Midnight Driver: Five Stars or Die

Ch 05. Old Man Joe's Workshop

    Dawn had not fully broken, but the eastern sky was already bruised with a dirty purple-red hue. Ray left the city’s noise behind, pointing the nose of his Dodge Charger toward the edge of the Mojave Desert, where civilization thinned out and gave way to forgotten industrial carcasses.

    

    His destination was The Boneyard.

    

    On both sides of the cracked asphalt road, thousands of wrecked cars and decommissioned military trucks stood in rows like headstones in a massive graveyard. Ray turned onto a gravel dirt road leading to an old World War II era aircraft hangar. A neon sign with half its letters dead flickered weakly: J E’S A TO RE P AIR.

    

    When the car stopped in front of the iron gate, Ray did not signal right away. He went still. His hands, still gripping the steering wheel, suddenly shook hard, a tremor he could not control. He did not curse his body. He simply waited for the shaking to pass, the same way he once waited for gunfire to stop.

    

    Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette with stiff fingers. He tried to light it, but his trembling hand caused the flame to miss several times. When it finally caught, he realized too late that he had put the cigarette in backward. The burning filter released a sharp stench of melted plastic.

    

    “Shit,” he hissed, tossing the cigarette to the floor. He closed his eyes and took one long breath, enough to force his body back into obedience, before flashing his headlights three times.

    

    The gate slid open. Ray rolled into the mechanical shrine of Old Man Joe.

    

    An old man stepped out from behind a 1967 Mustang. Old Man Joe wore a blue jumpsuit stained with oil, a worn baseball cap, and a face carved with deep wrinkles like a topographic map.

    

    Ray got out of the car. His steps felt heavy, not from exhaustion, but from adrenaline that had not fully burned off. Joe did not greet him. He walked around the Dodge Charger, then stopped in front of the two bullet holes from the Long Beach incident.

    

    Joe snorted and spat on the floor. “I repainted this side last week, Ray. And now you bring it back with extra ventilation?”

    

    Ray leaned against the hood. His hands were steady now. “The client… lacked discipline.”

    

    Joe shot him a sharp look, not at the bullet holes, but at Ray’s jaw, which had tightened too fast. “You’re carrying the smell of a failed operation,” Joe muttered. “Not street work.”

    

    “Just a long night,” Ray said.

    

    “Bullshit.” Joe walked to his workbench and picked up a welding torch. “Move. If you stand too close, you’ll throw off the chassis balance.”

    

    Ray stepped aside and sat on a stack of used tires, turning the cup of black coffee Joe handed him. Sparks from the welder began to light the dim space.

    

    “Joe,” Ray called quietly.

    

    “Hm?”

    

    “You still hear rumors from Black Cell? Or the old Terminal?”

    

    Joe’s hands stopped moving. The welder was still on, but no longer touching the car. The silence thickened. Joe shut it off, lifted his welding goggles, and stared at Ray for a long moment, too long.

    

    “Those names only get used when someone wants to make sure their target hears them,” Joe said at last. “And if someone throws them in your direction, it means they’re not hunting. They’re testing.”

    

    Ray tossed his phone toward Joe. Joe caught it with reflexes too clean for a man his age and read the message.

    

    “BLACK CELL REFLEXES NEVER FADE, DO THEY, RAY?”

    

    Joe’s face remained blank. That was what unsettled Ray.

    

    “When did this come in?”

    

    “An hour ago.”

    

    Joe handed the phone back. He walked to a safe, took out a bottle of whiskey, and took a short pull. “If they wanted you dead, you’d be dead in Long Beach. This is a call-up message. They want to see if you’re still sharp.”

    

    “Who are they?”

    

    Joe exhaled. “The people who once gave you permission to disappear. Or the people who think that permission has expired.”

    

    Ray lowered his gaze. He did not say Agatha’s name, but Joe already knew.

    

    “That’s why you came here,” Joe continued. “Not for bullet holes. For protection.”

    

    Ray nodded once. “Install Level Four ballistic glass. And steel plating behind the seat.”

    

    Joe squinted. “That adds almost half a ton. Your suspension will sag. Your initial acceleration will be slower. And in corners…”

    

    “I’ll brake earlier and exit later,” Ray cut in. “But I’ll still be alive.”

    

    Joe studied him for a few seconds, then let out a short chuckle. “You’re still learning to accept consequences. Good.”

    

    An hour passed. As sunlight slipped through gaps in the corrugated roof, The Phantom was finished. Its matte black paint was whole again, hiding the layers of steel and ballistic glass that now made the doors feel heavier, slower, and brutally honest about the cost of protection.

    

    Ray sat behind the wheel. He felt the difference when he closed the door. The thump was deeper. More final.

    

    “Hey, Ray,” Joe called.

    

    Ray lowered the window. The motor moved slower than before. Weight never lied.

    

    “Check your mirrors,” Joe said. “If a car follows you through more than three turns, assume intent. Don’t wait for confirmation.”

    

    Ray nodded. “I never wait.”

    

    The Phantom rolled out of the hangar, crushing desert gravel beneath its tires. Its acceleration was slightly restrained, a conscious compromise. Ray aimed back toward Los Angeles, shimmering in the distance.

    

    The old world was not chasing him. The old world had already found his address.

    

    And this time, Ray had no intention of hiding.