He slammed his fist against the desk. The cheap wood rattled. He stared out the dirty glass window of the office. Martha was laughing at something Noah had drawn. The sound was thin, but genuine.
Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. You do the right thing because it's the right thing, not because it pays. Tuesday morning, 8:15 a.m. The rain had stopped, leaving the Seattle sky the color of a bruised plum. Dean was outside hauling a stack of bald tires toward the dumpster in the alley.
His muscles burned. He was hungry. The crunch of tires on gravel made him pause. It wasn't the slow, hesitant crunch of a customer looking for an oil change. It was a heavy, deliberate sound.
Dean dropped the tires. He turned around. A car was pulling into his cramped lot. It was massive, sleek, pitch black, and absurdly polished. A Mercedes Maybach.
It looked like a spaceship that had crashlanded in a junkyard. The tinted windows hid the interior, but the sheer presence of the vehicle screamed money. Not just comfortable money, ruthless money. The car glided to a halt right in front of the open bay doors. The driver's side door opened.
A man in a dark suit stepped out. Broad shoulders, earpiece, a professional shadow. He didn't look at Dean. He just walked around to the back door and opened it. A pair of stiletto heels hit the grease stained concrete.
The woman who stepped out was in her late30s. She wore a tailored charcoal pants suit that probably cost more than Dean's entire inventory. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe perfect shiny. Her face was striking. High cheekbones, sharp jawline, but her eyes were what caught Dean's attention.
They were a piercing cold blue, and right now they were filled with a mixture of terror and absolute incinerating rage. She took one look at the rusted sign hanging over the shop, Campbell's auto, and her lips thinned into a razor sharp line. She marched straight toward Dean. The bodyguard followed two steps behind. Are you Dean Campbell?
Her voice was a whip crack, cultured, crisp, and used to being obeyed instantly. Dean wiped his hands on his coveralls. He didn't shrink back. He was used to angry people. Usually, they were angry about a transmission slipping, not whatever this was.
I am. Can I help you? Where is she? " she demanded, stopping 3 ft away. She didn't flinch at the smell of garbage or oil. She was entirely focused on him.
"You're going to have to be a little more specific, lady. " "My mother," she hissed, stepping closer. The scent of an expensive, subtle perfume cut through the smell of diesel. Martha Hayes. A local precinct finally flagged a missing person report that matched her description filed by a Dean Campbell at this address. What is this?
Some kind of extortion? Dean stared at her. The gears in his head clicked into place. The silk blouse under the trench coat. The comment about dinosaurs wearing purple.