Chapter 4 - The Midway Vaults
The Midway Commercial Valuation depot sat on a desolate, weed-choked spit of land caught between the abandoned industrial canal and the active freight lines of the western rail network. It was a facility constructed in the late 1970s—a sprawling grid of corrugated steel storage containers and low-slung concrete block warehouses, all surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link fence topped with rusted coils of razor wire.
The rain had intensified into a steady, driving downpour by the time I reached the perimeter at 2:14 a.m., the drops drumming against the metal roofs with a deafening, continuous roar that masked the sound of my approach.
The main gate was secured by a heavy, manual padlock chain, but the years of industrial neglect had left a wide gap between the gravel lane and the bottom of the chain-link fence where the stormwater had eroded the soil. I dropped onto my stomach, my canvas backpack scraping against the rusted wire as I dragged my body through the mud, the cold, oil-slicked water soaking through the front of my denim jacket instantly.
I stood up inside the perimeter, my boots squelching loudly as I navigated the grid of dark, featureless alleys. The facility was entirely unlit, the few security fixtures long since shattered by stone-throwing local youths, leaving only the sporadic glare of the passing freight trains on the high embankment to illuminate the metal structures.
I found Unit 108 at the far western edge of the second row, its steel roll-up door covered in a layer of greenish mold and peeling grey paint.
My hands were wet, slick with grease and mud as I pulled the double-bitted iron key from my pocket and inserted it into the heavy, circular lock cylinder at the base of the door. The mechanism was stiff, resistant from a year of exposure to the river dampness, but I threw the full weight of my shoulder against the key, forcing the internal pins to turn with a loud, metallic crack that felt like a bone snapping in the dark.
I grabbed the rusted handle and hoisted the corrugated door upward. It rose with a screeching, protesting rattle, revealing a narrow, concrete-walled space that smelled intensely of dry paper, old leather, and the heavy, sweet scent of gun oil.
I stepped inside, pulling the door down behind me until only a narrow three-inch gap of gray light remained at the floorboards. I pulled a cheap plastic lighter from my pocket, striking the flint until the small, yellow flame illuminated the interior.
The unit was not a standard storage locker; it had been arranged with the clinical, orderly precision of my father’s corporate office. Against the rear wall sat a heavy, fireproof green steel filing cabinet, its drawers unlatched. Next to it stood a simple pine workbench, upon which rested a heavy leather kit bag and a sealed, waterproof plastic crate wrapped in several layers of silver duct tape.
I crossed the room, my lighter flame flickering against the damp concrete walls, and opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet.
Inside lay three thick, leather-bound corporate ledgers—the original, unaltered financial records of Dennis Logistics Group from the year of my arrest. Taped to the inside cover of the primary ledger was a high-capacity encrypted flash drive, its aluminum casing engraved with the initials C.D. Beside the files lay a series of certified laboratory reports from the Department of Forensic Toxicology in Chicago, documenting the presence of high levels of arsenic and digitalis glycosides in a series of blood samples labeled with my father's legal name.
The ledger was complete. The evidence wasn't just sufficient to overturn my conviction; it was enough to send Reagan and Carter to a state facility for the rest of their natural lives on charges of corporate conspiracy, forgery, and attempted capital murder by poison.
I reached out to grab the flash drive, my fingers closing around the cold aluminum, when a sudden, sharp sound cut through the steady roar of the rain outside.
It was the distinct, crunching sound of heavy tires moving slowly across the wet gravel of the alley—followed by the sudden, blinding glare of two high-beam halogen headlights that cut straight through the three-inch gap at the bottom of the roll-up door, illuminating the interior of Unit 108 with a harsh, white light.
The engine note settled into a low, smooth purr—the unmistakable sound of the luxury white SUV I had seen parked in the Silver Lake driveway less than twelve hours ago.
“Finnley!” a voice shouted over the roar of the downpour. It was Carter’s voice, but it had lost its lazy, condescending amusement. It was high, sharp, and tight with a frantic, desperate velocity. “We know you’re in there, cousin! The groundskeeper at Pinecrest is an old man, Finnley. He talks a lot when you offer him enough cash to pay off his grandson’s debts!”
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The sound of a car door opening echoed through the narrow alley, followed by the heavy, deliberate squelch of boots stepping into the mud.
“You don't have a parole officer out here tonight, Finnley!” Carter shouted, his voice coming closer to the steel door. “You’re just an ex-con who broke into a private commercial facility in the middle of the night. If you come out right now and hand over the key and the package, we can talk about a relocation fund. If you don't... well, people get hurt in these old rail yards all the time. The police won't even look past your record.”
