Chapter 4 - The Broken Brake Line
Morning sun broke over Chicago, casting a harsh, pale light across the icy streets.
In the parking lot behind Michael Hayes’s apartment building, Michael stood in a heavy canvas jacket, brushing thick layers of snow off the windshield of his ten-year-old pickup truck. He needed to get to his construction site by seven, but his mind was still racing from the hospital encounter with Maxwell Sterling.
The billionaire’s frantic questions, the mention of Sarah, the sheer terror in the man’s eyes—none of it made sense.
Michael climbed into the truck, turned the key, and put it in reverse.
The truck rolled backward three feet.
Michael slammed his foot on the brake pedal.
Nothing.
The pedal hit the floor with a hollow, sickening thud.
“Damn it!” Michael shouted, yanking the emergency brake.
The truck skidded across the icy asphalt, crashing hard into a frozen snowbank before stalling out with a violent shudder.
Michael sat in the cab, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. He threw open the door, hopped out onto the snow, and crawled underneath the chassis to inspect the rear axle.
One glance told him everything he needed to know.
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The brake line hadn't snapped from rust or cold.
It had been cleanly, deliberately sheared with a hydraulic cutter.
