Chapter 5 - Footsteps in the Brush
The sudden slam of the barn door echoed through the cavernous space like a gunshot. Maeve gasped, stumbling backward against the side of the vintage Triumph, while Bo and Vance instantly dropped into defensive stances, their hands instinctively moving toward their utility belts. Jack slammed the leather-bound notebook shut and shoved it deep inside his black leather vest.
"Stay behind the workbench," Jack ordered in a low, authoritative hiss, his eyes darting toward the narrow gaps in the wooden siding.
Footsteps crunched heavily on the dry gravel outside. They weren't the light, erratic steps of a stray animal; they were heavy, deliberate boots moving with calculated precision around the perimeter of the barn. Vance slowly unlatched a heavy iron crowbar resting against a stack of tires, gripping it with white-knuckled intensity.
"Who's out there?" Bo yelled, his deep voice carrying a dangerous edge as he stepped toward the heavy sliding door.
A sharp, metallic rap echoed from the exterior wall. Tap. Tap. Tap. It sounded like a knuckle hitting reinforced steel, followed by the low, muffled rumble of a idling vehicle engine idling softly down the dirt road. The exhaust note was unmistakable—a high-performance twin-cylinder motor with custom straight pipes.
"That's not a local," Vance muttered, his face tightening into a hard scowl. "No farmer around here rides a modified Ducati."
Maeve felt her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Dad said someone was watching the house last week," she whispered, her voice trembling uncontrollably. "I thought he was just being paranoid."
Jack didn't hesitate. He strode swiftly to the side door, motioning for Bo and Vance to flank him. With a sudden, explosive heave, Jack slid the heavy barn door open, stepping out into the fading twilight with his fists raised.
The yard was completely empty. The long shadows stretched across the grass toward the tree line, swaying gently in the evening wind. But sitting right in the middle of the gravel driveway, gleaming under the amber security light, was a single, fresh motorcycle part wrapped in brown butcher paper.
Jack walked over cautiously and picked it up. He unwrapped the paper. Inside lay a brand-new, precision-machined throttle cable, stamped with the exact serial number matching the bike in the barn. Pinned to the metal was a small, handwritten note that made Jack's blood run ice cold.
May you like
“Finish the build,” the note read. “We’re coming to collect.”
---
