Story code: ST-001742
Part 3: The Decoy Dot
The rusted minute hand of the analog clock on the wall jerked forward with a loud click. It was 4:52 PM. Mateo pushed the stiff bristles of his broom across the oily concrete, gathering a pile of metallic dust that he had already swept three times. His chest tightened with every passing second, the stifling heat of the garage making it hard to draw a full breath. The sabotage on the red wire was a desperate gamble. If the Ford E-150 hit a smooth patch of highway, the tracker might hold just long enough for the Galveston crew to intercept it. If they caught up to the van while Elena was stepping onto the passenger side running boards, a snapped copper wire wouldn’t save her from the crossfire.
The harsh, electronic chime of the front office bell shattered the heavy silence.
Wayne shifted his massive bulk on the rolling stool, his heavy boots scraping against the floor. He glared at Mateo. “Keep your mouth shut,” he growled, standing up. “I will be right back. You try for that bay door, I make the call to ICE before you make it to the street.”
Wayne lumbered through the narrow doorway into the air-conditioned front office. Through the grimy glass window separating the rooms, Mateo saw a tall man in a faded polo shirt approach the counter-the owner of the Ford van.
Mateo’s heart hammered furiously against his ribs. He had maybe two minutes. He dropped the broom handle.
He sprinted silently in his heavy rubber-soled boots to the front of the Ford E-150. He jammed his hands under the heavy metal hood, ignoring the searing heat radiating from the freshly tested engine block. He hadn’t used a wrench on the battery terminal nuts during the forced installation; they were still finger-tight. He twisted them frantically, the hot metal biting into his calloused skin. He yanked the scored red wire and the intact black ground wire free. Dropping to the floor, he slid on his back under the front bumper, scraping his shoulders against the jagged concrete, and ripped the magnetic black box from the steel cross-member.
He scrambled to his feet, clutching the tracker in his greasy palm. In the adjacent bay sat Wayne’s prized heavy-duty wrecker, a massive F-450 flatbed. Its dual diesel batteries were housed in an open black steel cage right behind the cab, completely exposed.
Mateo darted around the front of the wrecker. He slapped the magnetic box against the thick steel bed frame, feeling it clamp hard. He wedged the stripped ends of the red and black wires directly under the heavy lead battery clamps, twisting the copper strands tight. The tiny green LED on the tracker blinked to life, a steady, venomous eye in the shadows.
Mateo sprinted back to his pile of dirt, snatching the wooden broom handle from the floor just as the office door squealed open.
Wayne walked out, followed by the tall man, laughing a harsh, theatrical laugh. “You are all set, buddy. AC is blowing ice cold now.”
“Appreciate it, Wayne,” the man said, completely oblivious to the bounty hanging over his head. He climbed into the driver’s seat of the Ford, the engine roaring to life. He backed out of the bay, tires crunching over the gravel driveway, and drove away into the blazing Houston afternoon.
Mateo gripped the broom handle, exhaling a shaky, ragged breath. Elena was safe. The van was untraceable.
Wayne didn’t waste a single second. He marched straight to the heavy steel workbench, throwing open his grease-stained laptop. The screen flared to life, casting a sickly blue glow over his scarred face. Mateo’s confiscated cell phone sat helplessly right beside the computer. Wayne tapped the keyboard, pulling up the tracking software.
“Gotcha,” Wayne whispered. A cruel, eager smile stretched across his face. He pulled a black burner phone from his chest pocket and punched in a number.
Just then, the door to the employee breakroom kicked open. Kenny, Wayne’s nighttime driver, walked out wiping powdered sugar from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hey boss. I’m heading out to grab that broken-down Civic over at Westside High.”
Wayne waved him off without ever looking away from the glowing laptop screen. “Yeah, yeah, take the flatbed. Hurry up.”
Kenny grabbed a set of heavy keys from the pegboard. He climbed into the cab of the massive wrecker. The diesel engine fired up with a deafening rattle, vibrating the loose tools hanging on the tin walls. Kenny threw it in reverse, the shrill backup alarm piercing the garage’s stifling air, and rolled out of the bay.
Wayne held the burner phone to his ear, his dark eyes locked on the digital map. “Yeah, it is me,” he said, his voice dropping into a hollow, professional tone. “Target is mobile. He just left my shop. Get your boys ready, I am feeding you the route right now.”
Mateo continued sweeping, his eyes fixed on the dirty concrete, though his ears strained to catch every syllable. He swept closer to the workbench, staying just outside Wayne’s peripheral vision.
“He is heading south on Main,” Wayne dictated, his thick finger tracing the moving green dot on the screen. “Moving fast. Looks like he is trying to hit I-45.”
Mateo watched the sweat bead on Wayne’s thick neck. The air in the garage felt completely still, thick with the smell of diesel exhaust and impending violence.
“Alright, he is getting on the highway,” Wayne said eagerly. “Wait.”
Wayne leaned closer to the screen, his thick eyebrows knitting together in the blue light.
“Hold on,” Wayne said into the phone. “He is taking the Washington exit. That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he go west?”
Mateo’s sweeping slowed. The rough bristles dragged heavily against the concrete floor.
Wayne tapped the trackpad, zooming in on the map. “He took a left on MLK Boulevard. He is slowing down.” Wayne’s voice lost its confident edge, replaced by a low, buzzing confusion. “He is turning on Pine Street.”
The voice on the other end of the phone crackled sharply, demanding an immediate update.
“I don’t know!” Wayne snapped, glaring intensely at the screen. “He is… he is circling Westside High School. Why the hell is he driving laps around a high school?”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Mateo froze, his hands locked tightly around the wooden broom handle.
Wayne stared at the glowing green dot tracing a perfect, agonizingly slow rectangle around the high school campus. He blinked, the cruel anticipation melting off his face in real-time. He slowly lowered the burner phone from his ear, though the man on the other end was still yelling, a tinny voice echoing out into the quiet garage.
Wayne’s gaze drifted up from the laptop. He looked out the open bay door, staring directly at the empty spot where the F-450 flatbed had been parked just five minutes ago.
The realization seemed to physically strike him. The color drained completely from Wayne’s flushed, sweaty face, leaving a pale, terrifying mask. The burner phone slipped slightly in his grip.
Very slowly, Wayne turned his heavy head away from the empty bay, his eyes locking directly onto Mateo.