Chapter 3 - Midnight in Paradise Valley
At 11:58 p.m., the black 2026 Cadillac Escalade sat parked in the cobblestone driveway of the six-million-dollar Mediterranean villa in Paradise Valley.
Inside the master suite, the floor was littered with dropped clothing—a tailored suit jacket, an ice-blue silk dress, and an empty bottle of 1982 Macallan scotch that Garrick had pulled from the climate-controlled wine cellar in the basement.
Garrick Vance stood near the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading out to the travertine pool deck, wearing a black silk robe, a crystal tumbler held loosely in his right hand.
Beside him, wrapped in a thread-count Egyptian cotton sheet, sat Vanessa Reed. She was twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger, staring at the sixty-inch television mounted above the fireplace.
"She hasn't called back?" Vanessa asked, her voice light and careless. "I thought for sure she'd be begging you to let her come home by now. Women like her—quiet, timid little church mice—can't handle being alone for more than an hour."
Garrick let out a short, arrogant laugh, taking a long swig of the ancient scotch. "Evelyn doesn't have the stomach for a fight, Vanessa. Her grandmother raised her in some antique bubble where conflict is considered vulgar. She'll stay at a hotel tonight, cry into her pillow, and by tomorrow afternoon she'll come creeping back through the front door, ready to sign whatever co-parenting agreement my lawyers draft."
"Are you really going to give her the guest house?" Vanessa giggled, leaning back against the plush velvet pillows.
"If she behaves," Garrick said smoothly, swirling the golden liquor in his glass. "The board meeting at Apex Global is at ten AM tomorrow. Once the CEO sees that I'm expanding our acquisition capital, my promotion to Senior Vice President is locked in. I need a quiet home life to maintain appearances for the institutional investors. If Evelyn stays out of the way, I'll let her keep her trust allowance."
He walked over to the nightstand, picking up his phone to check the time.
11:59 p.m.
"I'm going to take the Escalade down to the twenty-four-hour drive-thru in Old Town to grab some food," Garrick said, tossing his empty glass onto the tray. "Want anything?"
"Get me an iced matcha," Vanessa purred, stretching her legs under the sheet. "Use her credit card."
Garrick smirked, grabbing the sleek black proximity key fob from the dresser. He slipped into a pair of loafers and walked down the grand spiraling staircase, through the marble foyer, and out into the cool midnight air of the driveway.
The Escalade looked magnificent under the landscape spotlights—a sleek, dark beast of American engineering. Garrick pressed the unlock button on the fob.
Nothing happened.
The hazard lights didn't flash. The flush door handles didn't extend from the body panels.
Garrick frowned, stepping closer to the driver's door. He pressed the button again. Harder.
"What the hell?" he muttered under his breath. "Did the battery on this stupid fob die already?"
He pulled the manual emergency key blade from the side of the fob, inserted it into the hidden driver's lock cylinder, and turned it. The mechanical latch popped with a metallic click.
Garrick opened the heavy door, climbed into the leather driver's seat, and pressed his foot firmly down on the brake pedal. He reached forward and slammed his finger against the illuminated engine START button.
The digital dashboard flickered to life for precisely half a second.
Then, a high-pitched, piercing double-chime echoed through the cabin.
The twelve-inch central infotainment screen turned stark white. Bold, crisp black lettering materialized across the display:
VEHICLE OPERATION TERMINATED BY ADMINISTRATIVE OWNER.
REMOTE IGNITION DISABLE: ACTIVE.
GEARSHIFT LOCK: ENGAGED.
LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT NOTIFIED OF UNAUTHORIZED USE.
Garrick froze, his finger hovering an inch above the start button. The air conditioning vents clicked shut. The electric power steering column locked into place with a sharp, heavy thud.
"What... what is this?" Garrick gasped, slamming his foot down on the brake again, pressing the start button five times in rapid succession. "Start, you piece of junk! Start!"
Click.
The electric door locks engaged automatically around him, dropping the heavy steel pins into the frames with the finality of a prison door latching shut.
Garrick grabbed the interior door handle and pulled.
It didn't budge.
"Hey!" he yelled, his voice suddenly rising an octave as panic began to claw at his throat. He hit the unlock toggle on the driver's door panel. The digital interface was completely dead. The electric windows were locked tight.
Outside the SUV, down at the end of the long cobblestone driveway, the white headlights of two vehicles turned onto the quiet residential street.
The first was a heavy, slate-gray Ford F-350 dually with tinted windows and a steel grill guard.
The second was a white flatbed commercial tow truck bearing the emblem of Phoenix Heavy Recovery.
Garrick stared through the windshield, his heart thumping wildly against his ribs as the tow truck backed smoothly up the driveway, its high-intensity LED work lights illuminating the interior of the locked Escalade with the brightness of a stadium spotlight.
A tall man in a dark canvas jacket stepped out of the passenger side of the Ford F-350. He wore a worn black leather holster at his hip, his silver hair cropped short in a military buzz cut.
Ethan Vance walked up to the driver's side window of the Escalade.
He didn't knock on the glass. He didn't shout. He simply looked through the dark tint at Garrick sitting trapped in the driver's seat, pulled a silver Zippo lighter from his pocket, flipped it open, and lit a cigarette.
Through the thick, soundproof glass, Garrick could see the old man's eyes—cold, blue, and utterly devoid of mercy.
Ethan leaned down slightly, resting his hand against the door frame, and tapped his watch once with his finger.
It was 12:05 a.m.
Garrick slammed his fists frantically against the reinforced glass. "Let me out! Who the hell are you?! Call the police! Let me out of this car!"
Ethan didn't respond. He stepped back, giving a brief, sharp hand signal to the tow truck driver.
Within two minutes, heavy steel chains were hooked around the front and rear axles of the locked Escalade. The hydraulic winch groaned under the tension, slowly dragging the hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar vehicle—with Garrick screaming inside it—up the angled steel ramp of the flatbed truck.
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Above him, on the balcony of the master suite, Vanessa ran out wrapped in her sheet, screaming down into the driveway: "Garrick! Garrick, what's happening?!"
Garrick pressed his face against the window glass, watching his house, his luxury SUV, and his quiet life vanish into the desert night as the flatbed truck pulled out onto the road, bound for the impound yard of the Vance Family Trust.
