Page 17 of For Vengeance

Murray's heart slammed against his ribs. He started to turn, hand instinctively reaching for the switchblade in his pocket.

Too late.

Cold metal pressed against the base of his skull, unmistakably the barrel of a gun. Murray went rigid, his breath caught in his throat.

"James Murray," said a voice—wrong, distorted, run through some kind of electronic filter that made it sound inhuman. "Two convictions for grand theft auto. Released six months ago after serving eighteen months at Huntsville."

Murray's blood ran cold. Not a random interruption—someone who knew him, knew his record.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he managed, voice strained. "My name's not—"

The gun pressed harder against his skull. "BMW 5-Series. Memorial Hermann Hospital parking garage, three weeks ago." The mechanical voice continued, emotionless. "Lexus ES from outside Montrose Steakhouse, last Tuesday. And now this Mustang."

Murray felt sweat break out across his forehead. Those were his jobs—cars he'd taken and sold with no arrests, no connections made by police. How could anyone know?

"Who are you?" he asked, trying to steady his voice. "Cop? FBI?"

"I'm what happens when the system fails," the voice replied. "Your trial is beginning now, James Murray. The charges: thirty-seven documented cases of grand theft auto across three states. Disregard for the property and security of others. Repeated offenses despite previous incarcerations."

Murray's mind raced, searching for a way out. This wasn't a cop—no warrant, no Miranda rights, no backup. But the alternative was somehow worse. The steel barrel against his head didn't waver.

A gloved hand appeared in his peripheral vision, holding a small notebook and pen. The hand placed them on the dashboard in front of him.

"Write," the voice commanded.

"Write what?" Murray asked, though he already knew. He'd read about the dealer from Santiago Heights, the sex offender. Both found with confessions beside their bodies.

"Your crimes. All of them."

"Look," Murray said, fear making his words tumble out faster. "I've got money. Not here, but I can get it. Five thousand by tomorrow morning. Ten thousand if you need it."

The gun pressed harder. "Write."

"Please," Murray whispered, genuine desperation replacing bravado. "I've got a little girl. Sophia. She's seven. Her mom's gone—I'm all she's got." This wasn't a lie—unlike most of what came out of his mouth. Sophia was real, living with his sister while he "got back on his feet." She was the reason he'd promised himself that this Mustang would be his last job, that he'd use the money to move them both to Austin for a fresh start.

There was a pause, just long enough to kindle a flicker of hope that his words had reached something human behind that distorted voice. Then:

"You should have considered her before you chose this path. Your choices brought you here, not mine."

The finality in those words extinguished whatever hope had sparked. Murray's mouth went dry as desert sand. The Mustang—his ticket to a new beginning—had become a death trap.

With trembling fingers, he took the pen and notebook. He stared at the blank page, overwhelmed by the understanding that these would be the last words he'd ever write.

"Write your name," the voice instructed.

Murray obeyed, the pen wavering as he formed the letters. Tears blurred his vision, thoughts of Sophia—her gap-toothed smile, her too-serious eyes that had seen too much for a child her age—flooding his mind.

"Now confess," the voice commanded.

As Murray began to write, he felt a strange, detached calm settle over him. He described stealing his first car at seventeen, his progression to higher-end vehicles, the thrill that had never quite faded even after twenty years. His hand shook, but the words kept coming, as if some part of him had been waiting for this moment of reckoning.

He thought of Sophia again, of promises he'd made and broken, of the father he'd failed to be. What would she think when she learned how he'd died? Would anyone tell her the truth, or would they fabricate some gentler fiction?

The last sentence flowed from his pen: "I'm sorry, Sophia. I should have been better."

Murray set the pen down, his confession complete. The garage was utterly still, no sound but his own ragged breathing. The midnight blue Mustang gleamed in the darkness, beautiful and indifferent to the drama playing out inside its cabin.

"Is that it?" he asked, voice barely audible.

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