Chapter 4: The Junkyard King

The next morning brought unseasonably warm weather to Havenwood County, and with it, the familiar rumble of diesel engines at Salvatore "Scrap Iron Sal" DiMarco's junkyard. Kaelen sat in his rental car across the street, watching as the condemned Crown Vic was delivered on a flatbed truck, its final journey complete.

Through his binoculars, he observed Sal emerge from the corrugated metal office building that served as his command center. The man was exactly as A.R.I.A.'s research had described—mid-fifties, built like a steel drum, with grease-stained coveralls and hands that looked like they could crush walnuts. More importantly, Sal was a businessman who asked few questions when the price was right.

"Subject analysis complete," A.R.I.A. reported through his earpiece. "Salvatore DiMarco, owner-operator of DiMarco Salvage for twenty-three years. Clean record, pays his taxes, maintains all required licenses. He's exactly what we need—competent and discreet."

Kaelen watched as the tow truck operator and Sal completed their paperwork. The Crown Vic sat on the flatbed like a condemned prisoner, its mismatched body panels and missing license plates giving it a pathetic appearance. In a few hours, it would be nothing but compressed metal, but first, it had a role to play.

"Time to make a deal," Kaelen murmured, stepping out of his car.

The junkyard's chain-link gate stood open, leading to a maze of stacked vehicles, rusted machinery, and towering piles of scrap metal. The air smelled of motor oil, rust, and the particular metallic tang that came from decades of automotive death. Sal looked up as Kaelen approached, his weathered face showing polite curiosity.

"Help you with something, friend?"

"Actually, I think I can help you," Kaelen replied, extending his hand. "Kaelen Vance. I understand you just took delivery of a condemned Crown Victoria."

Sal's handshake was firm, calloused. "Sal DiMarco. Yeah, just came in from county impound. Headed for the crusher later today. You interested in parts before she gets flattened?"

"In a manner of speaking." Kaelen pulled out his phone, showing Sal a photo of two twenty-something men standing next to the same Crown Vic. "I have reason to believe the former owners might come looking for their car. When they do, I'd like to know about it."

Sal studied the photo, then looked at Kaelen with new interest. "This about that stolen truck Sheriff Thorne was asking about yesterday?"

"Among other things. These two have been causing problems for decent folks in this county for years. I'm hoping to make sure those problems stop."

"Uh-huh." Sal scratched his stubbled chin. "And what exactly are you asking me to do?"

Kaelen pulled out an envelope containing five hundred-dollar bills. "Nothing illegal. Nothing dangerous. Just... if these two show up here asking about their car, you give me a call. And maybe you make sure that car doesn't go anywhere until I say so."

Sal looked at the money, then back at Kaelen. "You're not asking me to hurt anybody?"

"Not at all. In fact, I'm hoping to prevent someone from getting hurt. These two are escalating, and sooner or later they're going to target the wrong person. Better to end this cleanly."

"Sheriff Thorne know about this?"

"Sheriff Thorne is a good man doing his best with limited resources. Sometimes good men need help from citizens who have... broader resources."

Sal was quiet for a long moment, studying Kaelen's face. Finally, he nodded and pocketed the envelope. "I've got grandkids in this county. If these punks are the kind that prey on decent folks, then yeah, I can spare a phone call."

"Thank you. One more thing—I'd like you to disable that Crown Vic completely. Make it look like you're prepping it for the crusher, but ensure it won't start under any circumstances."

"You think they're gonna try to steal it back?"

"I think they're going to be very desperate very soon. Desperate people make bad decisions."

Sal grinned, showing teeth stained by decades of coffee and cigarettes. "Friend, by the time I'm done with that car, it won't roll downhill with a push. These boys want their ride back, they're gonna be sadly disappointed."

Two hours later, Kaelen was back in his home office, watching multiple feeds simultaneously. A.R.I.A. had tapped into the junkyard's security cameras, giving him perfect visibility of the Crown Vic's final resting place. The car now sat in a corner of the yard, partially hidden behind a stack of rusted appliances, its hood up and several key components conspicuously missing.

"Subjects located," A.R.I.A. announced. "Cody Marsh and J.J. Price are currently at a gas station on Route 9, approximately six miles from the junkyard. They appear to be asking directions."

"Audio?"

