Chapter 2 - The Cold Calculation Of Abraham Yates
The metallic click of Sabrina’s high heels receded up the basement stairs, followed by the heavy thud of the reinforced door shutting tight.
Above us, the muffled roar of the New Year’s Eve countdown reached its absolute peak, vibrating through the floorboards as fifty partygoers cheered for a fresh start.
I stepped out from behind the rusted metal storage shelf, slipping my phone into my heavy canvas jacket pocket with my hands remarkably steady.
Fifty years of managing hundreds of long-haul truckers across five states had taught me one fundamental rule of survival: panic kills, but cold calculation wins.
I knelt beside my son, pulling a heavy-duty folding utility knife from my pocket to carefully slice through the thick zip-ties securing his right wrist.
“Dad…” Wyatt rasped, his voice trembling as he tried to lift his head off the freezing concrete floor. “You have to leave… her father, Victor, has two armed men in the garage.”
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“Nobody is leaving you behind, Wyatt,” I said softly, my voice dropping into that deep, unshakeable tone I used when weather blizzards stranded our fleet in Wyoming.
“Victor Vance thinks he’s playing a game with an old, broken truck driver. He has no idea who is standing in his basement tonight.”
