The Unkillable Warlord

The Truck Nobody Steals

Grant didn't sleep. He spent the night going through Tasha's files by flashlight in the warehouse office, cross-referencing shell company names against every contract Calloway Logistics had lost in the last year. By four in the morning he found the thread he was looking for, a clause buried in the truck financing agreement his father had signed two years earlier, long before Marchetti had ever entered the picture.

By six, he'd photographed every page of it.

By nine, the reason he'd needed the photographs walked into his warehouse wearing a repo company's jacket.

"Truck's coming with us," the man said. Big, bored, the kind of muscle that got paid by the job instead of the hour. Behind him, a second man was already climbing into the cab of the Calloway's last working delivery truck.

"On whose authority?" Grant asked.

"Lien's been called in. Paperwork's all in order." The man held up a clipboard, not close enough for Grant to actually read it.

"Let me see it."

"Kid, step back."

Grant didn't step back. "You're repossessing a vehicle that's not in default. I checked our loan terms this morning. We're current on the truck financing. We're behind on an unrelated debt, which has nothing to do with this vehicle."

The man's bored expression cracked, just slightly. "Paperwork says otherwise."

"Then show me the paperwork," Grant said, loud enough now that the handful of remaining warehouse workers had stopped pretending not to watch. "Or admit you're stealing a truck because someone told you Calloway Logistics wouldn't fight back."

A forklift operator near the loading dock, a heavyset man in his fifties with Reggie stitched on his work shirt, set down his controls and folded his arms.

"He's asking a fair question," Reggie said.

The repo man glanced between them, doing math he clearly hadn't expected to have to do. "Look, I just do what the paperwork says."

"Then here's what the paperwork actually says." Grant pulled out his phone and held up a photo of the real loan documents, the ones he'd photographed at five in the morning. "Truck financing, current, paid through next quarter. No lien filed on this vehicle. Which means the second your guy pulls that truck off my lot, that's grand theft, and I've got six witnesses and a phone recording this conversation."

He hadn't been recording. He hit the button the second he said it.

The repo man's jaw worked for a second. Somewhere behind him, the second man was already climbing back down out of the cab, no longer in a hurry.

"This isn't worth it," the second man muttered.

"Smart man," Grant said.

The first man pointed a finger at Grant, more for show than menace at this point. "You think this is over."

"I think you're going to call whoever sent you," Grant said, "and tell them the Calloway kid actually checked the paperwork. And I think that's going to be a very uncomfortable phone call for someone."

The two men left without the truck. Reggie watched them go, then turned to Grant with an expression somewhere between disbelief and something close to respect.

"You really checked the loan terms at five in the morning," Reggie said. "Who does that?"

"Someone who doesn't like losing," Grant said.

"Marchetti's people don't usually back down that easy."

"They didn't back down because I scared them," Grant said. "They backed down because I was right, and being wrong in front of witnesses is expensive for men like that."

"Twenty-two years old," Reggie said, half to himself. "I got boots older than you."

"Boots don't check loan paperwork at five in the morning," Grant said.

"No," Reggie agreed. "They don't."

Reggie studied him for a moment, the way an older man sizes up someone who might be worth following.

"You know," Reggie said, "half the guys who used to work here left when the hours got cut. Went and worked for outfits that turned out to be Marchetti fronts, didn't even know it 'til their checks started bouncing."

"They ever tell you why they left in the first place?" Grant asked.

"Some of them. Hours got cut to nothing. Others just got tired of watching your dad apologize for things that weren't his fault." Reggie shook his head. "Man's a good boss. Just ran out of good options."

"How many of them would come back," Grant asked, "if they knew someone was actually fighting instead of folding?"

Reggie was quiet for a second.

"More than you'd think," he said.

Grant's phone buzzed. A text, no contact name, same number as the night before.

*Cute trick with the truck. Marchetti's not laughing. Six days left, Calloway. Use them wisely.*

Grant stared at the message, then looked up at Reggie, at the handful of workers still watching him like he'd just done something they hadn't seen anyone do in a long time.

"Reggie," Grant said, "how many people can you get back here by Friday?"

Reggie's eyebrows went up. "For what, exactly?"

"For a job that pays less than what Marchetti's fronts were paying," Grant said, "and means a lot more."

"That's not much of a sales pitch."

"It's an honest one." Grant met his eyes. "I can't promise you safety. I can't promise you it's easy. What I can promise is that nobody who works for me gets laid off the week their kid needs new shoes, and nobody gets a bounced check because I decided to launder money through their paycheck."

Reggie was quiet for a long moment, turning that over.

"I'll make some calls," he said finally.