, attempting to box the Kenworth in against the security gate.
"They’re trying to pin our steering axle!" Marcus Jr. yelled.
Arthur didn't touch the brakes. If anything, he pressed the accelerator deeper into the floorboards.
"They bought their trucks with stolen money," Arthur said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "I built this rig with thirty years of overtime. Let’s see whose iron is stronger."
The lead SUV—a three-ton Cadillac Escalade—swerved directly into the Kenworth’s path, trying to force Arthur to swerve into the concrete drainage ditch.
Arthur didn't flinch. He gripped the wheel with white-knuckled precision, held the line, and blasted the twin air horns. The sound was like the trumpet of Gabriel, echoing off the brick warehouses.
*CRASH!*
The reinforced steel bull-bar of the Kenworth struck the front quarter-panel of the Escalade at thirty-five miles an hour.
The impact was catastrophic for the luxury SUV. The fiberglass grille shattered into a thousand plastic shards; the radiator exploded in a blinding cloud of white steam. The Escalade was shoved violently sideways, its tires screeching helplessly against the wet asphalt before it was spun completely around, sliding across the intersection and coming to a dead stop against a cast-iron fire hydrant.
Water erupted thirty feet into the morning air.
The second SUV swerved frantically to avoid the debris, skidding across the oil-slicked pavement and slamming hard into a chain-link fence, its wheels spinning uselessly in the deep mud.
Arthur smoothly shifted the Kenworth into fourth gear, double-clutched into fifth, and roared onto the access ramp for Interstate 90.
Julian looked out the rear-view mirror. Behind them, the two ruined luxury vehicles sat smoking in the rain, their drivers staggering out into the downpour, completely outmatched by raw, unadulterated blue-collar horsepower.
"Nice hit, Dad," Julian said, his heart pounding in his throat.
May you like
Arthur kept his eyes locked on the gray ribbon of expressway ahead, his face impassive. "That wasn't a hit, son. That was a delivery on schedule. Now call the federal clerk. Tell them the Eleanor Sterling Logistics Center is arriving at the courthouse door."
***
