Chapter 1 - THE BLOOD IN THE BLUEPRINTS
Daniel’s hand trembled slightly as the heavy metal drawer scraped open. The brass key felt cold against his grease-stained palm. He reached past the crumpled tax notices and the unpaid utility bills that had been threatening to swallow his shop whole. At the very back, wrapped in a oil-stained piece of canvas, lay a heavy, rectangular object he hadn't dared to look at in months.
He pulled it out, letting the canvas fall away. It was a ledger—but not for taxes. It belonged to his late father, the original owner of "Vance Automotive & Customs." Beside it sat an old, unlabeled VHS tape and a bizarre, heavy silver cylinder that resembled a highly modified fuel filter, welded shut at both ends.
Daniel set the cylinder on the desk. He had found it welded deep inside the hollow frame of a classic 1969 Mustang that a mysterious client had abandoned at the shop nearly five years ago. The client had paid a massive cash deposit and simply never returned. With the shop currently drowning in debt, Daniel had finally decided to cut the frame open for scrap metal. That was when he found this.
He picked up a hacksaw, his breath catching in his throat. The shop was dead silent except for the distant hum of the highway. He began to saw through the outer weld of the silver cylinder. The metal was incredibly dense. It took ten agonizing minutes of physical exertion before the seal cracked.
Daniel pried the cap off. He expected old documents, or perhaps diamonds. Instead, a thick, amber-colored liquid poured onto his desk, smelling intensely of ozone and copper. And inside the cylinder, suspended in the chemical fluid, was a solid, engraved block of pure gold—but it wasn't currency. It was a master printing plate for the United States hundred-dollar bill, marked with the official Federal Reserve seal from the 1990s.
"Jesus Christ, Dad," Daniel whispered, his voice cracking. "What did you get yourself into?"
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Suddenly, the garage’s heavy rolling shutter door rattled violently. Someone was trying to force the electronic lock from the outside. The headlights of a black SUV cut through the frosted glass windows of the shop, casting long, menacing shadows across the grease-covered walls.
Daniel jammed the gold plate and the ledger back into his canvas bag, his heart hammering against his ribs. The electronic lock beeped green. The door began to screech upward. He didn't think; he grabbed his heavy steel wrench, ducked behind the hoisted Harley-Davidson, and waited in the dark.
