Chapter 7 - The Empty Tank
The needle on the fuel gauge bounced erratically against the red empty mark as Julian sped down the interstate, the two black SUVs maintaining a relentless, terrifying distance behind him. The hum of the straining engine filled the cabin, vibrating through the floorboards. Julian’s mind raced through his options. If he stopped at a public gas station, Arthur’s men would box him in before he could pump a gallon. If he kept driving toward downtown, the car would sputter and die on the elevated highway, leaving him completely exposed in the middle of morning traffic.
He needed a miracle, or at least an abandoned side street.
Ahead, the highway split, offering an exit ramp toward the industrial shipping yards along the river—a maze of rusted warehouses, container stacking lots, and narrow service roads where heavy trucks provided endless blind spots. Julian yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, tires squealing in protest as the sedan drifted onto the exit ramp, throwing up a cloud of autumn dust.
In his rearview mirror, the leading SUV tried to follow but took the turn too fast, its front bumper scraping against the concrete guardrail in a shower of orange sparks. That brief miscalculation bought Julian a quarter-mile lead.
He tore down the service road, weaving between rusting shipping containers and towering cranes until the engine finally coughed, spluttered twice, and died completely. The car coasted silently into the shadowed alcove of an abandoned loading dock, coming to a stop against a stack of wooden pallets.
Julian killed the ignition, killing the headlights as well, plunging the car into darkness. He held his breath, listening intently.
A minute later, the low, throaty purr of heavy-duty engines echoed off the corrugated metal walls of the warehouses. The black SUVs rolled past the entrance of the alleyway, their high beams sweeping across the rusted metal siding just feet from where Julian sat frozen in the front seat. He pressed himself flat against the console, his eyes fixed on the gap between the pallets.
The vehicles slowed down, idling for what felt like an eternity before the engines revbed and they continued down the service road, searching the wrong grid.
Julian let out a long, shuddering breath. He popped the hood release, grabbed the velvet box, and stepped out of the car into the damp morning air. He checked his watch; it was seven-thirty. The bank downtown didn't open for another hour and a half, but he couldn't wait here.
He started walking toward the nearest commuter train station three blocks away, keeping his hood pulled low over his face. The industrial district gave way to working-class neighborhoods, the streets slowly filling with early commuters heading to work. He blended into the crowd, a tired man in a dark hoodie carrying a mysterious box.
When he reached the elevated train platform, he paid his fare with crumpled bills from his wallet and boarded the downtown express train just as the doors slid shut.
As the train rattled along the elevated tracks, passing block after block of aging brick buildings, Julian pulled out his phone. He dialed Marcus’s number. It rang three times before a groggy, irritated voice answered.
"Julian? Do you know what time it is?"
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"Marcus, I need you to meet me at the First National Bank on Liberty Street in forty minutes," Julian said, his voice urgent and breathless. "Bring a portable card reader and a laptop. We’re going to take down Arthur Sterling."
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