The crystal-clear sound of frustrated voices filled his office. "—telling you, somebody said they saw our car getting towed to DiMarco's place," Cody was arguing with what sounded like a gas station attendant.

"I don't know nothing about no towed cars, man. You want directions to the junkyard, it's straight down this road about ten minutes."

"Come on, J.J.," Cody continued. "We're gonna get our car back and then we're gonna make these motherfuckers pay."

Kaelen leaned back in his chair, a predatory smile crossing his features. They were walking straight into the trap, their anger and desperation driving them exactly where he wanted them to go.

"A.R.I.A., patch me through to Sal's phone."

"Connected."

"Sal, they're on their way. Should be there in about fifteen minutes."

"Roger that. I've got the car positioned where they can see it but can't get to it easy. Pulled the distributor cap, disconnected the battery, and for good measure, I let some air out of the tires. Thing's dead as Elvis."

"Perfect. When they arrive, just act natural. You're a legitimate businessman going about your work. If they ask about the car, tell them it's condemned property scheduled for destruction."

"And if they get aggressive?"

"Then you call Sheriff Thorne. But I don't think it'll come to that. These two are bullies, not fighters. They only prey on what they think are easy targets."

Kaelen switched his primary monitor to the junkyard's main security camera. From this angle, he could see the Crown Vic sitting forlornly among the automotive graveyard, looking exactly like what it was—a condemned vehicle awaiting execution.

His secondary monitor showed the real prize: Behemoth, still parked near the courthouse where the thieves had abandoned it after their drinking session. The truck sat unmolested, its forest green paint gleaming in the afternoon sun. Soon, very soon, he'd have it back. But first, he wanted to savor this moment.

"Movement at the junkyard perimeter," A.R.I.A. announced.

Two figures appeared on the security feed, walking through the open gate with the swagger of people who thought they owned the world. Cody led the way, his stained hoodie and aggressive posture unmistakable. J.J. followed like a nervous shadow, constantly looking over his shoulder.

Kaelen activated his earpiece, tuning into the audio pickups A.R.I.A. had accessed. Every word would be recorded, every moment of their humiliation preserved for posterity.

"There!" Cody's voice crackled through the speakers. "There's our fucking car!"

They'd spotted the Crown Vic among the scrap piles. Kaelen watched as they approached it, their confidence beginning to waver as they saw its condition. Hood up, parts missing, sitting on half-flat tires like a wounded animal.

"What the hell did they do to it?" J.J. whined.

"Doesn't matter," Cody snapped. "We just need to get it started and get out of here."

That's when Sal appeared, emerging from behind a stack of car doors with a clipboard in hand and a wrench in his back pocket. He looked every inch the working man, completely unthreatening but obviously competent.

"Help you boys with something?"

"Yeah, that's our car," Cody said, pointing at the Crown Vic. "We're here to pick it up."

Sal scratched his head, looking genuinely confused. "Your car? Son, that's condemned property from the county. Came in yesterday with orders to crush it. Supposed to go under by end of business today."

"Crush it?" J.J.'s voice went up an octave. "You can't crush our car!"

"County says I can. County says I got to. Health department flagged it as a hazard—VIN irregularities, safety violations, environmental concerns. It's going to the crusher whether you like it or not."

Kaelen felt a surge of satisfaction watching their faces fall. The reality of their situation was finally sinking in. Their mobility, their independence, their ability to prey on others—all of it was about to be compressed into a metal cube.

"But we need that car!" Cody's voice cracked slightly. "We can fix whatever's wrong with it!"

"Too late for that, son. Once the county condemns a vehicle, that's it. No appeals, no repairs, no second chances. It's dead metal now."

The two thieves stood there in the afternoon sun, staring at their condemned car like mourners at a funeral. For the first time since this began, they looked genuinely defeated.

But Kaelen knew better than to underestimate desperate criminals. They still had one card left to play, and he was counting on them playing it.

"A.R.I.A.," he said quietly, "maintain full surveillance. I have a feeling our friends are about to make one last, stupid decision."

"Confirmed. All systems recording. Phase Three ready to initiate on your command."

In the junkyard, Cody and J.J. were huddled together, whispering urgently. Their body language screamed conspiracy, and Kaelen could practically see the gears turning in their primitive minds.

The trap was set. The prey was in position.

Now all he had to do was wait for them to spring it on themselves.