Chapter 3 - Ambush in the Night
The shop sat at the back of our five-acre property, accessible by an old dirt access road that bypassed Bernice’s main driveway.
Calvin cut the truck lights half a mile away. We walked through the dark woods, the fallen autumn leaves crunching under our boots, until the corrugated steel outline of the Northstar Fabrication building appeared against the moonlit tree line.
Light was shining through the office window.
"They're already inside," Calvin whispered, pulling me back into the shadow of an oak tree.
Through the window, I saw Graham Voss standing over the master terminal. Next to him was Bernice, holding a mug of tea—my mug, the one Elise had bought me for Mother's Day three years ago.
"They're trying to mirror the server," I whispered, panic rising in my chest. "If Voss gets the CAD files and the raw metallurgical formulas, he doesn't need the legal patent. He can sell the trade secrets to a competitor in overseas markets before we even file a lawsuit."
"What do we do?" Calvin asked.
"The power grid for the shop runs through an exterior breaker box behind the compressor shed," I said. "Can you pull the main fuse?"
Calvin grinned, his weathered face creasing into a network of lines. "I spent forty years as a utility lineman, girl. I can kill that power before you finish your sentence."
"When the lights go out, they'll come outside to check the box. I'm going in through the side loading bay to grab the hard drives."
"It's dangerous, Laurel."
"This is my life, Calvin. They already took my husband's jacket and my home. They don't get the business."
Calvin melted into the shadows toward the compressor shed. I crouched near the bay door, keycard ready in my hand.
Five seconds later, the lights inside the shop plunged into pitch darkness.
A muffled curse echoed from inside the office.
"Bernice, stay here," I heard Voss’s sharp, authoritative voice command. "It’s probably just a tripped breaker. I’ll check the exterior box."
The heavy metal side door creaked open. Voss stepped out into the night, shining a small penlight ahead of him.
As soon as he rounded the corner of the building, I slipped through the open door into the blackness of the shop floor.
The familiar smell of cutting oil, hot steel, and Grant’s cigar smoke hung in the air, comforting and heartbreaking all at once. I navigated by memory, weaving around the CNC machines and the lathe, until I reached the back office door.
Bernice was sitting at the desk, illuminated only by the faint glow of her phone screen.
"Graham?" she called out, her voice thin and anxious. "Is that you? The back room is pitch black."
I stepped into the doorway. "It’s not Graham, Bernice."
She gasped, dropping her phone onto the desk. "Laurel? How did you get in here? You're trespassing!"
"Trespassing on the floor I scrubbed with bleach while my husband bled from machine cuts?" I walked up to the server rack beneath the desk, reached behind the dark metal housing, and located the quick-release release pin Grant had built into the frame. "You sold your son out while he was dying in an ICU bed."
"He was my son!" Bernice shrieked, standing up and reaching for me in the dark. "He owed me! That land was Whitcomb land! Everything on it belongs to the family name!"
"Grant was the family!" I shouted back, yanking the master server unit out of its casing. "You were just the landlord!"
Suddenly, the doorway blocked.
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Graham Voss stood there, his penlight shining directly into my eyes, blinding me. In his hand, he held a heavy iron torque wrench he’d picked up from the shop floor.
"Put the server down, Mrs. Whitcomb," Voss said, his voice stripped of all former sympathy. "You’re making a very bad situation much worse for yourself."
